tinselly ornaments of our Catholic chapels, and the complete want of any
in the Scotch and English churches, we were much pleased with the
Cathedral's inside dress: paintings that were by the hand of masters;
the fortune of a bishop expended in building the part near the altar in
marble and statues not contemptible, united with the airy, high fretted
roof and little light, impressive of awe. Under this Cathedral is the
first Belgian church that was built in the reign of Charlemagne, 800
years, I think, after Christ. It is low-roofed, but so strong it bears
the weight of the Cathedral upon it. There were several paintings
preserved in it (before the date of oil-painting), where the colours are
mixed with white of egg. Some curious tombs, where the different styles
are evident. In the earliest tomb some of the draperies on the relief
are in a bold fine style. One of the earliest has a bishop, where all
his robes are carved out, with almost the threads of his vest. Others,
however, are for general effect. We mounted 450 steps to the top of the
steeple; whence we saw a complete horizon of plain, canals, intersecting
trees, and houses and steeples thrown here and there, with Gand below at
our feet. The sea at a distance, bound by the hands of man, which
pointed "So far shall ye go and no farther." Bruges held in the horizon
its steeples to our view, and many hamlets raised from out their
surrounding wood their single spires to sight.
Treading again the iron-plated 450 stairs, we came into the street; and,
mounting into a fiacre, we went to the Ecole de Dessin, where we found a
well-provided gallery of paintings, with two students, unmoved by the
visitors around, painting with the patience if not the genius of Dutch
masters. They were rather a nuisance on the present occasion, as one
covered with his machine a _chef d'œuvre_ of Rubens, the _St. Roch
amongst the Sick of the Plague_. There were two more by the same, of St.
Roch and his Dog, etc. They were in a different style of
colouring—sombre and grey; none of his gay draperies that I, no
connoisseur, thought were constituents of Rubens. I saw—I do not
remember whose, but—a picture that struck me much, _The Beheading of St.
Jean_, where all the interest and beauty consisted in a dog smelling the
dead body. There were two of Van Eyck, the first (according to the
Flemish) who invented painting in oil; where the colouring was splendid
and very like the stiffness of glass, but the faces were very good.
Kruger had many here in honour of Charles the Vth. Amongst the others,
one rather (though probably not meant as such) satirical: Charles,
landing, takes hold of Dame Africa, who quietly points to a lion at her
feet. Query—to drive him away? There was a _Judgment of Solomon_ by the
same, where the child was painted dead with most perfect nature; so much
so that my companion, who is a father, could not bear its sight. Teniers
has here a _Temptation of St. Anthony_: strange caricature—what a
satire! If mere deceit is the acme of perfection, some Dutchmen may
snatch the palm from either Apelles or Parrhasius. They paint boards
with an engraving upon them, or a door,[1] or aught else, so inimitably
that it deceived my friend. We went into the Academy of Casts, of
Design, etc. There are generally 400 pupils in this town: many fall off
annually without great advancement, and are trod on the heels by others.
We thence proceeded to another (we might say) cathedral. The steeple is
not yet finished: the model is exhibited, with the curses of the Flemish
exhibitors upon the "grande nation" for having taken the funds for its
finishing. There are more good pictures than even in the Cathedral: the
columns also please me more, being round, with a Gothic approach to
Corinthian capital. The most beautiful painting I have yet seen is here
(though I probably shall not be held out in my opinion by
connoisseurs)—by Pollent, representing the trial of the true Cross upon
a sick lady. The harmony of colouring, the soberness (without the
commonly accompanying dulness) of the colouring, the good design and
grouping, are, in my opinion, beautiful. Not even the splendid colouring
of Rubens can make his pictures, in my eyes, equal to it.
[I do not know who is the painter termed Pollent by Polidori: on p. 50
there is the name Polenck, which may designate the same painter. Neither
of these names can be traced by me in a catalogue of pictures in the
Museum of Antwerp.]
There is one standing by it, of Vandyck, which has some sublimity in it,
perhaps arising from indistinctness. It represents the effect of
Christ's last sigh. By this altar stood twelve small pictures, hung out
at this time for people to tread the "way of Calvary," representing the
different stages of our Saviour's sufferings. There were many more
pictures, but I cannot remember; seeing so many crowded in the Gallery
put others out of my head. But there were painted in the Cathedral of
St. Bavon, on the marble in the style of reliefs, different subjects of
Scripture in a most masterly style; and so well were the shades managed
that we could hardly believe the cicerone when he assured us they were
paintings.
In the Gallery of Casts there were the statues of two English ladies of
London by an artist who resided thirty years there, and upon his return
bestowed these as his finest works. The faces, though not perfect or
Grecian, I must say for my countrywomen, pleased me almost as much as
any Venus de' Medici.
I have found the people polite, so far as showing the way and then not
waiting for a reward—taking off their hats as if _you_ had done them the
favour.
_April 28._—We set off at 8 this morning to go to Anvers; but, after
having proceeded some way, one of the wheels refused to turn, and, after
at the next village hammering a long while, I rode off in a passing
calèche to Ghent, where I put a maréchal with his assistant into a
voiture, and, mounting myself on horseback, returned to the coach. My
horse was particularly fond of the shade; and, a house being near one of
the barriers, he kindly stopped there to cool me. I, after waiting some
time, began to press him to go forward, when he kicked etc. We went,
while the carriage was being repaired, into a cottage, where all was
extremely neat, and we saw two pictures in it that certainly would not
shame the collection of many of our _soi-disant_ cognoscenti. The old
man was sick of a fever; and, upon giving him medicine, his kind half
sympathetically fell ill of a toothache. Never did I see such chips of
the old block as his two daughters. They were very kind. It being
Sunday, we saw all the women of the village—all ugly: indeed, I have not
seen a pretty woman since I left Ostend.
[This reference to April 28 as being a Sunday puts a stop to any
preceding question as to the right day of the month, for in fact April
28, 1816, _was_ a Sunday.]
On proceeding on our journey, we were stopped for our passports, and the
fellow began bullying us, thinking we were French; but, when he heard we
were English, he became cap in hand, and let us go: indeed, we have not
yet shown our passports.
Having eaten, I issued forth in search of the Promenade, and found the
canal with walks called La Copeure. Many ladies, all ugly without
exception—the only pretty woman being fat and sixty. It very much
resembled the Green Basin, where our West-end cits trot on one another's
heels with all possible care: not quite so crowded. Coming back, I
tourized to the Roi d'Espagne, where, as in a coffeehouse, I found a
room full of disreputable women and card-tables. This, instead of the
streets, is the lounge for such women. I went to the Café Grand, where
by means of mirrors some excellent effects are produced. There also were
billiards, cards, dice, etc. A cup of coffee, some centimes; a glass of
lemonade, two sous: a woman presides at the end of the room.
"Lord Byron" was in the _Ghent Gazette_. Lord Byron encouraged me to
write _Cajetan_, and to continue being a tragedian. Murray offered £150
for two plays, and £500 for my tour.
_April 29._—Looking from my window, I saw a native dashing about in a
barouche and four. There is in the town a society of nobles, and another
of literati. Mr. Scamp has a fine collection of pictures, which I did
not see. In Ghent, as well as in all other places where I have been, the
barber's sign is Mambrino's helm. On the Sunday mornings there is a
market for flowers in pot in the Place des Armes.
We set off at 11 in the morning, and passed through some fine villages:
one of which, St. Nicholas, the mistress of the inn told me Buonaparte
made into a town—"mais il n'y a pas des postes." The country is
tiresomely beautiful. Fine avenues, which make us yawn with admiration;
not a single variation; no rising ground—yes, one spot raised for a
windmill. The landscape is as unchangeable as the Flemish face. The
houses white-washed, with a row of trees before them; the roofs tiled,
and the windows large. Indeed, the appearance of comfort in the places
we have passed through is much greater than any I have seen in England.
We have only seen one country-villa, and that very English: its pasture
had the only firs we have yet seen. The avenues are sometimes terminated
by a church or a house—the church very ugly; and both very tiresome, as
they always prove much farther off than is at first expected. The ground
cultivated, and without a weed—no waste ground. The plough moves as if
cutting water, the soil is so light a sand. Women work in the fields as
well as men. No more difference is found in the face of the inhabitants
than in the face of the country. Nothing striking, all evenness, no
genius, much stupidity. They seemed to spend all their fund of
cleanliness upon their fields and houses, for they carry none about
them.
An oldish man wears a three-cornered cocked hat, capacious breeches,
black or blue stockings, buckles, and a great-coat; young, fancy
travelling-caps. The women wear enormous gold earrings, large wooden
shoes. Their dress is a kind of bed-gown, like the Scotch. Young girls
of eight in town have their hair dressed with a net or cap. In towns and
villages the better peasant-women wear a black silk mantle with a hood,
that looks well. Multitudes of children everywhere, who tumble and run
by the side of the carriage to gain a few centimes. In the larger
villages the market-places are splendidly large, with a little square
place in the middle, with pollards and a statue. The houses seem
comfortable everywhere. Going into the house of a postmaster, we saw
some English prints. At another, our servants having got down and
comfortably seated themselves to a bottle of wine etc., the
postmistress, on our getting out, took _us_ for the servants, and told
us "the messieurs Anglais were in yon room"—and then made us a thousand
apologies. At every posthorse place there is kept a book of the posts:
many barriers—every 1-1/2 mile.
At Gand they had told us we could not reach Anvers without passing the
Scheldt at 2 o'clock—we passed it at 6-1/2.
The town of Antwerp makes a good figure at a distance, chiefly on
account of its Cathedral, which has a very airy appearance, the steeple
showing the sky between its meeting arches. About five steeples. The
fortifications, which enabled Carnot to make such a defence, produce no
great effect on the sight.
[The defence by Carnot was, when Polidori wrote, a quite recent event,
1814.]
The Scheldt is a fine river, not so large as our Thames, and covered
with ugly Dutch vessels. We passed our coach in a boat.
[This coach was a formidable affair. According to Mr. Pryse Lockhart
Gordon, it was "copied from the celebrated one of Napoleon taken at
Genappe, with additions. Besides a _lit de repos_, it contained a
library, a plate-chest, and every apparatus for dining."]
On landing, twenty porters ran off with our things to a cart. As they
were passing, one in all the pomp of office stopped us, and asked for
our passports, which (on handing to him) he detained, giving his
directions to the police.
The older parts of Antwerp have a novel and strange effect by the
gable-ends being all to the street, ornamented—very acute angles. The
Place de Meer is fine. The old street, the finest I ever saw, has some
fine houses. Many of the houses have English labels on them. In our
sitting-room are two beds. Indeed, the towns are beautiful: their long
streets, their houses all clean-stuccoed or white-washed, with strange
old-fashioned fronts, the frequent canals, the large places and
venerable cathedrals. Their places are much finer than our squares, for
they contain trees, and are open without railing.
Went to the café, and saw all playing at dominoes. Read _The Times_ till
the 23rd. Fine furniture, everywhere of cherry-tree.
At Gand in the Cathedral the cicerone laid great stress on the
choir-seats being all made of solid acajou. The master of the inn at
Ghent assures me the carriage of Buonaparte was made in Paris—the
body-carriage at Brussels: no English work. Plenty of Americans in the
town.
_April 30._—Got up late, and went to look at the carriage, and found
that the back had been not of the best-made. Called a maréchal, who
assured me it could not be better. Breakfasted. Then looked at an old
calèche, for which asked 60 naps. Refused it.
Got, with a guide, a calèche to see the lions. The town is large:
apparently, not a proportionable quantity of misery. Women
better-looking. At all the fountains, Madonnas—and upon all the corners
of the streets, with lamps before them. Lamps with reverberators strung
on ropes into the middle of the streets. Went to the Cathedral.
Everywhere we have been, dreadful complaints of French vandalism. In
this chapel it has been shameless: once crowded with altars of marble,
now there are about five—only two marble, the others painted in
imitation. Pictures were stolen—altars sold by auction—only one saved,
bought by a barber for a louis. The others, with all the tombs,
monuments, everything, broken by these encouragers of the fine arts. So
great was the ruin that there were five feet of fragments over the
church—even the columns that support the roof were so much defaced that
they were obliged, in restoring it, to pare them all much thinner. Some
pictures were carried to Paris, of which some are now about to be
replaced. It was the feast of St. Anthony, and many candles were burning
about, and some relics were fixed above the doors. In many parts of the
chapel were frames containing silver representations, very small, of bad
limbs etc., offered by the devout. Many images over altars, dressed out
in silk and taffeta: most common one, the Virgin Mary. Though the French
acted with all the spirit of Vandals and true Gauls, yet to their very
mischief is owing the greatest beauty of the Cathedral, the choir not
being divided from the church, so that from one end to the other there
is a complete perspective and one of the finest effects I have seen, the
airiness and length being now proportionate. There is one great defect
in the internal decorations—that they are Greek. What bad taste it is to
ornament Gothic with Corinthian columns must be evident: to make it also
more glaring, the marble is all coloured. There is here a fine marble
altar-railing. Indeed, in all the churches we have here seen they are
beautiful—especially where boys, called in Italian "puttini," are
sculptured. The confessionals are of wood, with evangelical figures,
nearly as large as life, between each box—not badly carved.
We went to see another church, wherein is the tomb of Rubens.
[This is the Church of St. Jâques.]
It is in a chapel by itself, where annually a mass is said for his soul.
It is worthy of him: ornamented by a painting, by himself, of St.
George, and a statue he brought with him from Rome of the Holy Virgin.
The church in which he is buried was saved from pillage by the priests
belonging to it revolutionizing. It is crowded with altars and
pictures—some Rubens, some Polenck, and others. There is a painting by
Metsys, who originally was a maréchal, and who with his mere hammer
formed the decorations to a pump, which are not bad. The Latin
inscription on his monumental stone refers to a story related of him:
that, upon courting the daughter of Francis Floris, the artist with
indignation talked about the dirty rascal's impudence, he being merely a
blacksmith; on which Metsys set off for Rome, and upon his return asked
the daughter to introduce him to her father's room of painting: where,
finding a picture not finished, he painted a bee—that excited the
indignation of Floris's pocket-handkerchief, and gained him his
daughter. I have seen the picture, and it might be true. The pump is not
bad, being merely beaten into shape. On the top is a giant who used to
cut off merchants' gains by means of tolls, and their hands by means of
axes. He used to throw an iron band into the scales of his tradesmen;
and from thence, 'tis said, Antwerp got its name.
[This may be "said": but a less legendary derivation of the Flemish name
Antwerpen is "aent werf," or "on the wharf."]
The sides of this church all along are lined with confessionals.
In the Church des Augustins we saw Rubens's _Assembly of the Saints_,
from Paris; where he has shown how weak he could be in composition, and
in vanity—for it is the third picture in which he has put himself in St.
George's armour. The composition is confused, without an object to fix
the attention. A Vandyck near him is much superior.
[Polidori's observations about Flemish paintings are generally
indicative of liking, more or less: but Byron went dead against them. In
a letter of his to his half-sister, Mrs. Leigh, written from Brussels on
May 1, 1816, we find: "As for churches and pictures, I have stared at
them till my brains are like a guide-book: the last (though it is heresy
to say so) don't please me at all. I think Rubens a very great dauber,
and prefer Vandyck a hundred times over—but then I know nothing about
the matter. Rubens's women have all red gowns and red shoulders; to say
nothing of necks, of which they are more liberal than charming. It may
all be very fine, and I suppose it may be art, for 'tis not nature."
Again, in a letter to John Murray from Milan, October 15, 1816: "The
Flemish school, such as I saw it in Flanders, I utterly detested,
despised, and abhorred."]
Here is also the famous picture of Jordaens, of _The Martyrdom of
St. Apollonia_. Colouring approaches Rubens; but abominable
composition—crowded, large, numerous figures in a small space.
There were some modern paintings of existing artists—meagre
statue-compositions.
In the Musée we saw many Rubenses. The famous _Descent from the Cross_:
the effect of the white sheet is wonderfully beautiful. Picture's
drawing I do not like. The Christ seems not dead, as there is certainly
action; but the colouring is splendidly rich. The _Crucifixion_ near it,
inferior in all. In a sketch near it he has not succeeded so well in the
white sheet, it being not so splendidly white. We could only see the
side-pieces of the great _Crucifixion_, as the large piece was being
framed. In these there is much caricature drawing: a woman rising from
the dead—surely a woman large as Guy Warwick giant's wife, if ever he
had one: caricature physiognomies, and most hellish egregious breasts,
which a child refuses, with horror in its face. His horses have much
spirit—true Flemish size. Indeed, divest Rubens of his rich apparel, and
he is a mere dauber in design. There is a _Mary going to Elizabeth_,
looking more like a cardinal: indeed, my companion, Lord Byron, took her
for one of the red-vested nobles. No divinity about his Christs;
putrefaction upon his Gods; exaggerated passion about his men and women,
painted not all-concealing. In his picture of _The Adoration of the
Magi_, query did he not intend to play upon the people by passing off a
caricature for a religious painting? The royal personage in green seems
as if his eyes had grown big after dinner. He has no costume properly
applied: the Virgin in the manger is dressed meretriciously in silks and
lace. Then look at our blessed Saviour showing His wounds. His finest
painting is his _Crucifixion_ in which is the white sheet: but there are
defects. What then must be the power of colouring which causes you to
view his paintings with pleasure! It is like melodious music which makes
you forget the absurd words of an old English song.
Vandyck, in my opinion, was much superior to Rubens. His colouring, near
his, is sombre; but then his design is more perfect, his impressions
remain longer in the mind distinct, and do not fade away into ideas of
red and blue round white. A little _Crucifix_ of his is worth his
rival's largest paintings. His _Christ Dead_ is beautiful, wherein are
contained the Blessed Virgin, St. Mary Magdalene, and St. John weeping:
the different expressions of grief, the unison of colouring with the
subject, the composition, all excellent.
From the Cathedral we went to see the works of Napoleon. We first saw
the Basins. They are not so large as our West India Docks—square—but are
capable of holding ships of the line; there are two. Between them is
what was formerly the Hanseatic Hall, now magazines. When the English
were last here they threw bombs, but this was of no avail; dung was put
upon the ships, and men were at hand in case of fire. From the Basins we
went along the quays—very long, along the labouring Scheldt; then into
the places for marine arsenals, where the vessels were on the stocks—the
finest works I ever saw, now useless through our jealousy. The
rope-house, quite finished, is enormously long, and is to be pulled
down. The timbers for the ship were numbered, and carried to Amsterdam.
The citadel was mean-looking, though so strong. The chief batteries are
as old as Alva's time—there was one pointed out as erected by Colonel
Crawford. Before Napoleon's time there was little done towards the
formation of these basins and others; but, said our guide, "he decreed
they should be made, and they appeared." They are all surrounded with
high walls to hinder the escape of the employed. Carnot has commanded
here twice. He was rather disliked, yet they had rather have him than
any other. They all agree in his genius. In the time of the Walcheren
business the English were expected with open arms: only three hundred
soldiers—Bernadotte was general. The siege was not very strict on the
last occasion, and no mischief was done on either side. In the Basins
there have been twenty-six line. In the dread of a siege all the suburbs
were destroyed and all the trees around. The suburbs rose immediately,
the trees in years. In the citadel there are 1500 forçats. Sometimes the
number exceeds 2000.
Having seen thus much, we returned, lunched, and rode off. Hardly gone a
little way when our carriage broke down. The trees are more
various—vegetation more advanced—more inequality of ground—more
pollards—more apparent misery—more villas, some pretty—more clipped
hedges—more like England—fine, large, town-like villages. Carriage broke
again—walked to Malines—arrived there at ten. Women improve.
At Antwerp, in one church on the outside, saw a supposed exact imitation
of the Sepulchre, though I do not know how it came seated "in
purgatory"; as there certainly is a place so called round it, full of
the damned and flames. The place is grotto-work. Within there is a
representation of our Lord swathed in linen. All over there are statues,
so so. David is at a respectable distance from purgatory: this makes it
the more remarkable that the Sepulchre is seated in purgatory. Indeed,
indeed, there is much absurdity.
There is an academy for drawing and painting, with a museum. The Place
is in a garden.
On arriving at Malines we found Mr. Pradt gone from his bishopric
amongst his brethren; and we are assured he was a "vraiment français,"
and that he was not a "Catholique," and that this town wanted a
"vraiment Catholique."
[The Abbé de Pradt, born in Auvergne in 1759, had been a champion of the
monarchy in the Constituent Assembly of 1789-91. Napoleon made him
Archbishop of Malines towards 1809, but afterwards viewed him with
disfavour. He resigned the Archbishopric in 1816, receiving a pension.
He wrote a number of books on political and public matters, and died in
1837.]
The country from Antwerp to Malines becomes more and more like England:
trees more various, not the same dead flat but varied with gentle
swells, many pollards, and more miserable cottages.
There is in the Cathedral [in Antwerp] a painting by Floris—the one on
which is the bee—where he has shown great imagination and fire in the
devils. It is the victory of the angels when fighting against the
devils.