The magnificent cathedral spire in Antwerp is familiar to almost everybody who looks into the windows of the print shops; and we climbed far up into it, to its great colony of bells, that make the very tower reel with their chimes. Here, leaving the ladies, our motto was, Excelsior; and we still went onward and upward, till, amid the wrought stone that seems the lace-work of the spire, we appeared to be almost swinging in the air, far above the earth, as in a gigantic net, and, although safely enclosed, yet the apertures and open-work were so frequent that our enthusiasm was not very expressive, however deeply it might have been felt at the splendid view, though our grasp at the balusters and stone-work was of the most tenacious character; and, in truth, the climbing of a spire of about four hundred feet high is an undertaking easier read about than practised.
Inside the cathedral we saw Rubens's fine pictures of the Elevation and the Descent from the Cross, in which the figures are given with such wonderful and faithful accuracy as to make the spectator sigh with pity at the painful spectacle.
The interior of this splendid cathedral is grand and imposing; but I have already, in these pages, employed so many adjectives in admiration of these grand old buildings, that I fear repetition in the attempt to give anything more than the dimensions which indicate its vast extent, which are five hundred feet long and two hundred and fifty wide. In front of this cathedral is an iron canopy, or specimen of iron railing-work, as we should call it; but it is of wrought iron, and by the hammer and skilful hand of Quentin Matsys.
In the Church of St. Jacques, with its splendid interior, rich in beautiful carved marble and balustrades, we stood at the tomb of Rubens, who is buried here, and saw many more of his pictures among them his Holy Family. The house where he died is in a street named after him, and a statue of the artist graces the Place Verte.
Antwerp rejoices in good musical entertainments. The most prominent and aristocratic of the musical societies is that known as the "Royal Society of Harmony of Antwerp," who own a beautiful garden, or park, at which their out-of-door concerts are given during the summer season. None but members of the society are admitted to these entertainments, except visiting friends from other cities, and then only by approval of the committee of managers.
The garden is quite extensive, and is beautifully laid out with walks beneath shady groves, rustic bridges over ponds and streams, gorgeous plats, and parterres of flowers. In the centre of the grounds rises an ornamental covered stand for the orchestra; and round about, beneath the shade trees, sit such of the visitors who are not strolling about, eating ices, drinking light wine or beer, and indulging in pipes and cigars. A handsome pavilion affords accommodation in case of bad weather, and the expenses are defrayed by assessments upon the members of the society.
After seeing the London Zoölogical Garden, others seem very much like it; and that in Antwerp is nearest the London one, in the excellence of its arrangement and management, of any I have since visited. The collection is quite large, and very interesting.
The cabs and hackney coaches in this old city are the most atrocious old wrecks we have ever seen, the horses apparently on their last legs, and the drivers a seedy-looking set of fellows, most of whom understand neither English, French, nor German, only Flemish; so that when a stranger calls a "vigilante," which is the title of these turnouts, it is well to have the assistance of a native, else the attempted excursion may end in an inextricable snarl of signs, phrases, and gesticulations, "full of sound and fury, and signifying nothing" to either party.
I believe if an individual, who does not understand German or Flemish, can make the journey from Antwerp to Dusseldorf alone, he may be considered competent to travel all over Europe without a courier or interpreter. The conductors or guards of the train appeared to understand nothing but German and Flemish. The changes of cars were numerous and puzzling, and our "Change-t-on de voiture ici?" and "Ou est le convoi pour Dusseldorf?" were aired and exercised on a portion of the route to little purpose. Nevertheless, we did manage to blunder through safely and correctly, by dint of showing tickets, and being directed by signs and motions, and pushed by good-natured, stupid (?) officials from one train to another; for we changed cars at Aerschot, then at Hasselt, then again at Maestricht, where we were compelled to leave the train, and have all small parcels examined by the custom-house officials; then at Aix la Chapelle, or Aachen, as the Dutchmen call it, we had to submit to an examination of trunks, all passing in at one door of a large room and out at another, in an entirely opposite direction, and apparently directly away from the train we had just left, to continue our journey. I never shall forget the jargon of Dutch, French, and English, the confusion of wardrobes of different nationalities that were rudely exposed by the officers, the anathematizing of obstinate straps that would not come unbuckled, the turning out of pockets to search for missing keys, and the hasty cramming back of the contents of trunks,—for the train was a few minutes late,—that imprinted the custom-house station of Aix la Chapelle like a disagreeable nightmare on my memory.
At last we reached Ober Cassel, where we debarked, took seats in a drosky, as they call cabs here, the driver of which hailed us in French, which really sounded almost natural after the amount of guttural German we had experienced.