(_For the Mirror_.)
Antwerp possesses considerable interest to an Englishman, as a place of
great importance during the late war, when there was a sort of mystery
attached to it, as the secret grand naval depot of Napoleon, which our
Government thought to "cripple France for ever," by getting into our own
hands! But what the Earl of Chatham, with an army of twenty thousand men,
aided by a fine British fleet, could not do, I did: I made my entry into
Antwerp--without molestation, thanks to the benign Spirit of Peace--towards
the evening of a fine day in July; and while the impression of novelty was
still fresh, enjoyed a rich treat in viewing its noble Cathedral. The
interior is grand, but simple--striking the beholder more by its loftiness
and spaciousness, than by any profusion of glittering ornament, so common
in Catholic churches--although the forest of pillars, the altar-piece, the
statues, and above all the splendid pictures which grace the walls, form a
rich variety to the eye. It would be useless to enter into a minute detail,
for no description can give a stranger a perfect idea of one building
distinct from others of a similar kind, and those who have seen the object
itself do not require it. Antwerp may be called the country of Rubens: at
every turn you meet with monuments of his genius; and here (in the
Cathedral) you have what is esteemed his masterpiece--the "Descent from the
Cross"--which surprises you with a boldness of drawing, vigour and richness
of colouring, and an animation in the grouping, that can scarcely be
excelled; and when you discern the colossal figures from a little distance
amongst the pillars and arches of the nave, you feel inclined to bow in
reverence to the divinity of the genius which has portrayed so wonderful a
conception of the mind. It is needless to say that this was one of the
works of art carried to Paris to enrich the gallery of the Louvre, together
with one placed in a corresponding situation, "The Assumption of the
Virgin," which is more in Rubens' florid style than the former. There is
also, by the same master-hand, a noble picture, "The Elevation of the
Cross," in the artist's happiest manner; and the exquisite altarpiece, "The
Ascension," is also his work. There are several other fine paintings
here--one of them said to be the best performance of Quintin Matsys, who,
under the inspiration of love, deserted the anvil for the pallet; and
another by his father-in-law, Flors, supposed to be the identical picture
upon which the _ci devant_ blacksmith painted a bee, with such skill
as to obtain the old artist's cordial consent to the marriage of Matsys
with his daughter. Amongst the carved wood-work in the aisles, we admired
the execution of several statues of Saints, male and female, whose features
and drapery are finished with all the delicacy of marble.
The shades of evening now began to add to the solemnity of the scene, by
the indistinctness that was gradually enveloping the more distant objects;
and, alone, we almost dreaded to break, with our own whispers, the silence
which reigned around. In the midst of this "stillness audible," the fine
bell of the cathedral struck the hour, and its melodious tone seemed at
once to reach the heart. We sat down to listen to the prolonged note, as
each successive toll reverberated through the expanse--lingering like a
halo around the walls, and appearing to awaken echoes from the guardian
spirits of the night. I fancied I had never in my life heard so
full-toned--so musical a bell: certain it is, none ever gave me the same
sensation of delight. Indeed, the whole belfry is well assorted, for the
_carillons_, which play certain airs at intervals, produce a sweeter
effect than I remember any where else; and one of the pleasant
recollections I retain of Antwerp arises out of the frequent, but
unobtrusive, chimes that salute the ear during the day. We left Notre Dame
this time with "lingering steps and slow."
But how can I give an idea of the exterior? The tendency to placid
reflection which we had caught within found ample food for indulgence when
we came to witness the effect of the architecture without, combined with
the particular time of night--about nine o'clock--different tints and
shadows displaying themselves upon the angles of the building, as the light
decreased. Imagine a spire of light, ornamental, elegant open-work, carried
up about a hundred feet higher than St. Paul's. I believe it is the
loftiest in Europe, with the exception of Strasbourg, than which, in the
opinion of many, it is more handsome. The only drawback upon its beauty
is the glaringly large dial of the clock; but even this may suggest
appropriate reflection: for may we not consider it an emblem of Time, whose
course it measures, intruding upon the fairest prospects of our lives,
to remind us that all human monuments and enjoyments must yield to his
irresistible hand? The spire rises on one side of the principal entrance;
and there is a corresponding tower on the other, to the height of the base
of the steeple part, as if there had been an intention to erect one of
similar dimensions there also, like the twin towers of Westminster Abbey;
but I cannot help thinking, that as two and two are said not always to make
four, the projecting counterpart, instead of doubling the effect, would
have lessened the feeling of stupendous height with which the present
single pinnacle inspires the beholders. As there cannot be two suns in the
same sphere, neither could the spire of Antwerp have borne a rival near its
solitary, aerial throne. It soars aloft with such grandeur, that in gazing
upon it my brain actually grew dizzy with the sight: never was I conscious
in an equal degree of such a feeling of awe from a work of art, and my mind
really ached with the intensity of the impression.--We seemed to view this
sublime object with mutual wonder and admiration--gazing upon it in one
position, then in another--walking about--stopping--excited as it were by
the same impulse. Once, when nearly dark, as our eyes were fixed upon the
top, a gentle light suddenly appeared upon the very summit, crowning the
majestic fane with glory, as if pointing it out for admiration to a
surrounding world: it was a star twinkling upon the very spot where the
highest point of the spire rested on the sky.
The name of Antwerp is derived from _Hand-werpen_ or
_Hand-thrown_: so called from a legend, which informs us that on the
site of the present city once stood the castle of a giant, who held the
neighbouring country in thraldom, and who was accustomed to amuse himself
by cutting off, and casting into the river, the right hands of the
unfortunate wights that fell into his power; but that being at last
conquered himself, his own immense hand was disposed of, with poetical
justice, in the same way. With the impression of this story on my mind, it
came into my head that the giant was personified by the towering spire: no
wonder, thought I, that Don Quixote mistook a windmill for a giant, since
I, even in my sober senses, cannot get rid of the idea that I see the
mighty hand-thrower before me. With a little confusion of the image, I then
imagined the spire to be the guardian of the city--that it took cognizance
of all its affairs, and that it would watch me even into my retreat for the
night. Like the adored phantom of youthful love, it pervaded every place,
and haunted me in my dreams. Often the motion of the clouds seemed to be
transferred to the lofty spire, which again assuming the giant character
startled me with the impression that it was falling towards me, or rushing
to crush its victims, like the horrid car of Jaggernaut.
Through the Giant's Gate, so called from a colossal statue reclining upon
it, there is an opening to the Scheldt;--without is the quay, covered
with merchandize unloading from the ships in the river, and serving as
an evening promenade. Here you may see the other eminences of the city
occasionally, but the gigantic one--always: it stalks out from amidst the
cluster of buildings your constant companion wherever you go--as you walk
along, it appears to move with you, and when you stop it waits with
patience until you go on again. On another occasion we took a boat on the
Scheldt, and landing at some distance below the town, had a delightful
walk along its banks, which are elevated like part of Milbank, near
Vauxhall-bridge; and the situation has much the same character. The river,
however, is grander, as I should judge it to be twice the width of the
Thames at London-bridge, and it flows with great rapidity. It was a
charming evening, and we saw the sun set in all his glory down the Scheldt,
in the bosom of which were reflected the endless tints of the sky, whose
golden brilliancy was beautifully relieved by the intervention of some
cottages near us, and a pretty village, with its church-spire a little
further off. On one side was the flat cultivated country of Flanders, and
looking up the river, we beheld the shipping and the whole city: all the
churches and towers raised their varied forms, but still only to do homage,
as it were, to the great pile which outstripped them, and which was lit up
by the radiance of the departed sun. Model of splendour! "from morn 'till
dewy eve" how must thy elegant form be engraven on the hearts of the
natives of the city thou overlookest, exciting emotions of home, like the
craggy rock of the Highlanders, when they are absent in distant lands! and
how must the youth, whom the love of art carries to study the treasures of
Venice and Rome, when returning to shed a lustre upon his natal place--of
being one day named with Matsys and Rubens, and the other splendid painters
by whom it has been adorned--how must the first glance that he catches of
thy hallowed height make his heart throb with endearing thoughts of the
friends he left under thy shade, and absorb for the moment all feelings of
ambition in the recollection of the boyish days passed within thy ken--but
now, alas, departed for ever! May the fires of heaven, and the tremblings
of earth, never injure thy venerable beauty; but may thousands, and tens
of thousands, in time to come, as in time past, gaze upon thee--as I, an
obscure, nameless stranger, have done--with thoughts too deep for words!
During the evening I have alluded to we were accompanied by the
accomplished Miss ----, whose talents must be well known to many of our own
artists who have visited Antwerp; and this being her native place, her
conversation gave us those kindly associations of home, without which no
scenes, however beautiful or however uncommon, can penetrate the inmost
recesses of the soul.