opulent devotion and inventive ingenuity could devise, in wood, bronze,
marble, silver, gold, precious jewelry, or blazing sacramental furniture,
had been profusely lavished. The penitential tears of centuries had
incrusted the whole interior with their glittering stalactites. Divided
into five naves, with external rows of chapels, but separated by no
screens or partitions, the great temple forming an imposing whole, the
effect was the more impressive, the vistas almost infinite in appearance.
The wealthy citizens, the twenty-seven guilds, the six military
associations, the rhythmical colleges, besides many other secular or
religious sodalities, had each their own chapels and altars. Tombs
adorned with the effigies of mailed crusaders and pious dames covered the
floor, tattered banners hung in the air, the escutcheons of the Golden
Fleece, an order typical of Flemish industry, but of which Emperors and
Kings were proud to be the chevaliers, decorated the columns. The vast
and beautifully-painted windows glowed with scriptural scenes, antique
portraits, homely allegories, painted in those brilliant and forgotten
colors which Art has not ceased to deplore. The daylight melting into
gloom or colored with fantastic brilliancy, priests in effulgent robes
chanting in unknown language, the sublime breathing of choral music, the
suffocating odors of myrrh and spikenard, suggestive of the oriental
scenery and imagery of Holy Writ, all combined to bewilder and exalt the
senses. The highest and humblest seemed to find themselves upon the same
level within those sacred precincts, where even the bloodstained criminal
was secure, and the arm of secular justice was paralyzed.
But the work of degeneration had commenced. The atmosphere of the
cathedral was no longer holy in the eyes of increasing multitudes.
Better the sanguinary rites of Belgic Druids, better the yell of
slaughtered victims from the "wild wood without mercy" of the pagan
forefathers of the nation, than this fantastic intermingling of divine
music, glowing colors, gorgeous ceremonies, with all the burning,
beheading and strangling work which had characterized the system of
human sacrifice for the past half-century.
Such was the church of Notre Dame at Antwerp. Thus indifferent or
hostile towards the architectural treasure were the inhabitants of a
city, where in a previous age the whole population would have risked
their lives to defend what they esteemed the pride and garland of their
metropolis.
The Prince of Orange had been anxiously solicited by the Regent to attend
the conference at Duffel. After returning to Antwerp, he consented,
in consequence of the urgent entreaties of the senate, to delay his
departure until the 18th of August should be past. On the 13th of that
month he had agreed with the magistrates upon an ordinance, which was
accordingly published, and by which the preachings were restricted to the
fields. A deputation of merchants and others waited upon him with a
request to be permitted the exercises of the Reformed religion in the
city. This petition the Prince peremptorily refused, and the deputies,
as well as their constituents, acquiesced in the decision, "out of
especial regard and respect for his person." He, however, distinctly
informed the Duchess that it would be difficult or impossible to maintain
such a position long, and that his departure from the city would probably
be followed by an outbreak. He warned her that it was very imprudent for
him to leave Antwerp at that particular juncture. Nevertheless, the
meeting of the Fleece-knights seemed, in Margaret's opinion, imperatively
to require his presence in Brussels. She insisted by repeated letters
that he should leave Antwerp immediately.
Upon the 18th August, the great and time-honored ceremony of the Ommegang
occurred. Accordingly, the great procession, the principal object of
which was to conduct around the city a colossal image of the Virgin,
issued as usual from the door of the cathedral. The image, bedizened and
effulgent, was borne aloft upon the shoulders of her adorers, followed by
the guilds, the military associations, the rhetoricians, the religious
sodalities, all in glittering costume, bearing blazoned banners, and
marching triumphantly through the streets with sound of trumpet and beat
of drum. The pageant, solemn but noisy, was exactly such a show as was
most fitted at that moment to irritate Protestant minds and to lead to
mischief. No violent explosion of ill-feeling, however, took place. The
procession was followed by a rabble rout of scoffers, but they confined
themselves to words and insulting gestures. The image was incessantly
saluted, as she was borne along--the streets, with sneers, imprecations,
and the rudest, ribaldry. "Mayken! Mayken!" (little Mary) "your hour
is come. 'Tis your last promenade. The city is tired of you." Such
were the greetings which the representative of the Holy Virgin received
from men grown weary of antiquated mummery. A few missiles were thrown
occasionally at the procession as it passed through the city, but no
damage was inflicted. When the image was at last restored to its place,
and the pageant brought to a somewhat hurried conclusion, there seemed
cause for congratulation that no tumult had occurred.
On the following morning there was a large crowd collected in front of
the cathedral. The image, instead of standing in the centre of the
church, where, upon all former occasions, it had been accustomed during
the week succeeding the ceremony to receive congratulatory, visits, was
now ignominiously placed behind an iron railing within the choir. It had
been deemed imprudent to leave it exposed to sacrilegious hands. The
precaution excited derision. Many vagabonds of dangerous appearance,
many idle apprentices and ragged urchins were hanging for a long time
about the imprisoned image, peeping through the railings, and indulging
in many a brutal jest. "Mayken! Mayken!" they cried; "art thou
terrified so soon? Hast flown to thy nest so early? Dost think thyself
beyond the reach of mischief? Beware, Mayken! thine hour is fast
approaching!" Others thronged around the balustrade, shouting "Vivent
les gueux!" and hoarsely commanding the image to join in the beggars'
cry. Then, leaving the spot, the mob roamed idly about the magnificent
church, sneering at the idols, execrating the gorgeous ornaments,
scoffing at crucifix and altar.
Presently one of the rabble, a ragged fellow of mechanical aspect, in a
tattered black doublet and an old straw hat, ascended the pulpit.
Opening a sacred volume which he found there, he began to deliver an
extemporaneous and coarse caricature of a monkish sermon. Some of the
bystanders applauded, some cried shame, some shouted "long live the
beggars!" some threw sticks and rubbish at the mountebank, some caught
him by the legs and strove to pull him from the place. He, on the other
hand, manfully maintained his ground, hurling back every missile,
struggling with his assailants, and continuing the while to pour forth a
malignant and obscene discourse. At last a young sailor, warm in the
Catholic Faith, and impulsive as mariners are prone to be, ascended the
pulpit from behind, sprang upon the mechanic, and flung him headlong down
the steps. The preacher grappled with his enemy as he fell, and both
came rolling to the ground. Neither was much injured, but a tumult
ensued. A pistol-shot was fired, and the sailor wounded in the arm.
Daggers were drawn, cudgels brandished, the bystanders taking part
generally against the sailor, while those who protected him were somewhat
bruised and belabored before they could convey him out of the church.
Nothing more, however, transpired that day, and the keepers of the
cathedral were enabled to expel the crowd and to close the doors for the
night.
Information of this tumult was brought to the senate, then assembled
in the Hotel de Ville. That body was thrown into a state of great
perturbation. In losing the Prince of Orange, they seemed to have lost
their own brains, and the first measure which they took was to despatch a
messenger to implore his return. In the mean time, it was necessary that
they should do something for themselves. It was evident that a storm was
brewing. The pest which was sweeping so rapidly through the provinces
would soon be among them. Symptoms of the dreaded visitation were
already but too manifest. What precaution should: they take? Should
they issue a proclamation? Such documents had been too common of late,
and had lost their virtue. It was the time not to assert but to exercise
authority. Should they summon the ward-masters, and order the instant
arming and mustering of their respective companies? Should they assemble
the captains of the Military associations? Nothing better could have
been desired than such measures in cases of invasion or of ordinary
tumult, but who should say how deeply the poison had sunk into the body
politic; who should say with how much or how little alacrity the burgher
militia would obey the mandates of the magistracy? It would be better to
issue no proclamation unless they could enforce its provisions; it would
be better not to call out the citizen soldiery unless they were likely to
prove obedient. Should mercenary troops at this late hour be sent for?
Would not their appearance at this crisis rather inflame the rage than
intimidate the insolence of the sectaries? Never were magistrates in
greater perplexity. They knew not what course was likely to prove the
safest, and in their anxiety to do nothing wrong, the senators did
nothing at all. After a long and anxious consultation, the honest
burgomaster and his associates all went home to their beds, hoping that
the threatening flame of civil tumult would die out of itself, or perhaps
that their dreams would supply them with that wisdom which seemed denied
to their waking hours.
In the morning, as it was known that no precaution had been taken, the
audacity of the Reformers was naturally increased. Within the cathedral
a great crowd was at an early hour collected, whose savage looks and
ragged appearance denoted that the day and night were not likely to pass
away so peacefully as the last. The same taunts and imprecations were
hurled at the image of the Virgin; the same howling of the beggars' cry
resounded through the lofty arches. For a few hours, no act of violence
was committed, but the crowd increased. A few trifles, drifting, as
usual, before the event, seemed to indicate the approaching convulsion.
A very paltry old woman excited the image-breaking of Antwerp. She had
for years been accustomed to sit before the door of the cathedral with
wax-tapers and wafers, earning scanty subsistence from the profits of her
meagre trade, and by the small coins which she sometimes received in
charity. Some of the rabble began to chaffer with this ancient
hucksteress. They scoffed at her consecrated wares; they bandied with
her ribald jests, of which her public position had furnished her with a
supply; they assured her that the hour had come when her idolatrous
traffic was to be forever terminated, when she and her patroness, Mary,
were to be given over to destruction together. The old woman, enraged,
answered threat with threat, and gibe with gibe. Passing from words to
deeds, she began to catch from the ground every offensive missile or
weapon which she could find, and to lay about her in all directions.
Her tormentors defended themselves as they could. Having destroyed her
whole stock-in-trade, they provoked others to appear in her defence. The
passers-by thronged to the scene; the cathedral was soon filled to
overflowing; a furious tumult was already in progress.
Many persons fled in alarm to the town-house, carrying information of
this outbreak to the magistrates. John Van Immerzeel, Margrava of
Antwerp, was then holding communication with the senate, and awaiting the
arrival of the ward-masters, whom it had at last been thought expedient
to summon. Upon intelligence of this riot, which the militia, if
previously mustered, might have prevented, the senate determined to
proceed to the cathedral in a body, with the hope of quelling the mob by
the dignity of their presence. The margrave, who was the high executive
officer of the little commonwealth, marched down to the cathedral
accordingly, attended by the two burgomasters and all the senators. At
first their authority, solicitations, and personal influence, produced a
good effect. Some of those outside consented to retire, and the tumult
partially subsided within. As night, however, was fast approaching, many
of the mob insisted upon remaining for evening mass. They were informed
that there would be none that night, and that for once the people could
certainly dispense with their vespers.
Several persons now manifesting an intention of leaving the cathedral,
it was suggested to the senators that if, they should lead the way, the
populace would follow in their train, and so disperse to their homes.
The excellent magistrates took the advice, not caring, perhaps, to fulfil
any longer the dangerous but not dignified functions of police officers.
Before departing, they adopted the precaution of closing all the doors of
the church, leaving a single one open, that the rabble still remaining
might have an opportunity to depart. It seemed not to occur to the
senators that the same gate would as conveniently afford an entrance for
those without as an egress for those within. That unlooked-for event
happened, however. No sooner had the magistrates retired than the rabble
burst through the single door which had been left open, overpowered the
margrave, who, with a few attendants, had remained behind, vainly
endeavoring by threats and exhortations to appease the tumult, drove him
ignominiously from the church, and threw all the other portals wide open.
Then the populace flowed in like an angry sea. The whole of the
cathedral was at the mercy of the rioters, who were evidently bent on
mischief. The wardens and treasurers of the church, after a vain attempt
to secure a few of its most precious possessions, retired. They carried
the news to the senators, who, accompanied by a few halberdmen, again
ventured to approach the spot. It was but for a moment, however, for,
appalled by the furious sounds which came from within the church, as if
subterranean and invisible forces were preparing a catastrophe which no
human power could withstand, the magistrates fled precipitately from the
scene. Fearing that the next attack would be upon the town-house, they
hastened to concentrate at that point their available forces, and left
the stately cathedral to its fate.
And now, as the shadows of night were deepening the perpetual twilight of
the church, the work of destruction commenced. Instead of evening mass
rose the fierce music of a psalm, yelled by a thousand angry voices. It
seemed the preconcerted signal for a general attack. A band of marauders
flew upon the image of the Virgin, dragged it forth from its receptacle,
plunged daggers into its inanimate body, tore off its jewelled and
embroidered garments, broke the whole figure into a thousand pieces, and
scattered the fragments along the floor. A wild shout succeeded, and
then the work which seemed delegated to a comparatively small number of
the assembled crowd, went on with incredible celerity. Some were armed
with axes, some with bludgeons, some with sledge-hammers; others brought
ladders, pulleys, ropes, and levers. Every statue was hurled from its
niche, every picture torn from the wall, every wonderfully-painted window
shivered to atoms, every ancient monument shattered, every sculptured
decoration, however inaccessible in appearance, hurled to the ground.
Indefatigably, audaciously,--endowed, as it seemed, with preternatural
strength and nimbleness, these furious iconoclasts clambered up the dizzy
heights, shrieking and chattering like malignant apes, as they tore off
in triumph the slowly-matured fruit of centuries. In a space of time
wonderfully brief, they had accomplished their task.
A colossal and magnificent group of the Saviour crucified between two
thieves adorned the principal altar. The statue of Christ was wrenched
from its place with ropes and pulleys, while the malefactors, with bitter
and blasphemous irony, were left on high, the only representatives of the
marble crowd which had been destroyed. A very beautiful piece of
architecture decorated the choir,--the "repository," as it was called,
in which the body of Christ was figuratively enshrined. This much-
admired work rested upon a single column, but rose, arch upon arch,
pillar upon pillar, to the height of three hundred feet, till quite lost
in the vault above. "It was now shattered into a million pieces." The
statues, images, pictures, ornaments, as they lay upon the ground, were
broken with sledge-hammers, hewn with axes, trampled, torn; and beaten
into shreds. A troop of harlots, snatching waxen tapers from the altars,
stood around the destroyers and lighted them at their work. Nothing
escaped their omnivorous rage. They desecrated seventy chapels, forced
open all the chests of treasure, covered their own squalid attire with
the gorgeous robes of the ecclesiastics, broke the sacred bread, poured
out the sacramental wine into golden chalices, quaffing huge draughts to
the beggars' health; burned all the splendid missals and manuscripts, and
smeared their shoes with the sacred oil, with which kings and prelates
had been anointed. It seemed that each of these malicious creatures must
have been endowed with the strength of a hundred giants. How else, in
the few brief hours of a midsummer night, could such a monstrous
desecration have been accomplished by a troop which, according to all
accounts, was not more than one hundred in number. There was a multitude
of spectators, as upon all such occasions, but the actual spoilers were
very few.
The noblest and richest temple of the Netherlands was a wreck, but the
fury of the spoilers was excited, not appeased. Each seizing a burning
torch, the whole herd rushed from the cathedral, and swept howling
through the streets. "Long live the beggars!" resounded through the
sultry midnight air, as the ravenous pack flew to and fro, smiting every
image of the Virgin, every crucifix, every sculptured saint, every
Catholic symbol which they met with upon their path. All night long,
they roamed from one sacred edifice to another, thoroughly destroying as
they went. Before morning they had sacked thirty churches within the
city walls. They entered the monasteries, burned their invaluable
libraries, destroyed their altars, statues, pictures, and descending into
the cellars, broached every cask which they found there, pouring out in
one great flood all the ancient wine and ale with which those holy men
had been wont to solace their retirement from generation to generation.
They invaded the nunneries, whence the occupants, panic-stricken, fled
for refuge to the houses of their friends and kindred. The streets were
filled with monks and nuns, running this way and that, shrieking and
fluttering, to escape the claws of these fiendish Calvinists. The terror
was imaginary, for not the least remarkable feature in these transactions
was, that neither insult nor injury was offered to man or woman, and that
not a farthing's value of the immense amount of property destroyed, was
appropriated. It was a war not against the living, but against graven
images, nor was the sentiment which prompted the onslaught in the least
commingled with a desire of plunder. The principal citizens of Antwerp,
expecting every instant that the storm would be diverted from the
ecclesiastical edifices to private dwellings, and that robbery, rape, and
murder would follow sacrilege, remained all night expecting the attack,
and prepared to defend their hearths, even if the altars were profaned.
The precaution was needless. It was asserted by the Catholics that the
confederates and other opulent Protestants had organized this company of
profligates for the meagre pittance of ten stivers day. On the other
hand, it was believed by many that the Catholics had themselves plotted
the whole outrage in order to bring odium upon the Reformers. Both
statements were equally unfounded. The task was most thoroughly
performed, but it was prompted: by a furious fanaticism, not by baser
motives.
Two days and nights longer the havoc raged unchecked through all the
churches of Antwerp and the neighboring villages. Hardly a statue or
picture escaped destruction. Fortunately, the illustrious artist, whose
labors were destined in the next generation to enrich and ennoble the
city, Rubens, most profound of colorists, most dramatic--of artists;
whose profuse tropical genius seemed to flower the more luxuriantly, as
if the destruction wrought by brutal hands were to be compensated by the
creative energy of one, divine spirit, had not yet been born. Of the
treasures which existed the destruction was complete. Yet the rage was
directed exclusively against stocks and stones. Not a man was wounded
nor a woman outraged. Prisoners, indeed, who had been languishing
hopelessly in dungeons were liberated. A monk, who had been in the
prison of the Barefoot Monastery, for twelve years, recovered his
freedom. Art was trampled in the dust, but humanity deplored no victims.
These leading features characterized the movement every where. The
process was simultaneous and almost universal. It was difficult to say
where it began and where it ended. A few days in the midst of August
sufficed for the whole work. The number of churches desecrated has never
been counted. In the single province of Flanders, four hundred were
sacked. In Limburg, Luxemburg, and Namur, there was no image-breaking.
In Mechlin, seventy or eighty persons accomplished the work thoroughly,
in the very teeth of the grand council, and of an astonished magistracy.
In Tournay, a city distinguished for its ecclesiastical splendor, the
reform had been making great progress during the summer. At the same
time the hatred between the two religions had been growing more and more
intense. Trifles and serious matters alike fed the mutual animosity.
A tremendous outbreak had been nearly occasioned by an insignificant
incident. A Jesuit of some notoriety had been preaching a glowing
discourse in the pulpit of Notre Dane. He earnestly avowed his wish
that he were good enough to die for all his hearers. He proved to
demonstration that no man should shrink from torture or martyrdom in
order to sustain the ancient faith. As he was thus expatiating, his
fervid discourse was suddenly interrupted by three sharp, sudden blows,
of a very peculiar character, struck upon the great portal of the Church.
The priest, forgetting his love for martyrdom, turned pale and dropped
under the pulpit. Hurrying down the steps, he took refuge in the vestry,
locking and barring the door. The congregation shared in his panic:
"The beggars are coming," was the general cry. There was a horrible
tumult, which extended through the city as the congregation poured
precipitately out of the Cathedral, to escape a band of destroying and
furious Calvinists. Yet when the shock had a little subsided, it was
discovered that a small urchin was the cause of the whole tumult. Having
been bathing in the Scheldt, he had returned by way of the church with a
couple of bladders under his arm. He had struck these against the door
of the Cathedral, partly to dry them, partly from a love of mischief.
Thus a great uproar, in the course of which it had been feared that
Toumay was to be sacked and drenched in blood, had been caused by a
little wanton boy who had been swimming on bladders.