ANTWERP, _June_ 23_rd_.
My windows look full upon the Place de Mer, and the sun, beaming through
their white curtains, awoke me from a dream of Arabian happiness.
Imagination had procured herself a tent on the mountains of Sanaa,
covered with coffee-trees in bloom. She was presenting me the essence of
their flowers, and was just telling me that you possessed a pavilion on a
neighbouring hill, when the sunshine dispelled the vision; and opening my
eyes, I found myself pent in by Flemish spires and buildings: no hills,
no verdure, no aromatic breezes, no hope of being in your vicinity: all
were vanished with the shadows of fancy, and I was left alone to deplore
your absence. But I think it rather selfish to wish you here, for what
pleasure could pacing from one dull church to another, afford a person of
your turn? I don’t believe you would catch a taste for blubbering
Magdalens and coarse Madonnas, by lolling in Rubens’ chair; nor do I
believe a view of the Ostades and Snyders, so liberally scattered in
every collection, would greatly improve your pencil.
After breakfast this morning I began my pilgrimage to all those
illustrious cabinets. First, I went to Monsieur Van Lencren’s, who
possesses a suite of apartments, lined, from the base to the cornice,
with the rarest productions of the Flemish school. Heavens forbid I
should enter into a detail of their niceties! I might as well count the
dew-drops upon any of Van Huysem’s flower-pieces, or the pimples on their
possessor’s countenance; a very good sort of man, indeed; but from whom I
was not at all sorry to be delivered.
My joy was, however, of short duration, as a few minutes brought me into
the courtyard of the Chanoin Knyfe’s habitation; a snug abode, well
furnished with easy chairs and orthodox couches. After viewing the rooms
on the first floor, we mounted a gentle staircase, and entered an
ante-chamber, which those who delight in the imitations of art rather
than of nature, in the likenesses of joint stools and the portraits of
tankards, would esteem most capitally adorned: but it must be confessed,
that, amongst these uninteresting performances, are dispersed a few
striking Berghems and agreeable Polemburgs. In the gallery adjoining,
two or three Rosa de Tivolis merit observation; and a large Teniers,
representing a St. Anthony surrounded by a malicious fry of imps and
leering devilesses, is well calculated to display the whimsical
buffoonery of a Dutch imagination.
I was observing this strange medley, when the Canon made his appearance;
and a most prepossessing figure he has, according to Flemish ideas. In
my humble opinion his Reverence looked a little muddled or so; and, to be
sure, the description I afterwards heard of his style of living, favours
not a little my surmises. This worthy dignitary, what with his private
fortune and the good things of the church, enjoys a revenue of about five
thousand pounds sterling, which he contrives to get rid of in the joys of
the table and the encouragement of the pencil.
His servants, perhaps, assist not a little in the expenditure of so
comfortable an income; the Canon being upon a very social footing with
them all. At four o’clock in the afternoon, a select party attend him in
his coach to an alehouse about a league from the city; where a table,
well spread with jugs of beer and handsome cheeses, waits their arrival.
After enjoying this rural fare, the same equipage conducts them back
again, by all accounts, much faster than they came; which may well be
conceived, as the coachman is one of the brightest wits of the
entertainment.
My compliments, alas! were not much relished, you may suppose, by this
jovial personage. I said a few favourable words of Polemburg, and
offered up a small tribute of praise to the memory of Berghem; but, as I
could not prevail upon Mynheer Knyfe to expand, I made one of my best
bows, and left him to the enjoyment of his domestic felicity.
In my way home, I looked into another cabinet, the greatest ornament of
which was a most sublime thistle by Snyders, of the heroic size, and so
faithfully imitated that I dare say no ass could see it unmoved. At
length, it was lawful to return home; and as I positively refused
visiting any more cabinets in the afternoon, I sent for a harpsichord of
Rucker, and played myself quite out of the Netherlands.
It was late before I finished my musical excursion, and I took advantage
of this dusky moment to revisit the cathedral. A flight of starlings was
fluttering about one of the pinnacles of the tower; their faint chirpings
were the only sounds that broke the stillness of the air. Not a human
form appeared at any of the windows around; no footsteps were audible in
the opening before the grand entrance; and, during the half hour I spent
in walking to and fro beneath the spire, one solitary Franciscan was the
only creature that accosted me. From him I learnt that a grand service
was to be performed next day in honour of St. John the Baptist, and the
best music in Flanders would be called forth on the occasion. As I had
seen cabinets enough to form some slight judgment of Flemish painting, I
determined to stay one day longer at Antwerp to hear a little how its
inhabitants were disposed to harmony.
Having taken this resolution, I formed an acquaintance with Mynheer
Vander Bosch, the first organist of the place, who very kindly permitted
me to sit next him in his gallery during the celebration of high mass.
The service ended, I strayed about the aisles, and examined the
innumerable chapels which decorate them, whilst Mynheer Vander Bosch
thundered and lightened away upon his huge organ with fifty stops.
When the first flashes of execution were a little subsided, I took an
opportunity of surveying the celebrated “Descent from the Cross,” which
has ever been esteemed one of Rubens’s chef d’œuvres, and for which they
say old Lewis Baboon offered no less a sum than forty thousand florins.
The principal figure has, doubtless, a very meritorious paleness, and
looks as dead as an artist could desire; the rest of the group have been
so liberally praised, that there is no occasion to add another tittle of
commendation. A swinging St. Christopher, fording a brook with a child
on his shoulders, cannot fail of attracting your attention. This
colossal personage is painted on the folding-doors which defend the
capital performance just mentioned from vulgar eyes; and here Rubens has
selected a very proper subject to display the gigantic coarseness of his
pencil.
Had this powerful artist confined his strength to the representation of
agonizing thieves and sturdy Barabbases, nobody would have been readier
than your humble servant to offer incense at his shrine, but when I find
him lost in the flounces of the Virgin’s drapery, or bewildered in the
graces of St. Catherine’s smile, pardon me if I withhold my adoration.
After I had most dutifully observed all the Rubenses in the church, I
walked half over Antwerp in search of St. John’s relics, which were
moving about in procession, but an heretical wind having extinguished all
their tapers, and discomposed the canopy over the Bon Dieu, I cannot say
much for the grandeur of the spectacle. If my eyes were not greatly
regaled by the Saint’s magnificence, my ears were greatly affected in the
evening by the music which sang forth his praises. The cathedral was
crowded with devotees and perfumed with incense. Several of its marble
altars gleamed with the reflection of lamps, and, altogether, the
spectacle was new and imposing. I knelt very piously in one of the
aisles while a symphony in the best style of Corelli, performed with
taste and feeling, transported me to Italian climates, and I was quite
vexed, when a cessation dissolved the charm, to think that I had still so
many tramontane regions to pass, before I could in effect reach that
classic country, where my spirit had so long taken up its abode. Finding
it was in vain to wish or expect any preternatural interposition, and
perceiving no conscious angel, or Loretto-vehicle, waiting in some dark
consecrated corner to bear me away, I humbly returned to my hotel in the
Place de Mer, and soothed myself with some terrestrial harmony; till, my
eyes growing heavy, I fell fast asleep, and entered the empire of dreams,
according to custom, by its ivory portal. What passed in those shadowy
realms is too thin and unsubstantial to be committed to paper. The very
breath of waking mortals would dissipate all the train, and drive them
eternally away; give me leave, therefore, to omit the relation of my
visionary travels, and have the patience to pursue a sketch of my real
ones from Antwerp to the Hague.
_Monday_, _June_ 26_th_, we were again upon the pavé, rattling and
jumbling along between clipped hedges and blighted avenues. The plagues
of Egypt have been renewed, one might almost imagine, in this country, by
the appearance of the oak-trees: not a leaf have the insects spared.
After having had the displeasure of seeing no other objects for several
hours, but these blasted rows, the scene changed to vast tracts of level
country, buried in sand, and smothered with heath; the particular
character of which I had but too good an opportunity of intimately
knowing, as a tortoise might have kept pace with us without being once
out of breath.
Towards evening, we entered the dominions of the United Provinces, and
had all their glory of canals, track-shuyts, and windmills before us.
The minute neatness of the villages, their red roofs, and the lively
green of the willows which shade them, corresponded with the ideas I had
formed of Chinese prospects; a resemblance which was not diminished upon
viewing on every side the level scenery of enamelled meadows, with
stripes of clear water across them, and innumerable barges gliding busily
along. Nothing could be finer than the weather; it improved each moment,
as if propitious to my exotic fancies; and, at sunset, not one single
cloud obscured the horizon. Several storks were parading by the
water-side, amongst flags and osiers; and, as far as the eye could reach,
large herds of beautifully spotted cattle were enjoying the plenty of
their pastures. I was perfectly in the environs of Canton, or Ning Po,
till we reached Meerdyke. You know fumigations are always the current
recipe in romance to break an enchantment; as soon, therefore, as I left
my carriage, and entered my inn, the clouds of tobacco which filled every
one of its apartments dispersed my Chinese imaginations, and reduced me
in an instant to Holland.
[Picture: Deleft Haven]
Why should I enlarge upon my adventures at Meerdyke? To tell you that
its inhabitants are the most uncouth bipeds in the universe would be
nothing very new or entertaining; so let me at once pass over the
village, leave Rotterdam, and even Delft, that great parent of pottery,
and transport you with a wave of my pen to the Hague.
As the evening was rather warm, I immediately walked out to enjoy the
shade of the long avenue which leads to Scheveling. It was fresh and
pleasant enough, but I breathed none of those genuine woody perfumes,
which exhale from the depths of forests, and which allure my imagination
at once to the haunts of Pan and the good old Sylvanus. However, I was
far from displeased with my ramble; and, consoling myself with the hopes
of shortly reposing in the sylvan labyrinths of Nemi, I proceeded to the
village on the sea-coast, which terminates the perspective. Almost every
cottage door being open to catch the air, I had an opportunity of looking
into their neat apartments. Tables, shelves, earthenware, all glisten
with cleanliness; the country people were drinking tea, after the
fatigues of the day, and talking over its bargains and contrivances.
I left them, to walk on the beach, and was so charmed with the vast azure
expanse of ocean, which opened suddenly upon me, that I remained there a
full half hour. More than two hundred vessels of different sizes were in
sight, the last sunbeams purpling their sails, and casting a path of
innumerable brilliants athwart the waves. What would I not have given to
follow this shining track! It might have conducted me straight to those
fortunate western climates, those happy isles which you are so fond of
painting, and I of dreaming about. But, unluckily, this passage was the
only one my neighbours the Dutch were ignorant of. To be sure they have
islands rich in spices, and blessed with the sun’s particular attention,
but which their government, I am apt to imagine, renders by no means
fortunate.
Abandoning therefore all hopes at present of this adventurous voyage, I
returned towards the Hague, and, in my way home, looked into a
country-house of the late Count Bentinck, with parterres and bosquets by
no means resembling (one should conjecture) the gardens of the
Hesperides. But, considering that the whole group of trees, terraces,
and verdure were in a manner created out of hills of sand, the place may
claim some portion of merit. The walks and alleys have all the stiffness
and formality our ancestors admired; but the intermediate spaces, being
dotted with clumps and sprinkled with flowers, are imagined in Holland to
be in the English style. An Englishman ought certainly to behold it with
partial eyes, since every possible attempt has been made to twist it into
the taste of his country.
I need not say how liberally I bestowed my encomiums on Count B.’s
tasteful intentions; nor how happy I was, when I had duly serpentized
over his garden, to find myself once more in the grand avenue. All the
way home, I reflected upon the economical disposition of the Dutch, who
raise gardens from heaps of sand, and cities out of the bosom of the
waters. I had still a further proof of this thrifty turn, since the
first object I met was an unwieldy fellow (not able, or unwilling,
perhaps, to afford horses) airing his carcass in a one-dog chair. The
poor animal puffed and panted,—Mynheer smoked, and gaped around him with
the most blessed indifference.