ART AND NATURE

UNDER AN ITALIAN SKY.

INTRODUCTION.

ARIOUS motives combine to make me wish to keep something like a Journal during our present tour. It is always a peculiar pleasure to me to possess a memorial of the past, especially if that past has been marked by change of scene, or the calling forth of new feelings; but to be able thereby to recall vividly those scenes and feelings, so as to share them with those who have either experienced or can sympathize with them, makes such a record more valuable still.

The painful part of leaving England and our own quiet home just now, is the consequent separation from our dear child, thankful though we are that she will be most kindly and tenderly cared for. Yet the idea, that if it please God to spare her, that dear child may, in after years, read the record of these days, will, I feel, add much to the enjoyment of employing my spare moments of rest or leisure in a way that may hereafter contribute to her pleasure or instruction.

A

We embarked at Blackwall in the steamer for AntwerpSeptember 1845. The "Soho" seems a noble vessel, and is fitted up so as to secure as much of comfort for her passengers as usually falls to the lot of mortals in such a conveyance, which, however, I must confess, so far as my personal experience extends, is not saying much. Having secured a comfortable seat on deck, I amused myself, as we glided down the river, with the scene of bustle, so striking and bewildering to any one who passes for the first time through that world of shipping in the Thames. One's fellow-passengers, too, come in for some share of interest on such occasions, and of criticism also, which doubtless is generally mutual. Near me sat a goodnatured and somewhat portly dame, with a pleasing-looking daughter. The former amused me considerably: her remarks were precisely what one so often meets with in books. She was one of those people who bear that unmistakable mark of having risen in the world, viz., an evident anxiety to impress you with the opposite. She took care to leave no doubt as to her being quite rich and able to do as she liked, while the allusions to "her house," "her carriage," "her servants," &c., were exactly the kind of thing Miss Edgeworth and other writers have so often depicted. Among other pieces of information she gave me to understand that she had been "a great traveller," though it very shortly appeared that she had never before left England. This worthy individual was nevertheless both good-natured and kind. The daughter, a happy, joyous-looking girl, entered with all her heart into every novelty of this her first expeditionhaving, as her mother informed me, just left school. Le Père, a thorough John Bull, according to my ideas of that generic personage-rather coarse and blunt, but withal very kindly. A young married couple on their wedding tour; a brother and sister; a young lady, with her French maid in close attendance

upon her these were our principal compagnons de voyage, if I except a most uncompanionable-looking lady of imposing stature, who, if she did not look down upon, at least took no other notice of any one. The usual accompaniments of a rough sea and head wind, which, as every one will allow, are more personally interesting in experience than in detail, made up the history of our twenty hours' passage from Blackwall to the mouth of the Scheldt, where, next morning, we came on deck to gaze with some curiosity on the first foreign habitations, albeit these constituted only the poor little town of Flushing. After some five or six weary hours of toiling up the river, we beheld, at length, the venerable towers of Antwerp, which, from the flatness of the country, and the high banks which intersect it, have the appearance, at a distance, of being half-buried, or of growing up from the level plain on which they stand. As we swept round into the Quay of Antwerp, fatigued as I was, I could not but be amused at the scene of energetic confusion that speedily prevailed. The water being low, we could not approach any proper pier for landing, and some huge masses of floating timber had to be lashed together before we could leave the vessel. This, for aught I know, may be an inconvenience purposely left unremoved, to prevent passengers making their escape before the douaniers can come upon them. Speedily these worthies appeared on deck, and then confusion became worse confounded, and the bustle almost frantic. For myself, I waited quietly, knowing that my husband was getting our passports visé, and that rushing to and fro, as some seemed doing, in a fever of excitement, would not expedite matters. Meanwhile, my long-cherished dread of foreign custom-houses was not relieved by seeing the manner in which some of our companions fared; yet I soon perceived that some of the officers were rougher than others, and fixing on an old man, I made

friendly advances to him, civilly telling him we had nothing contraband, that I was much fatigued with the voyage, and unable to exert myself in repacking my boxes if they should be pulled about. In short, I quite propitiated the aged official, who lifting up my dresses most carefully, just peeped in: "Très bien, très bien, Mademoiselle, c'est fini;" ordering all belonging to me to be locked and prepared for his mark. This grand crisis in a traveller's fate being over so much more pleasantly than anticipated, we stepped right gladly upon foreign ground. On the way to the hotel we were at once struck with the great cleanliness of the town, as well as with its wide and well-paved streets; nor did Antwerp sink in our estimation by our reception at the hotel. The "St. Antoine" is a most comfortable house, with an excellent table-d'hôte, where one meets with those desirable and seldom combined elements of the wayfarer's entertainment-good dinner, good waiting, and a moderate charge.

Towards evening we sallied forth, to make the best of our short stay, and bent our steps to the Eglise St. Jacques. It is a fine old church. The rich carving and ornaments of the interior are exquisitely finished, and the lofty ceiling of pure white, spangled with gold stars, though peculiar, has a pleasing effect there. The great object is the tomb of Rubens, immediately behind the high altar. There is an inscription on the tomb, and above, portraits of himself and a number of his relatives. The colouring is rich, and some of the faces are interesting. Placed above the picture is a figure in marble of the Virgin Mary, chosen and brought here by Rubens himself. There is a small oval picture by Vandyke, which I liked, but no other struck me. On leaving St. Jacques, we went to the Cathedral, of which the good city is so justly proud. I never before saw anything like the exquisite stone carving of the spire its tracery, on looking from below, seems to have the

delicacy of the finest Brussels lace. The interior is imposing, and from its simple purity, united with its grandeur, the coup d'œil is very satisfying. The massive pillars stand alone and unencumbered, with nothing to mar the symmetry and beauty of their proportions..

But the great attraction of the interior we had yet to see, and this was readily confessed when the "Suisse de l'Eglise" drew aside the curtain which hangs before the great masterpiece of Rubens, "The Descent from the Cross." I was much affected as I gazed upon it. There is a more than human expression in the countenance of Jesus, and in that touching resignation which appears in every feature, and which the recent anguish of death has had no power to overcome! Yet with all this truthfulness of moral expression, death is indelibly engraven on every feature and on every limb! When I could look at the other parts of this glorious picture, the next object which rivetted my attention was the lovely face of the mother of Jesus. A mother's grief is imprinted upon that countenance, which is itself almost as pale

as the lifeless form she beholds. But there is a subdued and holy calm also in the expression, such as one expects to find. The other two Marys have, each in a varied degree, the same look of sorrowful interest in the scene. Then, as if to shew the artist's power, he has introduced a noble-looking Roman woman, with her babe in her arms, and the same sadness in her face. Still more remarkable is the expression given to an old withered crone, who is supposed to be there to perform the last offices for the dead: she stands still, as though arrested in the very act of approaching him. One fancies some such feeling has dawned upon her as that which caused the Roman soldier to cry out, "Truly this was the Son of God." The next picture is Rubens's "Elevation of the Cross:" a very fine painting also, but inferior to the other. The "Ascension of Mary" is another of Rubens's