The genuine admiration of this artless assemblage, was as marked a triumph to the genius of Rubens, as the pecking of the birds at his basket of fruit was to the execution of Apelles. I never saw such a rebuke to the “cant of criticism,” and I could not but feel it to be a compensation for the judgment of Sir Joshua Reynolds, who, I do not know why, professes to have been disappointed with its excellence. The picture was painted for the corporation of gun-smiths, in order to compose a quarrel as to the ownership of a stripe of ground, on which they alleged that Rubens had encroached, in the erection of his house and gardens. Another story concerning it, is that the pupils of Rubens, in their romps during his absence, had thrown down one of their number, who in his fall, had rubbed out the arm of the beautiful Magdalene, and that, in order to restore it before the return of their master, they selected Vandyke, who repaired it with so much ability, that Rubens acknowledged its superiority to the original. The painting, like all the other treasures of Belgium, was one of the ornaments of the Louvre, during the reign of Napoleon.
The tomb of Rubens is in a little chapel, consecrated especially to his family, in the Church of St. Jacques; it is situated immediately in the rear of the high altar and the choir. Its only ornament is an exquisite picture of a Holy Family, by “the illustrious dead,” in which he has introduced portraits of himself as Saint George, his two wives, Isabel Brandt and Helen Forman, as Martha and Mary, his father as St. Joseph, his grandfather as Time, and his child as a cherubim. In a vault beneath, is laid the
dust which is
Even in itself an immortality.
It is covered by a single slab of marble, with an inscription which records the talents and the learning of the Seigneur of Steen (Stein i toparcha), of whom it says, “non sui tantum seculi, sed et omnis ævi Apelles dici meunt. His genius,” it proceeds to say, “elevated him to the friendship and the confidence of kings and princes; so that when named a counsellor of state, by Philip IV, King of Spain and the Indies, and despatched as his ambassador to the court of England, he laid the basis of peace between his Sovereign and King Charles II. His family are now extinct, and this monument to his memory, which had long, as the inscription says, been neglected by his last descendants, was restored in 1775, by one who was then a canon of the cathedral, and who traced a relationship with the great painter in the maternal line, “ex matre et avia nepos.””
The church which contains this interesting tomb, is, in proportion to its extent, the most splendid in Antwerp. In its chapels there are some sculptures in marble, in alto-relievo, of surprisingly elaborate execution, and of merit sufficient to entitle them to a visit to Paris, which they, of course, made under the paternal government of the Emperor. Its walls are, also, covered by quantities of Flemish pictures of value, adorned with statues by Verbruggen, Willemsens and Quellyn.
At the entrance to the Church of St. Paul is a “Calvary,” one of those exhibitions of the sufferings of Christ, that by the coarseness of their conception and their barbarous execution, create a feeling of disgust in any mind of intelligence or taste, and to the ignorant, whom they are intended to attract, must connect the solemn idea of the Saviour with the most coarse and revolting associations. It consists of a vast crowd of horrid-looking statues to represent the faithful priests, holy men, and prophets, surrounding a rock, out of and in which, a number of angels and saints are flying and walking; and below, a tomb, with the body of the Saviour on a bier—the whole surrounded by little holes and recesses, in which the wicked are represented, undergoing all the tortures of purgatory, in forms and attitudes as varied, at least, if not so poetical, as those of Dante. The interior of the church abounds, as usual, with statues and paintings, amongst which are some of Teniers and Vandyke, and the grand altar is decorated by a masterly statue of St. Paul from the chisel of Vanbruggen.
The congregation was assembled for vespers when we entered the Church of the Augustines to see Rubens’ picture of “The Marriage of St. Catherine.” It is quite opposed to all our protestant feelings of the decorum and reverence due to the solemnity of public worship, to see the indifference and almost rudeness with which the valets-de-place conduct their parties of sightseers around a church, regardless of its most impressive ceremonies, brushing past the altar in the full blaze of its panoply, and disturbing the devotions of all who may intercept their view of a picture. It was almost painful to listen to the “cant of criticism,” amidst the chanting of anthems, clouds of incense, and the solemn pealings of the organ, but it appeared to excite no such feeling in those around us. With us, however, in England, the outward solemnity of public worship is increased by the impression that it is the fervent and simultaneous out-pouring of the hearts of a whole united multitude; whilst in the Catholic churches, except in the few minutes occupied by the repetition of the mass, the act of worship is individual and apart, and performed almost by rote, at any hour of the day, from sunrise to evening. The parties, whom I shrunk from interrupting, as we slipped past their little prie dieu chairs, seemed to feel nothing whatever at the intrusion, but raised their eyes for a moment from their missals, to take a view of the strangers and then returned to the point where they had left off. This apparent indifference, gives a bad impression of the reality of their devotions; but still it was not universal, and I have seen in the Roman Catholic churches, numbers whose whole soul seemed to be abstracted from all that was passing around them in the deep sincerity of their adorations.
In Antwerp, and, indeed, elsewhere, but here we remarked it particularly, the vast majority of the congregation were females, who invariably seem to be the most devout. I was particularly struck with a young mother, apparently a lady of rank, and of most interesting appearance, who walked up the aisle of the Augustines, holding two beautiful children by the hand, and kneeling between them before the high altar, repeated the vesper prayer along with them. The innocent fervour of the children, as with their little hands clasped and timid eyes, they looked upwards at the splendour of the altar, now lighted up for the evening ceremony, and the modest devotion of their gentle mother as she taught them to pray, was a more exquisite picture than all the gorgeous imaginings of Rubens, with which we had been enchanted in the morning.
It was dark ere we could complete our visit to the other churches of Antwerp, which here, as elsewhere, are the great depositories of the public treasures. We had light, however, to see the exquisite pulpit in the church of Saint Andrew. This is by far the noblest work of this kind that I have seen: it represents a boat drawn upon the sea shore, beneath a rock on which Christ stands, and calls to the fishermen Simon, Peter and Andrew, “follow me, and I will make you fishers of men; and straightway they left their nets and followed him.” Nothing could be more appropriate than the selection of this subject for such a purpose, and in the church of Saint Andrew too, and nothing of the kind can excel the extreme beauty of its execution. The figures, which are full of grace and expression, are by Van Geel,—and the other parts and minute details, are by Van Hoole, some of which, such as the fish and nets in the boat are as delicately finished as those of Grynlyn Gibbons. Against one of the gothic columns of this church, by the south transept, there is a small portrait and an obscure little monument in black and white marble to the memory of Queen Mary of Scotland, erected by two of her maids of honour, “præ-nobilis familiæ Currell,” who had attended her to the scaffold, and had then returned to the Low Countries. Its inscription records their indignation at her fate, “seeking refuge in England where her relative Elizabeth was Queen, she was, by the perfidy of the parliament and the heretics, held in captivity for nineteen years, and then had her head cut off for the good of religion. Perfidia senat: et heret: post 19 captivit annos, relig: ergo caput obtruncata.”