Over the grand doorway, as we enter below the tower, is a crucifix in bronze, which was cast from the fragments of a statue which the Duke of Alva erected to himself upon the Citadel, with the insulting motto on its pedestal “ex ære captivo,” in allusion to its being made out of the cannon, taken in his first successful battle against the Prince of Orange at Jeminghem, near Emden in 1568. This memorable statue gave origin to the distich,
Cur statuam vivo tibi Dux Albane dedisti?
An quia defuncto nemo daturus erat?
Requesens, the successor of Alva, in his anxiety to conciliate the people, took down this record of their sufferings, and concealed it, but being discovered by the citizens after the “Pacification of Ghent,” it was by them melted and applied to its present purpose.
Opposite the Cathedral, in the square, is a gothic screen of iron work, which covers a fountain; tradition says it was made by Quentyn Metsys, “the blacksmith of Antwerp,” an operative Cymon, who was converted into an artist by the charms of a Flemish Iphigenia, whose father consented to her marriage only when her lover had become a painter. An inscription on a stone, near the great door of the Cathedral, which enrols Metsys as a “pictor incomparabilis artis,” acknowledges the obligation of the arts to the attractions of his mistress.
“Connubialis amor de Mulcibre fecit Apellem.”
The body of the church within is of immense extent, so great, indeed, that our cicerone ventured to say it was five hundred feet in length, and half that in breadth at the transepts. The gothic arcades, which separate the nave from the side aisles are of prodigious height, and with the innumerable pillars that support the organ and surround the choir, the coup-d’œil, at entering, presents quite a forest of columns; “these, and the dim religious light,” falling upon the monuments around, from lofty windows emblazoned with armour, and the effigies of ancient ecclesiastics; and streaming downwards from the richly painted dome give an air of solemnity to the whole as striking, though by no means so magnificent, as Westminster Abbey. Before the period of the French revolution, and whilst Antwerp was still the seat of a bishopric, (it is now appended to the see of Malines), the Cathedral was one of the richest in Europe, abounding in altars of marble, candelabra of silver, paintings, statues, and jewels, which were all despoiled or destroyed by the followers of reason. Among them was an ostensoir for holding the holy elements of the host, in massive gold, which had been a gift from Francis I. The treasury is still abundantly supplied with donations of a similar kind, though of less intrinsic cost perhaps, and its innumerable chapels, with their altarpieces and ornaments, its sumptuous choir, and astonishing carved pulpit by Verbruggen, covered with allegories and quaint devices, form a scene which is remarkably imposing.
The innumerable paintings which are hung in every space, might, elsewhere, receive a suitable homage of admiration, but here, eager expectation leads one only to the triumphs of Rubens. Rubens has four superb pieces here, “The Elevation of the Cross,” “The Descent from the Cross,” “The Resurrection,” which adorns the tomb of Moretus, the printer, and the “Assumption of the Virgin,” over the centre of the grand altar. I never saw a more striking illustration of the power of a picture, than the effect produced by the Descent from the Cross. It was closed by its two folding volets when we entered, the backs of which contain, likewise, two designs by Rubens, one of St. Cristopher, the patron saint of the guild of arquebusiers, for whom he painted the picture, and the other, of a hermit, neither of them of great merit. These engaged no attention, apparently, but when, bye and bye, the sacristan moved them to either side, and displayed the astonishing picture within, the effect was quite remarkable—the loungers and passers-by were now arrested, one by one, as they came within the circle of attraction, till a little crowd of peasants and soldiers were collected before it, in the most breathless attention, and, as if struck with a new sensation, I saw them look silently in each others’ faces, apparently to discover whether others felt as they did themselves. One girl, with a basket on her arm was caught at once, as she passed, and remained with the rest, quite abstracted in contemplation; it recalled Wordsworth’s exquisite description of the street musician by the Pantheon:—
What an eager assembly! what empire is this,
The weary have life and the hungry have bliss,