Dreams, Waking Thoughts, and Incidents | Page 5

my eyes, I found myself pent in by Flemish spires and
buildings: no hills, no verdure, no aromatic breezes, no hope of being
in your vicinity: all were vanished with the shadows of fancy, and I was
left alone to deplore your absence. But I think it rather selfish to wish
you here, for what pleasure could pacing from one dull church to
another, afford a person of your turn? I don't believe you would catch a
taste for blubbering Magdalens and coarse Madonnas, by lolling in
Rubens' chair; nor do I believe a view of the Ostades and Snyders, so
liberally scattered in every collection, would greatly improve your
pencil.
After breakfast this morning I began my pilgrimage to all those
illustrious cabinets. First, I went to Monsieur Van Lencren's, who
possesses a suite of apartments, lined, from the base to the cornice,
with the rarest productions of the Flemish school. Heavens forbid I
should enter into a detail of their niceties! I might as well count the
dew-drops upon any of Van Huysem's flower-pieces, or the pimples on
their possessor's countenance; a very good sort of man, indeed; but
from whom I was not at all sorry to be delivered.
My joy was, however, of short duration, as a few minutes brought me
into the courtyard of the Chanoin Knyfe's habitation; a snug abode,
well furnished with easy chairs and orthodox couches. After viewing
the rooms on the first floor, we mounted a gentle staircase, and entered
an ante-chamber, which those who delight in the imitations of art rather

than of nature, in the likenesses of joint stools and the portraits of
tankards, would esteem most capitally adorned: but it must be
confessed, that, amongst these uninteresting performances, are
dispersed a few striking Berghems and agreeable Polemburgs. In the
gallery adjoining, two or three Rosa de Tivolis merit observation; and a
large Teniers, representing a St. Anthony surrounded by a malicious fry
of imps and leering devilesses, is well calculated to display the
whimsical buffoonery of a Dutch imagination.
I was observing this strange medley, when the Canon made his
appearance; and a most prepossessing figure he has, according to
Flemish ideas. In my humble opinion his Reverence looked a little
muddled or so; and, to be sure, the description I afterwards heard of his
style of living, favours not a little my surmises. This worthy dignitary,
what with his private fortune and the good things of the church, enjoys
a revenue of about five thousand pounds sterling, which he contrives to
get rid of in the joys of the table and the encouragement of the pencil.
His servants, perhaps, assist not a little in the expenditure of so
comfortable an income; the Canon being upon a very social footing
with them all. At four o'clock in the afternoon, a select party attend him
in his coach to an alehouse about a league from the city; where a table,
well spread with jugs of beer and handsome cheeses, waits their arrival.
After enjoying this rural fare, the same equipage conducts them back
again, by all accounts, much faster than they came; which may well be
conceived, as the coachman is one of the brightest wits of the
entertainment.
My compliments, alas! were not much relished, you may suppose, by
this jovial personage. I said a few favourable words of Polemburg, and
offered up a small tribute of praise to the memory of Berghem; but, as I
could not prevail upon Mynheer Knyfe to expand, I made one of my
best bows, and left him to the enjoyment of his domestic felicity.
In my way home, I looked into another cabinet, the greatest ornament
of which was a most sublime thistle by Snyders, of the heroic size, and
so faithfully imitated that I dare say no ass could see it unmoved. At
length, it was lawful to return home; and as I positively refused visiting

any more cabinets in the afternoon, I sent for a harpsichord of Rucker,
and played myself quite out of the Netherlands.
It was late before I finished my musical excursion, and I took
advantage of this dusky moment to revisit the cathedral. A flight of
starlings was fluttering about one of the pinnacles of the tower; their
faint chirpings were the only sounds that broke the stillness of the air.
Not a human form appeared at any of the windows around; no footsteps
were audible in the opening before the grand entrance; and, during the
half hour I spent in walking to and fro beneath the spire, one solitary
Franciscan was the only creature that accosted me. From him I learnt
that a grand service was to be performed next day in honour of St. John
the Baptist, and the best music in Flanders would be