Dreams, Waking Thoughts, and Incidents | Page 4

there was
just light sufficient for me to observe on the still waters the reflection
of the structures above them. Except two or three tapers glimmering
through the casements, no one circumstance indicated human existence.
I might, without being thought very romantic, have imagined myself in
the city of petrified people, which Arabian fabulists are so fond of
describing. Were any one to ask my advice upon the subject of
retirement, I should tell him,--By all means repair to Antwerp. No
village amongst the Alps, or hermitage upon Mount Lebanon, is less
disturbed: you may pass your days in this great city without being the
least conscious of its sixty thousand inhabitants, unless you visit the
churches. There, indeed, are to be heard a few devout whispers, and
sometimes, to be sure, the bells make a little chiming; but walk about,
as I do, in the twilights of midsummer, and be assured your ears will be
free from all molestation.
You can have no idea how many strange, amusing fancies played
around me whilst I wandered along; nor how delighted I was with the
novelty of my situation. But a few days ago, thought I within myself, I
was in the midst of all the tumult and uproar of London: now, as if by
some magic influence, I am transported to a city equally remarkable for
streets and edifices, but whose inhabitants seem cast into a profound
repose. What a pity that we cannot borrow some small share of this
soporific disposition! It would temper that restless spirit which throws
us sometimes into such dreadful convulsions. However, let us not be
too precipitate in desiring so dead a calm; the time may arrive when,
like Antwerp, we may sink into the arms of forgetfulness; when a fine
verdure may carpet our Exchange, and passengers traverse the Strand,
without any danger of being smothered in crowds, or lost in the
confusion of carriages.
Reflecting, in this manner, upon the silence of the place, contrasted

with the important bustle which formerly rendered it so famous, I
insensibly drew near to the cathedral, and found myself, before I was
aware, under its stupendous tower. It is difficult to conceive an object
more solemn or imposing than this edifice at the hour I first beheld it.
Dark shades hindered my examining the lower galleries or windows;
their elaborate carved work was invisible; nothing but huge masses of
building met my sight, and the tower, shooting up four hundred and
sixty-six feet into the air, received an additional importance from the
gloom which prevailed below. The sky being perfectly clear, several
stars twinkled through the mosaic of the spire, and added not a little to
its enchanted effect. I longed to ascend it that instant, to stretch myself
out upon its very summit, and calculate from so sublime an elevation
the influence of the planets.
Whilst I was indulging my astrological reveries, a ponderous bell
struck ten, and such a peal of chimes succeeded, as shook the whole
edifice, notwithstanding its bulk, and drove me away in a hurry. No
mob obstructed my passage, and I ran through a succession of streets,
free and unmolested, as if I had been skimming along over the downs
of Wiltshire. My servants conversing before the hotel were the only
sounds which the great "Place de Mer" echoed.
This universal stillness was the more pleasing, when I looked back
upon those scenes of horror and outcry which filled London but a week
or two ago, when danger was not confined to night only, and the
environs of the capital, but haunted our streets at midday. Here, I could
wander over an entire city; stray by the port, and venture through the
most obscure alleys, without a single apprehension; without beholding
a sky red and portentous with the light of fires, or hearing the confused
and terrifying murmurs of shouts and groans, mingled with the reports
of artillery. I can assure you, I think myself very fortunate to have
escaped the possibility of another such week of desolation, and to be
peaceably roosted at Antwerp. Were I not still fatigued with my heavy
progress through sands and quagmires, I should descant a little longer
upon the blessings of so quiet a metropolis, but it is growing late, and I
must retire to enjoy it.

LETTER III

ANTWERP, June 23rd.
My windows look full upon the Place de Mer, and the sun, beaming
through their white curtains, awoke me from a dream of Arabian
happiness. Imagination had procured herself a tent on the mountains of
Sanaa, covered with coffee-trees in bloom. She was presenting me the
essence of their flowers, and was just telling me that you possessed a
pavilion on a neighbouring hill, when the sunshine dispelled the vision;
and opening