Waterloo Days

A sight more affecting than any other that Holland contained we frequently witnessed: – long treckschuyts filled with the wounded Dutch soldiers of Waterloo, mutilated, disabled, sick and suffering, passed us upon the canals, slowly returning to their homes. In many of the towns and villages of Holland, the hospitals were filled with these poor soldiers, to whom the inhabitants showed the most humane and praiseworthy kindness and attention. It is but justice to the Dutch to state, that though their charity began at home it did not end there. Every town and village made contributions for the wounded Belgic and British, as well as for the Dutch, both of money and provisions, including plenty of butter and cheese, together with an enormous supply of ankers of real Hollands, which amused me extremely. I am sure they sent it out of pure love and kindness, anxious, I suppose, that the poor wounded should have plenty of what they liked best themselves; or perhaps they thought that gin, like spermaceti, was "sovereign for an inward bruise."

If Ireland be "the country that owes the most to Nature and the least to Man," Holland is unquestionably the country which owes the most to Man and the least to Nature. I bade it farewell without one feeling of regret: with as little emotion as Voltaire, I could have said – "Adieu! Canaux, Canards, Canaille!" – and after crossing many a tedious and toilsome ferry, and slowly traversing the trackless and sandy desert which separates Bergen-op-Zoom from Antwerp, we left Holland, – I hope, for ever!

Nothing can be imagined more dreary than this journey. One wide extended desert of barren sand surrounded us as far as the eye could reach, in which no trace of man, nor beast, nor human habitation, could be seen. Some bents, thinly scattered upon the hillocks of sand, and occasional groups of stunted fir, through which the wind sighed mournfully, were the only signs of vegetation. Slowly and heavily the horses dragged our cabriolet through these deep sands, choosing their own path as their own sagacity, or that of their driver, directed. Quitting at last this solitary waste, we entered the sheltering copse woods of oak which surround the city of Antwerp, drove swiftly by neat cottages and smiling gardens, descried with delight its lofty walls, its frowning fortifications, and the spire of the Cathedral, whose beauty we could now admire; and with feelings which may be better conceived than described, we once more entered its gates. – But what a change had one fortnight produced! It did not seem to be the same place or the same people; and when I thought of all the quick varying scenes of horror, consternation, and triumph which we had witnessed here, and remembered that within these walls we had trembled for the safety, and mourned the imaginary defeat of that army who were now victorious in the capital of France; when I recalled all that the heroes of my country had done and dared and suffered for her honour and security and peace – and that to them, under Heaven, Europe owed its salvation – it was difficult, it was nearly impossible to restrain the strong tide of mingled emotions which at this moment swelled my heart. Not for worlds, not to have been the first and greatest in another land, would I have resigned the distinction of calling England my country; and I blessed Heaven that I was born an Englishwoman, and born in this, the proudest era of British glory.

As these reflections rapidly passed through my mind, a Highland soldier obstructed our passage with his musket, signifying to the driver that he was to go at a foot-pace past a large building, which we now discovered to be an hospital, and before which the street was thickly laid with straw. We were affected with this proof of the attention and care paid to the wounded, still more so when we learnt that this hospital was full of wounded French. The Highland soldier who now stood on guard to prevent the smallest noise from disturbing the repose of his enemies, had himself been wounded – wounded in the action with them. It was a noble, a divine instance of generosity: it was returning good for evil. It was worthy of England. The French soldiers had inhumanly murdered their wounded prisoners. The British not only dressed the wounds and attended to all the wants of theirs, but they protected and watched over them, that even their very slumbers might not be disturbed.

At the hotel of Le Grand Laboureur they knew and welcomed us again, and testified great joy at the success of the Allies since we had seen them, and a great dread lest Napoleon should make his escape. In the streets we met numbers of poor wounded British officers, weak, pale, faint, and emaciated, slowly and painfully moving a few yards to taste the freshness of the summer and the blessed beams of heaven.

Many fine young men had lost their limbs, many were on crutches, many were supported by their wives or by their servants. At the open windows of the houses, propped up by pillows, some poor unfortunate sufferers were lying, whose looks would have moved a heart of stone to pity. We passed several hospitals, and looked into some of them. The cleanliness and neatness of appearance which they exhibited were truly gratifying.

Antwerp was filled with wounded. In every corner we met numbers of convalescent soldiers and officers, some of whom looked well; but the sufferings we saw, and heard of, were far too dreadful to relate, and in many cases death would have been a blessed relief from a state of hopeless torture. Several vessels had already sailed, filled with convalescent wounded, for England.

Most of the wounded French, the wretched survivors of Buonaparte's imperial army, were here. But what consolation had they to support them on the bed of pain and sickness? What glory awaited them when they returned to their native country? What was their recompense for their valour, their sufferings, their services, and their dangers? – Broken health, and blighted hopes, and ruined fortunes, and blasted fame, were all they had to look to. They had not fought and bled for their country, but for a leader who had basely deserted them. Surrounded by these bleeding victims of a tyrant's ungovernable ambition, I felt the truth that inspired the poet's lines —

"Unblest is the blood that for tyrants is squandered,And Fame has no wreath for the brow of the slave."

And what British heart would not exclaim with him —

"But hail to thee, Albion, who meet'st the commotionOf Europe, as firm as thy cliffs meet the foam,With no bond but the law, and no slave but the ocean —Hail, Temple of Liberty! thou art my home!"

The night soon closed in upon us, and we could see the wounded no more. We went to rest, and enjoyed a night of more calm repose than it had ever yet been our lot to experience in Antwerp.

With what different feelings, and under what different circumstances, did I open my eyes on this Sunday morning, to those which we suffered on the dreadful morning of Sunday, the 18th of June, which we had spent here before! Then horror and despair filled the minds of the people – then they were lamenting the imaginary destruction of that army for whose success they were now offering up thanks – for this was the Kennesgevin, or day of thanksgiving, for the glorious victory of Waterloo. We attended high mass at the Cathedral, as we had done before – but with sensations how different! and if at that awful moment my prayers had ascended to heaven, to crown with victory and glory the arms of my country, the deep and fervent emotions of gratitude which filled my heart were now offered up in thanksgiving to the throne of divine mercy. The anxiety, the misery that I had endured when I was before within these aisles, was too poignant to be easily forgotten; but that remembrance made me feel more deeply the blessings which Heaven had bestowed upon us.

Mass being over, we ascended by 640 steps to the top of the tower, or rather of the staircase, of the Cathedral, for its utmost pinnacle is accessible only to the winged inhabitants of air: but as we were not furnished with wings, we were obliged to content ourselves, instead of soaring higher, with gazing upon the magnificent prospect that lay below us. The men and women flocking out of the churches through the streets, looked exactly like a colony of ants swarming on the gravel walks of a garden in a sunny day: the streets and houses looked like the miniature model of a town in pasteboard; and the majestic Scheldt like a long ribbon streaming through a measureless tract of country.

However, the view was both various and beautiful. Far as the eye could reach, the rich fields and woods of Flanders, with its populous villages, its lofty spires, and noble canals lay extended around us, presenting a striking contrast to the cold, bare, triste, watery flats of Holland, which were fresh in our remembrance; and Flanders, no doubt, looked doubly beautiful from the recent comparison.

We distinctly saw the fortifications of Bergen-op-Zoom on one side, and the steeple of Vilvorde on the other. We traced the Scheldt winding its course through a rich country down towards the ocean. Upon its broad bosom lay the vessels waving with the flag of Britain, and destined to carry home the troops who had so bravely fought and bled in her service, and for her glory.

When I thought of the dreadful waste of human life and sufferings which the battle of Waterloo had cost the world, it almost seemed as if it had been dearly purchased: yet in frequent indecisive battles, and in long-protracted campaigns, more blood might – must have been shed, without the same glorious or important results. In one great day, years of bloodshed and of toil had been saved. In one tremendous burst of thunder the war had ended, and the lightnings of Heaven in that vengeful hour had descended upon the head of the guilty. The dark cloud which menaced Europe had passed away, and the prospect was now calm, bright, and unclouded. The blood of Britons had indeed flowed, but it had flowed in a noble cause, and it had not flowed in vain. It had secured present peace and security to the world, and it had left to future ages the proudest monument of British fame.

But I forget that I am all this time upon the top of Antwerp Cathedral; and it is high time to descend from my altitude. When we once more reached the earth, we went to see a sort of religious puppet-show, called Mount Calvary. It had been "got up" with great care and cost, and must have required a world of labour; for there were artificial rocks and caverns, and heaven and hell into the bargain; and it was altogether a most edifying spectacle. There were the Crucifixion, and the Virgin Mary, and St. Paul, and St. Peter, – and I dare say all the rest of the Apostles, and at least fifty more holy persons, who were most likely saints, all as large as life, and made of white stone. There were also red-hot flaming furnaces of purgatory, filled with figures of the same materials; with this difference, that they were making horrible grimaces. There were also the Sepulchre and the Angel; and our friend Mr. D. (the Antwerp merchant), who took us to see this show, was in an ecstasy with it, and declared that all the paintings in the world were not to be compared to it – nay, that he did actually think that it was almost as well worth seeing as St. Paul's or the Monument; – but this he asserted more cautiously.

We visited the house and the tomb of Rubens with more veneration than we had paid to the shrines of all the saints. The people of Antwerp almost adore the memory of this great artist. He was descended from one of the most ancient families in Flanders; of noble birth and of splendid fortune. Antwerp was the place of his birth and of his death, and his spirit still seems to hover over it; for never did I witness a passion for paintings, and a knowledge of the art, so universally diffused among all classes as in this town. All the merchants, and even the petty shopkeepers and tradespeople, have good paintings, both of the Flemish and Italian school. In every house they may be seen; and in every street even the lowest of the people may be heard to canvass their merits. They still lament over the loss of the fine paintings which were carried from the churches by the French; and they seemed particularly to grieve for their celebrated Altar-piece, the pride of their city, which was taken from them. They petitioned and implored Buonaparte with so much importunity and perseverance to restore to them this idol of their affections, that he at last promised it should be sent back. In process of time, and in conformity with his imperial word, there arrived the celebrated altar-piece of "The Descent from the Cross," – correctly copied from the original by a modern French artist! The immortal touches of Rubens were not there. The fraud was instantly discovered, and the people were indignant at this mockery of restitution. They told us they intended immediately to send deputies to Paris to claim this and the other treasures of which they had been despoiled, and which now adorn the Louvre.

There are some very fine private cabinets of pictures in Antwerp, which 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.