BELGIUM AND HOLLAND.
AMSTERDAM, July 30th.
If any of my readers should follow our route upon the map, he will see
that we take a somewhat zigzag course, flying off here and there to
see whatever most attracts attention. The facilities of travel in
Europe are so great, that one can at any time be transported in a few
hours into a new country. The junior partner in this travelling
company of two has lately been reading Motley's histories, and been
filled with enthusiasm for the Netherlands, which fought so bravely
against Spain, and nothing would do but to turn aside to see these Low
Countries. So, instead of going east from Cologne into the heart of
Germany, we turned west to make a short detour into Belgium and
Holland. And indeed these countries deserve a visit, as they are quite
unique in appearance and in character, and furnish a study by
themselves. They lie in a corner of the Continent, looking out upon
the North Sea, and seem to form a kind of eddy, unaffected by the
great current of the political life of Europe. They do not belong to
the number of the Great Powers, and do not have to pay for "glory" by
large standing armies and perpetual wars.
Belgium--which we first enter in coming from the Rhine--is one of the
smaller kingdoms still left on the map of Europe not yet swallowed up
by the great devourers of nations; and which, if it has less glory,
has more liberty and more real happiness than some of its more
powerful neighbors. If it has not the form of a republic, yet it has
all the liberty which any reasonable man could desire. Its standing
army is small--but forty or fifty thousand men; though in case of war,
it could put a hundred thousand under arms. But this would be a mere
mouthful for some of the great German armies. Its security, therefore,
lies not in its ability to resist attack, but in the fact that from
its very smallness it does not excite the envy or the fear or the
covetousness of its neighbors, and that, between them all, it is very
convenient to have this strip of neutral territory. During the late
war between France and Germany it prospered greatly; the danger to
business enterprises elsewhere led many to look upon this little
country, as in the days of the Flood people might have looked upon
some point of land that had not yet been reached by the waters that
covered the earth, to which they could flee for safety. Hence the
disasters of others gave a great impulse to its commercial affairs.
Antwerp, where we ended our first day's journey, is a city that has
had a great history; that three hundred years ago was one of the first
commercial cities of Europe, the Venice of the North, and received in
its waters ships from all parts of the earth. It has had recently a
partial revival of its former commercial greatness. The forest of
masts now lying in the Scheldt tells of its renewed prosperity.
But strangers do not go to Antwerp to see fleets of ships, such as
they might see at London or Liverpool, but to see that which is old
and historic. Antwerp has one of the notable Cathedrals of the
Continent, which impresses travellers most if they come directly from
America. But coming from Cologne, it suffers by comparison, as it has
nothing of the architectural magnificence, the heaven-soaring columns
and arches, of the great Minster of Cologne. And then its condition is
dilapidated and positively shabby. It is not finished, and there is no
attempt to finish it. One of the towers is complete, but the other is
only half way up, where it has been capped over, and so remained for
centuries, and perhaps will remain forever. And its surroundings are
of the meanest description. Instead of standing in an open square,
with ample space around it to show its full proportions, it is hedged
in by shops, which are backed up against its very walls. Thus the
architectural effect is half destroyed. It is a shame that it should
be left in such a state--that, while Prussia, a Protestant country, is
spending millions to restore the Cathedral of Cologne, Belgium, a
Catholic country, and a rich one too (with no war on hand to drain its
resources), should not devote a little of its wealth to keeping in
proper order and respect this venerable monument of the past.
And yet not all the littleness of its present surroundings can wholly
rob the old Cathedral of its majesty. There it stands, as it has stood
from generation to generation, and out from all this meanness and dirt
it lifts its head towards heaven. Though only one tower is finished,
that is very lofty (as any one will find who climbs the hundreds of
stone steps to the top, from which the eye ranges over almost the
whole of Belgium, a vast plain, dotted with cities and villages), and
being wrought in open arches, it has the appearance of fretted work,
so that Napoleon said "it looked as if made of Mechlin lace." And
there, high in the air, hangs a chime of bells, that every quarter of
an hour rings out some soft aerial melody. It has a strange effect, in
walking across the Place St. Antoine, to hear this delicious _rain_
dropping down as it were out of the clouds. We almost wonder that the
market people can go about their business, while there is such
heavenly music in the upper air.
But the glory of the Cathedral of Antwerp is within--not in the church
itself, but in the great paintings which it enshrines. The interior is
cold and naked, owing to the entire absence of color to give it
warmth. The walls are glaring white. We even saw them _whitewashing_
the columns and arches. Could any means be found more effectual for
belittling the impression of one of the great churches of the Middle
Ages? If taste were the only thing to be considered in this world, I
could wish Belgium might be annexed, for awhile at least, to Germany,
that that Government might take this venerable Cathedral in hand, and,
by clearing away the rubbish around it, and proper toning of the walls
within, restore it to its former majesty and beauty.
But no surroundings, however poor and cold, can destroy the immortal
paintings with which it is illumined and glorified. Until I saw these,
I could not feel much enthusiasm for the works of Rubens, although
those who worship the old masters would consider it rank heresy to say
so. Many of his pictures seem to me artistic monstrosities, they are
on such a colossal scale. The men are all giants, and the women all
amazons, and even his holy children, his seraphs and cupids, are fat
Dutch babies. It seems as if his object, in every painting of the
human figure, were to display his knowledge of anatomy; and the bodies
are often twisted and contorted as if to show the enormous development
of muscle in the giant limbs. This is very well if one is painting a
Hercules or a gladiator. But to paint common men and women in this
colossal style is not pleasing. The series of pictures in the Louvre,
in which Marie de Medicis is introduced in all sorts of dramatic
attitudes, never stirred my admiration, as I have said more than once,
when standing before those huge canvases, although one for whose
opinions in such matters I had infinite respect, used to reply archly,
that I "could hardly claim to be an authority in painting." I admit
it; but that is my opinion nevertheless, which I adhere to with all
the proverbial tenacity of the "free and independent American
citizen."
But ah, I do repent me now, as I come into the presence of paintings
whose treatment, like their subject, is divine. There are two such in
the Cathedral of Antwerp--the Elevation of the Cross, and the Descent
from the Cross. The latter is generally regarded as the masterpiece
of Rubens; but they are worthy of each other.
In the Elevation of the Cross our Saviour has been nailed to the fatal
tree, which the Roman soldiers are raising to plant it in the earth.
The form is that of a living man. The hands and feet are streaming
with blood, and the body droops as it hangs with all its weight on the
nails. But the look is one of life, and not of death. The countenance
has an expression of suffering, yet not of mere physical pain; the
agony is more than human; as the eyes are turned upward, there is more
than mortal majesty in the look--there is divinity as well as
humanity--it is the dying God. Long we sat before this picture, to
take in the wondrous scene which it presents. He must be wanting in
artistic taste, or religious feeling, who can look upon it without the
deepest emotion.
In the Descent from the Cross the struggle is over: there is Death in
every feature, in the face, pale and bloodless, in the limbs that hang
motionless, in the whole body as it sinks into the arms of the
faithful attendants. If Rubens had never painted but these two
pictures, he would deserve to be ranked as one of the world's great
masters. I am content to look on these, and let more enthusiastic
worshippers admire the rest.
Leaving the tall spire of Antwerp in the distance, the swift
fire-horse skims like a swallow over the plains of Belgium, and soon
we are in Holland. One disadvantage of these small States (to
compensate for the positive good of independence, and of greater
commercial freedom) is, that every time we cross a frontier we have to
undergo a new inspection by the custom-house authorities. To be sure,
it does not amount to much. The train is detained half an hour, the
trunks are all taken into a large room, and placed on counters; the
passengers come along with the keys in their hands, and open them; the
officials give an inquiring look, sometimes turn over one or two
layers of clothing, and see that it is all right; the trunks are
locked up, the porters replace them in the baggage-car, and the train
starts on again. We are amused at the farce, the only annoyance of
which is the delay. Within two days after we left Cologne, we had
crossed two frontiers, and had our baggage examined twice: first, in
going into Belgium, and, second, in coming into Holland; we had heard
three languages--nay, four--German on the Rhine; then French at
Antwerp (how good it seemed to hear the familiar accents once more!);
and the Flemish, which is a dialect unlike either; and now we have
this horrible Dutch (which is "neither fish, flesh, nor good red
herring," but a sort of jaw-breaking gutturals, that seem not to be
spoken with lips or tongue, but to be coughed up from some
unfathomable depth in the Dutch breast); and we have had three kinds
of money--marks and francs, and florins or guilders--submitting to a
shave every time we change from one into the other. Such are the petty
vexations of travel. But never mind, let us take them good-naturedly,
leaping over them gayly, as we do over this dike--and here we are in
Holland.
Switzerland and Holland! Was there ever a greater contrast than
between the two countries? What a change for us in these three weeks,
to be up in the clouds, and now down, actually _below_ the level of
the sea; for Holland is properly, and in its normal state, _under
water_, only the water is drained off, and is kept off by constant
watchfulness. The whole land has been obtained by robbery--robbery
from the ocean, which is its rightful possessor, and is kept out of
his dominions by a system of earthworks, such as never were drawn
around any fortification. Holland may be described in one word as an
enormous Dutch platter, flat and even hollow in the middle, and turned
up at the edges. Standing in the centre, you can see the _rim_ in the
long lines of circumvallation which meet the eye as it sweeps round
the horizon. This immense _platitude_ is intersected by innumerable
canals, which cross and recross it in every direction; and as if to
drive away the evil spirits from the country, enormous windmills, like
huge birds, keep a constant flapping in the air. To relieve the dull
monotony, these plains are covered with cattle, which with their
masses of black and white and red on the green pastures, give a pretty
bit of color to the landscape. The raising of cattle is one of the
chief industries of Holland. They are exported in great numbers from
Rotterdam to London, so that "the roast beef of old England" is often
Dutch beef, after all. With her plains thus bedecked with countless
herds, all sleek and well fed, the whole land has an aspect of comfort
and abundance; it looks to be, as it is, a land of peace and plenty,
of fat cattle and fat men. As moreover it has not much to do in the
way of making war, except on the other side of the globe, it has no
need of a large standing army; and the military element is not so
unpleasantly conspicuous as in France and Germany.
Rotterdam is a place of great commercial importance. It has a large
trade with the Dutch Possessions in the East Indies, and with other
parts of the world. But as it has less of historical interest, we pass
it by, to spend a day at the Hague, which is the residence of the
Court, and of course the seat of rank and fashion in the little
kingdom. It is a pretty place, with open squares and parks, long
avenues of stately trees, and many beautiful residences. We received a
good impression of it in these respects on the evening of our arrival,
as we took a carriage and drove to Scheveningen, two or three miles
distant on the sea-shore, which is the great resort of Dutch fashion.
It was Long Branch over again. There were the same hotels, with long
wide piazzas looking out upon the sea; a beautiful beach sloping down
to the water, covered with bathing-houses, and a hundred merry groups
scattered here and there; young people engaged in mild flirtations,
which were quite harmless, since old dowagers sat looking on with
watchful eyes. Altogether it was a very pretty scene, such as it does
one good to see, as it shows that all life and happiness are not gone
out of this weary world.
As we drove back to the Hague, we met the royal carriage with the
Queen, who was taking her evening drive--a lady with a good motherly
face, who is greatly esteemed, not only in Holland, but in England,
for her intelligence and her many virtues. She is a woman of literary
tastes, and is fond of literary society. I infer that she is a friend
of our countryman, Mr. Motley, who has done so much to illustrate the
history of Holland, from seeing his portrait the next day at her
Palace in the Wood--which was the more remarkable as hanging on the
wall of one of the principal apartments _alone_, no other portrait
being beside it, and few indeed anywhere, except of members of the
royal family.
This "Wood," where this summer palace stands, is one of the features
of the Hague. It is called the Queen's Wood, and is quite worthy of
its royal name, being a forest chiefly of beech-trees, through which
long avenues open a retreat into the densest silence and shade. It is
a great resort for the people of the Hague, and thither we drove after
we came in from Scheveningen. An open space was brilliantly lighted
up, and the military band was playing, and a crowd of people were
sitting in the open air, or under the trees, sipping their coffee or
ices, and listening to the music, which rang through the forest
aisles. It would be difficult to find, in a place of the size of the
Hague, a more brilliant company.
But it was not fashion that we were looking for, but historical places
and associations. So the next morning we took a carriage and a guide
and drove out to Delft, to see the spot where William the Silent, the
great Prince of Orange, on whose life it seemed the fate of the
Netherlands hung, was assassinated; and the church where he was
buried, and where, after three hundred years, his spirit still rules
from its urn.
Returning to the city, we sought out--as more interesting than Royal
Palaces or the Picture Gallery, though we did justice to both--the
houses of the great commoners, John and Cornelius De Witt, who, after
lives of extraordinary devotion to the public good, were torn to
pieces by an infuriated populace; and of Barneveld, who, after saving
Holland by his wisdom and virtue, was executed on some technical and
frivolous charge. We saw the very spot where he died, and the window
out of which Maurice (the son of the great William) looked on at this
judicial murder--the only stain on his long possession of the chief
executive power.
Leaving the Hague with its tragic and its heroic memories, we take our
last view of Holland in Amsterdam. Was there ever such a queer old
place? It is like the earth of old--"standing out of the water and in
the water." It is intersected with canals, which are filled with
boats, loading and unloading. The whole city is built on piles, which
sometimes sink into the mud, causing the superincumbent structures to
incline forward like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. In fact, the houses
appear to be drunk, and not to be able to stand on their pins. They
lean towards each other across the narrow streets, till they almost
touch, and indeed seem like old topers, that cannot stand up straight,
but can only just hold on by the lamp-post, and are nodding to each
other over the way. I should think that in some places a long
Dutchman's pipe could be held out of one window, and be smoked by a
man on the other side of the street.
But in spite of all that, in these old tumble-down houses, under these
red-tiled roofs, there dwells a brave, honest, free people; a people
that are slaves to no master; that fear God, and know no other fear;
and that have earned their right to a place in this world by hard
blows on the field of battle, and on every field of human industry--on
land and on sea--and that are to-day one of the freest and happiest
people on the round earth.
How we wished last evening that we had some of our American friends
with us, as we rode about this old city--along by the canals, over the
bridges, down to the harbor, and then for miles along the great
embankment that keeps out the sea. There are the ships coming and
going to all parts of the earth--the constant and manifold proofs that
Holland is still a great commercial country.
And to-day we wished for those friends again, as we rode to Broek, the
quaintest and queerest little old place that ever was seen--that looks
like a baby-house made of Dutch tiles. It is said to be the cleanest
place in the world, in which respect it is like those Shaker houses,
where every tin pan is scoured daily, and every floor is as white as
broom and mop can make it. We rode back past miles of fertile meadows,
all wrung from the sea, where cattle were cropping the rich grass on
what was once the bottom of the deep; and thus on every hand were the
signs of Dutch thrift and abundance.
And so we take our leave of Holland with a most friendly feeling. We
are glad to have seen a country where there is so much liberty, so
much independence, and such universal industry and comfort. To be
sure, an American would find life here rather _slow_; it would seem to
him as if he were being drawn in a low and heavy boat with one horse
through a stagnant canal; but _they_ don't feel so, and so they are
happy. Blessings on their honest hearts! Blessings on the stout old
country, on the lusty burghers, and buxom women, with faces round as
the harvest moon! Now that we are going away, the whole land seems to
relax into a broad smile; the very cattle look happy, as they recline
in the fat meadows and chew the cud of measureless content; the storks
seem sorry to have us go, and sail around on lazy wing, as if to give
us a parting salutation; and even the windmills begin to creak on
their hinges, and with their long arms wave us a kind farewell.