are opened to strangers with all that alacrity and politeness which in
England, in such cases, we are so lamentably and notoriously deficient
in. In one of these we saw the celebrated "Chapeau Pâle" of Rubens. I
was disappointed in it; probably from having had my expectations too
highly raised by hearing its beauties extravagantly extolled. In fact,
the subject does not call forth any great powers either of genius or
execution. It is simply the portrait of a handsome woman with a very
attractive countenance, and dressed in a very becoming grey beaver
hat and feather; and both the lady and her hat are most beautifully
painted. We saw some landscapes by Rubens, some of which were very
fine. There is no branch of painting which the versatile genius of this
wonderful man did not lead him to attempt, and none in which he did
not succeed. His Scriptural and historical paintings, upon which rests
his fame; his allegories, portraits, and landscapes, are well known:
but I have seen a miniature picture of his performance, beautifully
finished--a piece of fruit and flowers, very well executed, though in
an uncommon style--and lastly, _an interior_, not a servile copy of
Teniers, Ostade, or Gerard Douw, but marked with his own characteristic
originality of manner and expression. This last piece is in the
possession of a Flemish gentleman at Ghent.
At Antwerp we saw some beautiful landscapes by Asselins and
Dietrichsen; a very fine Holy Family by Murillo; and the Death of
Abel by Guido. The whole figure of Abel prostrate on the earth, but
especially the touching, the more than human expression of his face
as he looks up at his brother and his murderer, is one of the finest
things I ever beheld in painting. It is in that upward look of pathetic
supplication and unutterable feeling that Guido is unrivalled--it is
his characteristic excellence. We saw some very fine paintings both
by Italian and Flemish artists, but the fascination of the former, in
spite of myself, riveted my eyes upon their never-satiating beauties.
It is impossible not to feel the decided superiority of the Italian
over the Flemish school of painting, in force, delicacy, and dignity
of expression; in the power of transposing _soul_ into painting, if
I may so express myself, and in all that constitutes the greatness
and the sublimity of the art. But the Flemish artists laboured under
great natural disadvantages. They did not live beneath the brilliant
sky that sheds its tints of beauty over the happier climates of Italy
and Provence; they did not dwell in the enchanting vales and sunny
mountains, or gaze upon the caverned rocks and romantic solitudes
which formed and perfected the genius of a Claude Lorraine, Vernet,
Salvator Rosa, and Poussin. Fate threw Berghem and Both, and Cuyp,
under unkinder skies, and amidst less picturesque scenes; but in genius
they are perhaps equal, if not superior, to the French and Italian
masters. Nor were Rubens, Rembrandt, Teniers, and many of the Flemish
artists, inferior to any in conception and execution, in originality,
in invention, in truth of expression, and all the natural and acquired
powers which constitute the perfection of the painter's art. And if
the Italian artists--if Guido, Raphael, Buonarotti, Carlo Dolce, and
Correggio, possess a pathos and sublimity, a force, a grace, and an
undefinable charm of expression, which makes their works unequalled
on earth--let it be remembered that the Flemish artists did not,
like them, wake to life amidst the beauty and the harmony of nature;
they were not surrounded by faces and forms of speaking, moving
expression--of heavenly sublimity and soul-subduing tenderness. The
"human face divine" was not moulded of the finer elements of beauty
and of grace.--Painting is an imitative art. The world which Nature
had spread before them they copied, but they could not create a
new one. They were driven to seek in the habitations of men for the
sources of that interest which the scenes of Nature denied them; and
their powerful and original genius, seizing upon the materials which
surrounded them, formed for itself a new and distinct school. They were
most faithful copies of Nature. It is impossible to travel through
Belgium and Holland and not notice at every step the landscapes of
Hobbima, the _Interiors_ of Ostade and Gerard Douw; the faces, figures,
and humorous scenes which Teniers has exhibited so often to our view;
and to recognise at every turn the fat and fair, and well-fed and
well-clad beauties of F. Mieres. But the paintings and the painters
of Italy and Flanders have led me far from my travels. To return to
Antwerp.
After the bright-painted, well-scoured, baby-house looking towns of
Holland, the streets of Antwerp appeared very grand and magnificent,
but extremely dirty. Remarking this to an English, or rather an
Irish officer, he laughed, and said they were beautifully clean in
comparison of the state in which the British troops found them when
they first came to the garrison. Their complaints of the filthiness
and unwholesomeness of the town produced no effect; and to their
representations of the necessity of cleaning it, the magistrates
answered, with offended dignity, that "the city of Antwerp _was_
clean." The British commandant then ordered our soldiers to sweep
the streets, and to pile up all the dirt against the houses of those
magistrates who with so much pertinacity maintained that the city of
Antwerp was clean! The mountains of dirt collected by the soldiers in
one morning blocked up the windows, and it was with difficulty that the
magistrates could get out of their doors. When they did, however, they
immediately bestirred themselves, convinced by more senses than one
that the city of Antwerp was _not_ clean; and they have taken due care
ever since that the streets shall be regularly swept.
The churches in Antwerp were once extremely rich in silver shrines,
images, ornaments, gold plate, and precious stones; but these
treasures, the Belgians said, had been carried off by Buonaparte: upon
more strict inquiry, we found that these alleged robberies of Napoléon
le Grand had been committed eighteen years ago, most probably by the
sacrilegious hands of the Jacobin Revolutionists, who would leave
little or nothing for imperial plunder. On my remarking this to one
of the Belgians, he said, with a shrug of the shoulder, "Ah! c'est
égal--ces gens-là étoient tous les mêmes--les coquins!"--but whatever
mischief has been done, they always lay it upon Buonaparte, whom they
hate with a bitterness surpassing all conception.
The journey betwixt Antwerp and Brussels was quite new to us. The
anxiety and agitation of mind which we had suffered on the day we left
Brussels for Antwerp, had so completely engrossed every faculty, that
the scenery on the way had not made the smallest impression on us. The
objects of living interest, with which the road was then crowded, had
alone fixed our attention. I could scarcely believe that I had ever
travelled this road before, or ever seen the towns and villages through
which we had so lately passed.
I beheld the same harvest, which I then feared would be reaped in
blood, ripening, to crown the hopes of the husbandman, beneath the
blessing of Heaven. My eye now rested with delight upon the corn
fields, waving in rich luxuriance, the deep verdure of the meadows,
and the lofty woods which diversified the prospect:--the peaceful and
prosperous appearance of the country, and the contented, gladsome faces
of the people, as they stood at their cottage-doors, "gay in their
Sunday 'tire," presented a happy contrast to the terrors and sufferings
we had witnessed, and the still more dreadful and multiplied horrors
which then seemed ready to burst upon this devoted country.
We entered Malines; but I did not retain the smallest recollection
of it until we again reached the inn. From the inn-window I well
remembered sorrowfully gazing into the market-place below, and
contemplating the train of baggage-waggons, the confusion of English
carriages, the parties of troops advancing, the wounded soldiers
returning, and the affrighted countenances of the poor Belgic
peasantry, crowding together in dismay, with which it was then filled.
Now I beheld a very different scene:--a crowd of Belgians, indeed,
filled the market-place, but it was a joyous, not a trembling crowd.
The people were all amusing themselves after their own fashion. Some
flocking to the Church; others gazing at a wonderful puppet-show,
which was stationed at the very door; others listening to a Belgic
ballad-singer, who was roaring out, in no very harmonious strains,
the downfal of Napoleon, and the warlike prowess of the Belgians; and
others were talking and laughing with most noisy glee. The sounds of
innocent mirth and pious gratitude were indeed a blessed contrast to
the terrors and anxiety we had before witnessed here.
The _Kennesgevin_, or thanksgiving, for the victory, and for the
deliverance of the country, had been celebrated, and one priest
mounting the pulpit after another, continued to preach a succession of
homilies to the people, who might listen to as many or as few of them,
as their piety or their taste dictated. We saw a young priest mount the
pulpit, and some of the congregation, who had been assembled during the
sermon of his predecessor, remained to hear him. He preached in the
Belgic language, therefore we could not understand him; his discourse
was apparently extempore, and accompanied with much ungraceful
gesticulation. In distant parts of the Church, before the shrine of
many a saint, numbers of pious votaries of both sexes were kneeling in
silence; engaged in their private earnest devotions, without attending
at all to the lectures of the priest, or being disturbed by those who,
like us, were wandering up and down the long-drawn aisles and decorated
chapels of this ancient Cathedral.
There is a perpetual going in and out, and moving backwards and
forwards, during the whole service of the Roman Catholic Church abroad.
The people, as soon as they have finished their own prayers, walk off
without ceremony, and are succeeded by others; which in a Protestant
church we should think a most scandalous proceeding; and indeed the
service of the Roman Catholic Church itself, both in England and in
Ireland, is conducted in a very different manner. It is a common
practice here, as well as in France and Italy, for strangers to walk
about and examine the churches, paintings, &c., when the Mass is
performing; nor does it seem to annoy the congregation in the least.
The Roman Catholic is the exclusive religion of Belgium no other form
of worship or religious persuasion seems to have any proselytes;
indeed, it is only in consequence of a law enacted since the present
King ascended the throne, that other religions have been tolerated.
The Belgians are very pious, and even bigoted; but they are not
gloomy, they are lively bigots; apparently without a doubt to disturb
the fulness of their faith; strict in their observances, gay in their
lives, happy in the consolation their religion gives them here, and in
its promises hereafter. Comparing their character with that of their
unbelieving neighbours, the French, I have no hesitation in preferring
bigotry to infidelity. Even the extreme of superstition is better than
the horrors of irreligion and atheism.
The Church of Malines is a fine old structure: the towers (for there
are two) seem to have been built at an earlier period than the body. We
were astonished at the magnificence of the interior. Its magnitude, its
antiquity, its lofty arches, its massive pillars, its rich altars, its
sculptured figures, and its carved confessionals, have a very imposing
effect; and the large, though not fine paintings which adorn its walls,
and the decorations which piety has profusely spread over every part of
this vast edifice, gave it an air of great splendour. Foreign churches
possess a decided advantage, to the eye of the mere spectator, over
those of England, from being wholly unincumbered with pews, which
certainly take from the grandeur and unity of the whole.
The pulpit of carved wood in this Church is most beautifully executed.
It was done only a few years ago by a Flemish artist. There are a few
pieces of sculpture of ancient date carved in wood in basso relievo,
and painted white, which I admired extremely. The expression given to
some of the figures and faces is quite astonishing.
We passed through Vilvorde, half-way to Brussels, where there is
a strong _Maison de force_ for the imprisonment and employment of
criminals. At the little inn where we had before baited our horses,
we stopped once more for the same purpose. The garçon remembered us
immediately, and with a countenance of great glee expressed his delight
to see us again, and described most vividly the distress they had
experienced, and all the rapid and dreadful alarms that had succeeded
to each other. He then reminded us of our parting prophecy, that the
Allies would be victorious, and that the French would never more
penetrate into Flanders, and he said, he had often thought of it since;
and that it had proved true, for they had indeed seen no French, except
"les François blessés."
We proceeded on our journey through a country still improving in
beauty. Sloping grounds, and woods and lawns, and country seats and
pleasure-grounds, and meadows covered with the richest verdure, greeted
our eyes as we advanced to Brussels. We met and passed several of the
Diligences; tremendous machines in size, and in slowness, not unlike
the vehicles which in England are used for the conveyance of wild
beasts from one town to another. They were filled with an innumerable
motley multitude, some of which were playing upon the fiddle, others
singing, and all merry-making, as they jogged along. The road was much
cut up with the passage of commissariat-waggons, long trains of which
we frequently met upon the way.
We drew near to Brussels, and traversed the margin of that calm and
quiet canal, which, when we left it, had presented a scene of such
horrid confusion; and as we approached Lacken we looked up at it once
more, but with very different feelings to those with which we had gazed
at it when we had passed it before, and recollected the boast Napoleon
had made the preceding day--"To-morrow I shall sleep at Lacken." It
was from hence that his premature pompous declarations to the Belgic
people were dated, announcing victory; which were even found ready
printed in his carriage at Charleroi, after his defeat and flight on
the 18th of June.
We entered a sort of wood. On each side of us, upon the grass and
beneath the shade of the trees, there was a large encampment of tents,
men, horses, waggons, huts, and arms; with all the accompaniments and
confusion attendant upon such an establishment. It formed, however, a
picturesque and animated scene; fires were burning, suppers cooking,
men sleeping, children playing, women scolding, horses grazing, and
waggons loading; while long carts and tumbrils were drawn up beneath
the trees; parties of Flemish drivers sitting on the ground round the
fires, drinking and smoking; and people moving to and fro in every
direction. This encampment belonged to the Commissariat department.
We passed the Allée Verte, usually the fashionable promenade for
carriages on Sunday evening; but though this was Sunday evening, it was
entirely deserted. The inhabitants of Brussels had not yet, perhaps,
resumed their habits of gaiety, and in fact the Allée Verte was nearly
impassable, owing to the heavy rains and the immense passage of
military carriages upon it.
We entered Brussels about the same hour that we had entered it for the
first time. Then, the British military were crowding every street;
standing at every corner; leaning out of every window, in the full
vigour of youth and hope and expectation: then, they were gaily talking
and laughing, unconscious that to many it was the last night of their
lives. Now, Brussels was filled with the wounded. It is impossible
to describe with what emotions we read the words "Militaires blessés"
marked upon every door; "un, deux, trois, quatre," even "huit Officiers
blessés," were written upon the houses in white chalk. As we slowly
passed along, at every open window we saw the wounded, "languid and
pale, the ghosts of what they were." In the Parc, which had presented
so gay a scene on the night of our arrival, crowded with military
men, and with fashionable women, a few officers, lame, disabled, or
supported on crutches, with their arms in slings, or their heads bound
up, were now only to be seen, slowly loitering in its deserted walks,
or languidly reclining on its benches. The Place Royale, which we had
left a dreadful scene of tumult and confusion, was now quite quiet, and
nearly empty. It was in all respects a melancholy contrast, and it was
with saddened hearts that we alighted at the Hôtel de Flandre, where
they gladly received us again, and talked much of the eventful scenes
that had followed our departure.
Colonel M., of the Inniskillen Dragoons, was in this hotel. He had
been severely wounded in five different places; he passed the night
after the battle on the road between Waterloo and Brussels, which was
completely blocked up from the excessive confusion occasioned by the
abandoned baggage and waggons. Although his life had been despaired of,
he was now recovering, and supposed to be out of danger. Some English
newspapers, which we borrowed, were indescribably interesting to us;
every particular relative to the battle we read, or rather devoured,
with insatiable avidity; but the list of the killed and wounded we
could not get a sight of till the next morning. Secure that none of
our own friends were contained in it, we restrained our impatience and
went to rest. Little did we know the shock that awaited us! the misery
of the following morning, when we saw the name of Major L. among the
list of severely wounded; and found him at last in a state of extreme
suffering and danger! The days of deep anxiety and individual grief
that followed I pass over in silence. Nor can I bear to dwell upon the
miseries it was our lot to witness; the still more excruciating and
hopeless sufferings which we daily heard related, and the scenes of
death and distracting affliction which surrounded us. How often was
the anxious inquiry made with trembling eagerness for a wounded friend
or relation--"Where is he to be found?" How often, after a few minutes
of torturing suspense, was the dreadful answer returned--"Dead of his
wounds!" Numbers of the young and the brave, after languishing for
weeks in hopeless agony, expired during our stay in Brussels; and it
happened more than once within our own knowledge, that the parents,
whose earthly hopes and happiness were centred in an only son, arrived
from England to see their wounded boy the very day of his decease--in
time to gaze upon his insensible and altered corpse, and to follow
the mortal remains of all they loved to the grave. The heart-broken
countenance, and the silent, motionless grief of one old man, whom I
saw under this dreadful affliction, made an impression on my mind too
strong to be easily forgotten. Despair seemed to have settled upon his
soul, but he neither shed a tear, nor uttered a complaint. I could not
even go from the hotel where we stayed to the house where Major L.
lodged, without passing crowded hospitals, filled with many hundreds
of poor wounded soldiers; and although every attention that skill
and humanity could suggest to contribute to their recovery was paid
to them, both by the British Government and the Belgic people, their
sufferings were dreadful. Many of the British officers died in the
common hospitals: they had been originally conveyed to them, and it was
afterwards found impossible to remove them.
At every corner the most pitiable objects struck one's eye. I could not
pass through a single street without meeting some unfortunate being,
the very sight of whose sufferings wrung my heart with anguish. Numbers
of young officers, in the very flower of life and vigour, pale, feeble,
and emaciated, were slowly dragging along their mutilated forms. Upon
couches, supported by pillows, near the open windows, numbers lay to
enjoy the fresh summer air, and divert the sense of pain by looking at
what passed in the streets. But we knew too well, that the sufferings
we saw were nothing to those we did not see. Every house was filled
with wounded British officers; and how many, like our old friend Major
L., were silently enduring lingering and excruciating torture, unable
to raise themselves from the couch of pain!
Often, as I gazed at the soldier's frequent funeral as it passed along,
I could not help thinking that, though no eye here was moistened
with a tear, yet in some remote cottage or humble dwelling of my
native country, the heart of the wife or the mother would be wrung
with despair for the loss of him who was now borne unnoticed to a
foreign grave. But let me not dwell upon these scenes of misery; their
remembrance is still too painful--though it can never be erased from my
mind.
When at last we had the consolation of seeing our good old friend out
of immediate danger, we dedicated one day to a visit to Waterloo.[20]
On the morning of Saturday the 15th of July, we set off to visit the
field of the ever-memorable and glorious battle of Waterloo. After
passing the ramparts, we descended to the pretty little village of
Ixelles, embosomed in woods and situated close to the margin of a
still, glassy piece of water. From thence we ascended a steep hill, and
immediately entered the deep shades of the forest of Soignies, which
extends about nine miles from Brussels. The morning was bright and
beautiful; the summer sun sported through the branches which met above
our heads, and gleamed upon the silver trunks of the lofty beech trees.
On either side woodland roads continually struck in various directions
through the forest; so seldom trodden, that they were covered with
the brightest verdure. At intervals, neat white-washed cottages,
and little villages by the road-side, enlivened the forest scenery.
We passed through "Vividolles," "La Petite Espinette," "La Grande
Espinette," "Longueville," and several other hamlets whose names I have
forgotten.[21]
Upon the doors of many of the cottages we passed, were written, in
white chalk, the names of the officers who had used them for temporary
quarters on their way to the battle; or who had been carried there for
shelter in returning, when wounded and unable to proceed further. Many
we knew had died in these miserable abodes; but all the survivors,
excepting one or two of the most severely wounded, had now been removed
to Brussels. It was impossible to retrace, without emotion, the very
road by which our brave troops had marched out to battle, three weeks
before, and by which thousands had been brought back, covered with
wounds, in pain and torture. They alone of all that gallant army had
returned; thousands had met a glorious death upon the field of battle,
and the victorious survivors had pursued their onward march to the
capital of France.