groups　of　beer…drinkers　（small…beer　is　the　most　good…natured　drink
  in　the　world）；　along　the　barriers　outside　of　the　town；　and　by　the
  glistening　canals；　are　more　beer…shops　and　more　beer…drinkers。　　The
  city　is　defended　by　the　queerest　fat　military。　　The　chief　traffic
  is　between　the　hotels　and　the　railroad。　　The　hotels　give　wonderful
  good　dinners；　and　especially　at　the　〃Grand　Laboureur〃　may　be
  mentioned　a　peculiar　tart；　which　is　the　best　of　all　tarts　that
  ever　a　man　ate　since　he　was　ten　years　old。　　A　moonlight　walk　is
  delightful。　　At　ten　o'clock　the　whole　city　is　quiet；　and　so　little
  changed　does　it　seem　to　be；　that　you　may　walk　back　three　hundred
  years　into　time；　and　fancy　yourself　a　majestical　Spaniard；　or　an
  oppressed　and　patriotic　Dutchman　at　your　leisure。　　You　enter　the
  inn；　and　the　old　Quentin　Durward　court…yard；　on　which　the　old
  towers　look　down。　　There　is　a　sound　of　singingsinging　at
  midnight。　　Is　it　Don　Sombrero；　who　is　singing　an　Andalusian
  seguidilla　under　the　window　of　the　Flemish　burgomaster's　daughter？
  Ah；　no！　it　is　a　fat　Englishman　in　a　zephyr　coat：　he　is　drinking
  cold　gin…and…water　in　the　moonlight；　and　warbling　softly
  〃Nix　my　dolly；　pals；　fake　away；
  N…ix　my　dolly；　pals；　fake　aaway。〃*
  *　In　1844。
  I　wish　the　good　people　would　knock　off　the　top　part　of　Antwerp
  Cathedral　spire。　　Nothing　can　be　more　gracious　and　elegant　than　the
  lines　of　the　first　two　compartments；　but　near　the　top　there　bulges
  out　a　little　round；　ugly；　vulgar　Dutch　monstrosity　（for　which　the
  architects　have；　no　doubt；　a　name）　which　offends　the　eye　cruelly。
  Take　the　Apollo；　and　set　upon　him　a　bob…wig　and　a　little　cocked
  hat；　imagine　〃God　Save　the　King〃　ending　with　a　jig；　fancy　a
  polonaise；　or　procession　of　slim；　stately；　elegant　court　beauties；
  headed　by　a　buffoon　dancing　a　hornpipe。　　Marshal　Gerard　should　have
  discharged　a　bombshell　at　that　abomination；　and　have　given　the
  noble　steeple　a　chance　to　be　finished　in　the　grand　style　of　the
  early　fifteenth　century；　in　which　it　was　begun。
  This　style　of　criticism　is　base　and　mean；　and　quite　contrary　to　the
  orders　of　the　immortal　Goethe；　who　was　only　for　allowing　the　eye　to
  recognize　the　beauties　of　a　great　work；　but　would　have　its　defects
  passed　over。　　It　is　an　unhappy；　luckless　organization　which　will　be
  perpetually　fault…finding；　and　in　the　midst　of　a　grand　concert　of
  music　will　persist　only　in　hearing　that　unfortunate　fiddle　out　of
  tune。
  Withinexcept　where　the　rococo　architects　have　introduced　their
  ornaments　（here　is　the　fiddle　out　of　tune　again）the　cathedral　is
  noble。　　A　rich；　tender　sunshine　is　streaming　in　through　the
  windows；　and　gilding　the　stately　edifice　with　the　purest　light。
  The　admirable　stained…glass　windows　are　not　too　brilliant　in　their
  colors。　　The　organ　is　playing　a　rich；　solemn　music；　some　two
  hundred　of　people　are　listening　to　the　service；　and　there　is　scarce
  one　of　the　women　kneeling　on　her　chair；　enveloped　in　her　full
  majestic　black　drapery；　that　is　not　a　fine　study　for　a　painter。
  These　large　black　mantles　of　heavy　silk　brought　over　the　heads　of
  the　women；　and　covering　their　persons；　fall　into　such　fine　folds　of
  drapery；　that　they　cannot　help　being　picturesque　and　noble。　　See；
  kneeling　by　the　side　of　two　of　those　fine　devout…looking　figures；
  is　a　lady　in　a　little　twiddling　Parisian　hat　and　feather；　in　a
  little　lace　mantelet；　in　a　tight　gown　and　a　bustle。　　She　is　almost
  as　monstrous　as　yonder　figure　of　the　Virgin；　in　a　hoop；　and　with　a
  huge　crown　and　a　ball　and　a　sceptre；　and　a　bambino　dressed　in　a
  little　hoop；　and　in　a　little　crown；　round　which　are　clustered
  flowers　and　pots　of　orange…trees；　and　before　which　many　of　the
  faithful　are　at　prayer。　　Gentle　clouds　of　incense　come　wafting
  through　the　vast　edifice；　and　in　the　lulls　of　the　music　you　hear
  the　faint　chant　of　the　priest；　and　the　silver　tinkle　of　the　bell。
  Six　Englishmen；　with　the　commissionaires；　and　the　〃Murray's　Guide…
  books〃　in　their　hands；　are　looking　at　the　〃Descent　from　the　Cross。〃
  Of　this　picture　the　〃Guide…book〃　gives　you　orders　how　to　judge。　　If
  it　is　the　end　of　religious　painting　to　express　the　religious
  sentiment；　a　hundred　of　inferior　pictures　must　rank　before　Rubens。
  Who　was　ever　piously　affected　by　any　picture　of　the　master？　　He　can
  depict　a　livid　thief　writhing　upon　the　cross；　sometimes　a　blond
  Magdalen　weeping　below　it；　but　it　is　a　Magdalen　a　very　short　time
  indeed　after　her　repentance：　her　yellow　brocades　and　flaring　satins
  are　still　those　which　she　wore　when　she　was　of　the　world；　her　body
  has　not　yet　lost　the　marks　of　the　feasting　and　voluptuousness　in
  which　she　used　to　indulge；　according　to　the　legend。　　Not　one　of　the
  Rubens's　pictures　among　all　the　scores　that　decorate　chapels　and
  churches　here；　has　the　least　tendency　to　purify；　to　touch　the
  affections；　or　to　awaken　the　feelings　of　religious　respect　and
  wonder。　　The　〃Descent　from　the　Cross〃　is　vast；　gloomy；　and　awful；
  but　the　awe　inspired　by　it　is；　as　I　take　it；　altogether　material。
  He　might　have　painted　a　picture　of　any　criminal　broken　on　the
  wheel；　and　the　sensation　inspired　by　it　would　have　been　precisely
  similar。　　Nor　in　a　religious　picture　do　you　want　the　savoir…faire
  of　the　master　to　be　always　protruding　itself；　it　detracts　from　the
  feeling　of　reverence；　just　as　the　thumping　of　cushion　and　the
  spouting　of　tawdry　oratory　does　from　a　sermon：　meek　religion
  disappears；　shouldered　out　of　the　desk　by　the　pompous；　stalwart；
  big…chested；　fresh…colored；　bushy…whiskered　pulpiteer。　　Rubens's
  piety　has　always　struck　us　as　of　this　sort。　　If　he　takes　a　pious
  subject；　it　is　to　show　you　in　what　a　fine　way　he；　Peter　Paul
  Rubens；　can　treat　it。　　He　never　seems　to　doubt　but　that　he　is　doing
  it　a　great　honor。　　His　〃Descent　from　the　Cross；〃　and　its
  accompanying　wings　and　cover；　are　a　set　of　puns　upon　the　word
  Christopher；　of　which　the　taste　is　more　odious　than　that　of　the
  hooped…petticoated　Virgin　yonder；　with　her　artificial　flowers；　and
  her　rings　and　brooches。　　The　people　who　made　an　offering　of　that
  hooped　petticoat　did　their　best；　at　any　rate；　they　knew　no　better。
  There　is　humility　in　that　simple；　quaint　present；　trustfulness　and
  kind　intention。　　Looking　about　at　other　altars；　you　see　（much　to
  the　horror　of　pious　Protestants）　all　sorts　of　queer　little　emblems
  hanging　up　under　little　pyramids　of　penny　candles　that　are
  sputtering　and　flaring　there。　　Here　you　have　a　silver　arm；　or　a
  little　gold　toe；　or　a　wax　leg；　or　a　gilt　eye；　signifying　and
  commemorating　cures　that　have　been　performed　by　the　supposed
  intercession　of　the　saint　over　whose　chapel　they　hang。　　Well；
  although　they　are　abominable　superstitions；　yet　these　queer　little
  offerings　seem　to　me　to　be　a　great　deal　more　pious　than　Rubens's
  big　pictures；　just　as　is　the　widow　with　her　poor　little　mite
  compared　to　the　swelling　Pharisee　who　flings　his　purse　of　gold　into
  the　plate。
  A　couple　of　days　of　Rubens　and　his　church　pictures　makes　one
  thoroughly　and　entirely　sick　of　him。　　His　very　genius　and　splendor
  pails　upon　one；　even　taking　the　pictures　as　worldly　pictures。　　One
  grows　weary　of　being　perpetually　feasted　with　this　rich；　coarse；
  steaming　food。　　Considering　them　as　church　pictures；　I　don't　want
  to　go　to　church　to　hear；　however　splendid；　an　organ　play　the
  〃British　Grenadiers。〃
  The　Antwerpians　have　set　up　a　clumsy　bronze　statue　of　their
  divinity　in　a　square　of　the　town；　and　those　who　have　not　enough　of
  Rubens　in　the　churches　may　study　him；　and　indeed　to　much　greater
  advantage；　in　a　good；　well…lighted　museum。　　Here；　there　is　one
  picture；　a　dying　saint　taking　the　communion；　a　large　piece　ten　or
  eleven　feet　high；　and　painted　in　an　incredibly　short　space　of　time；
  which　is　extremely　curious　indeed　for　the　painter's　study。　　The
  picture　is　scarcely　more　than　an　immense　magnificent　sketch；　but　it
  tells　the　secret　of　the　artist's　manner；　which；　in　the　midst　of　its
  dash　and　splendor；　is　curiously　methodical。　　Where　the　shadows　are
  warm　the　lights　are　cold；　and　vice　versa；　and　the　picture　has　been
  so　rapidly　painted；　that　the　tints　lie　raw　by　the　side　of　one
  another；　the　artist　not　having　taken　the　trouble　to　blend　them。
  There　are　two　exquisite　Vandykes　（whatever　Sir　Joshua　may　say　of
  them）；　and　in　which　the　very　management　of　the　gray　tones　which　the
  President　abuses　forms　the　principal　excellence　and　charm。　　Why；
  after　all；　are　we　not　to　have　our　opinion？　　Sir　Joshua　is　not　the
  Pope。　　The　color　of　one　of　those　Vandykes　is　as　fine　as　FINE　Paul
  Veronese；　and　the　sentiment　beautifully　tender　and　graceful。
  I　saw；　too；　an　exhibition　of　the　modern　Belgian　artists　（1843）；　the
  remembrance　of　whose　pictures　after　a　month's　absence　has　almost
  entirely　vanished。　　Wappers's　hand；　as　I　thought；　seemed　to　have
  grown　old　and　feeble；　Verboeckhoven's　cattle…pieces　are　almost　as
  good　as　Paul　Potter's；　and　Keyser　has　dwindled　down　into　namby…
  pamby　prettiness；　pitiful　to　see　in　the　gal