ANTWERP ROUTE.
While the train is flying along between Brussels and Liege, let us glance at the Antwerp route. It is generally preferred to that of Ostende—though for what good reason I am ignorant. The land is surely more natural to man than the water. True the difference between the two routes consists chiefly in the length of the river voyage; but, of all the navigations which I have ever experienced round this globe, the “Navigation of the Scheldt,” is amongst the most insipid and monotonous. To me, too, it recalled scenes the most triste, and reminiscences the most dolorous. The very lapse of time itself (31 years) since I first anathematized its malodorous and malarious banks, is not a very pleasing retrospect. But the recollection of what passed there in 1809, can never be called up without pain and mortification!
While the steamer was ploughing her weary way between Flushing and Cadsand, Memory, that mysterious power, quickly reproduced the drama, on which the curtain had fallen for more than thirty years! The hundred pendants floating in the air—the masses of troops, whose polished arms gleamed in the sun—the frowning and hostile ramparts and batteries on each side of the pass covered with thousands of soldiers and citizens—the daring rush of three men-of-war (in one of which, the Valiant of seventy-four guns, I then was,) into the Scheldt, while shells were bursting over us, and the heavy shot whistling through our rigging—the debarkation of the British troops—the bombarding and battering of Flushing—the conflagration of the town—the sorties of the garrison, repulsed, scattered, and driven back by British bayonets, as quickly and certainly as the Ocean’s surge is shivered into foam by the perpendicular rocks—the devastation of the ramparts by the showers of shot and shells for ever thundering against them—the awful preparation for storm—the capitulation of the garrison;—all these and many other scenes rose on the intellectual mirror, and flitted round the mental diorama, as fresh as when they were first spread before the material eye.
Then came the still darker side of the drama, on which Memory, even yet shudders to dwell! Our hopes and expectations scattered on the winds—the great object of the Expedition (French fleet) secured beyond our reach, though before our eyes—while our luxurious commander was employed in eating turtle and throwing the shells at the enemy.
The stimulus of action, the expectation of booty, and the prospect of battle being withdrawn, vexation and disappointment prepared the way for the deadly poison of malaria. Now came the “foul fiend of the fens” in a hundred horrid forms; and, like a destroying angel, mowed down the ranks of our legions, lingering on these pestiferous plains in disgust or despair! Happy were they who fell victims, at once, to the destructive agent. Many of those who survived the endemic, were harassed to their dying days by repeated attacks of the Walcheren malady.
Yet, on both sides of the river, the country is a luxurious garden,—teeming, equally, with the necessaries of life and the seeds of death.
The city of Antwerp itself is worthy of a visit, there being numerous paintings by the Flemish masters of the art, while the citadel calls forth exciting recollections of valiant assaults, and equally gallant defences.