PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 102.

June 11, 1892.

A DAY AT ANTWERP.

(By the "Vacuus Viator.")

In the Place Verte.—"The traveller," according to Bædeker, "should at once direct his steps to the Cathedral." Not going to be bullied by Bædeker! Shall assert my independence by directing steps somewhere else first. Carillon tinkling fitfully up in tower. Like an elderly ghost with failing memory, trying to play every tune she ever knew all at once on a cracked, old spinnet. Fancy I detect fragment of "The Heavens are Telling," tripped up by the "Old Hundredth," and falling over "Haydn's Surprise." Ghost tries back, and just as she seems about to arrive at something definite—suddenly gives it up as hopeless. To Church of St. Paulus, to see the Calvary. Small but highly intelligent Belgian Boy, who speaks English, insists on volunteering services. (Why aren't our street-boys taught French and German in Board Schools?—make all the difference to foreigners in London.) Boy takes me up avenue of heroic-sized scriptural statues, introduces me to "Moïse," "Dahvit mit de 'arp," and others. Kind of him—but I wish he would go. Offer him twopence. Boy declines with indignation. Young Belgium evidently high-minded and sensitive. He informs me that, in a certain church he refers to as "Sin Yack," there are "RUBENS' peecture—moch fine," and plainly proposes to conduct me thither. Mustn't hurt his feelings again—so accept. Boy clumps on ahead, down alleys, and through back-streets, and round corners, looking round severely at intervals to see that I am not giving him the slip. Nice friendly little fellow—but despotic. Don't seem to be much nearer; "Sin Yack" evidently a saint of retiring disposition.... At last. Boy points him out triumphantly. Thank him, with apologies for taking him so much out of his way. Boy demands two francs. Hint, as delicately as possible, that I consider this estimate of the value of his time and society somewhat high. Boy peremptory. Give him fifty centimes. Boy abusive; follows me with uncomplimentary remarks. I can not go about Antwerp all day with a hostile boy harassing my rear like this! So undignified. However, shall find sanctuary with "Sin Yack." Every door closed. Boy at a distance—chuckling, I am afraid. Shall walk on—not hurrying, but briskly. Boy gone at last—thank goodness!—with Parthian yelp of "Rosbif!"

"Rosbif!"

In the Cathedral.—Being shown round by Sacristan, in company with two respectable young Britons. "You shee dot oltarbiece, gentlemens," says Sacristan, "paint by RUBENS, in seexteen day, for seexteen hondert florin." Whereupon both Britons make a kind of "cluck" with their tongues. "Dat vos von hondert florin efery day he vas paint," explains the Sacristan. Britons do this division sum in their heads, check it as correct, and evidently feel increased respect for RUBENS as capable-for an artist—of driving a good bargain. "RUBENS baint him ven he vas seexteen," which younger Briton considers "very creditable to him, too!" They inspect the High Altar, with more clucks, and inform one another, with the air of Protestants who are above prejudice, that it's a marvellous piece o' work, though, mind yer! Sacristan points out holes underneath choir-stalls. "De organ is blay over dere, and de mooshique he com out hier troo de 'oles, so all be beoples vas vender vere de schounds com from!" First Briton remarks to me that "That's a rum start, and no mistake." I agree that it is a rum start. I shall find myself clucking presently, I know! "Haf you scheen yed de bortraits of GLATSHTONE and Lort BAGONSFELDT?" Sacristan asks us "... 'No?' then I show you." He leads us up to the finial of one of the stalls, which is carved in the figure of a monk. "Is not dat de Ole Grandt Man himself?" he asks, triumphantly. Second Briton agrees "It's a wonderful likeness, reelly." His Companion admits "They've got old GLADSTONE there to a t"—but adds that "come to that, it might do for either of 'em." "Lort BAGONSFELDT" is opposite, but, as Sacristan observes, would be more like "if dey only vas gif him a leedle gurl on de vorehead." Next we are taken to the Retro-Choir and shown the "mosh gurious and peautiful bainting in de ole Cathedrale. Schtand yust hier, Gentelmens, now you see him. Beoples say, 'Oh, yais, ve know, yust a marble-garvings—a baw releff!' I dell you, nodings of de kindt. All so flat as a biece of vite baper—com close op. Vat you tink? Vonderful, hey?" Britons deeply impressed by this and other wonders, and inform Sacristan that their own Cathedrals "ain't in it." "Look at the value of the things they've got 'ere, you know," they say to me, clucking, and then depart, after asking Sacristan the nearest way to the Zoo.

At Table d'hôte.—Fellow-countrymen to the fore; both my immediate neighbours English, but neither shows any inclination to converse. Rather glad of it; afternoon of Museums and Galleries instructive—but exhausting. Usual Chatty Clergyman at end of table, talking Guide-book intelligently; wife next him, ruminating in silence and dismally contemplating artificial plant in a plated pot in front of her. It is a depressing object—but why look at it? Horror of two Sportsmen opposite on being offered snipe. "Snipe now—Great Scott!" they exclaim, "And ain't they high too?" One helps himself to some, with a sense that being on the Continent makes all the difference. But even his courage fails on being offered stewed apricots with it. Close by a couple of Americans; a dry middle-aged man, and a talkative young fellow who informs him he was at Harvard. Elder man listens to him with a grim and wooden forbearance. "Ez fur languages," the younger man is saying. "I'd undertake to learn any language inside of six months. Fur enstance, I got up Trigonometry in two. You'll tell me that isn't a language, and that's so, but take Latin now, I'd learn Latin—to write and speak—in a year, Italian I'd learn in a fortnight—with constant study, you understand. Then there's German. Well. I cann't read German—not in their German text, I cann't, and I don't speak it with fluency, but I can ask my way in it, and order anything I want, and I reckon that's about as much as a man requires to know of any language. Will you take a glass of wine outer my bottle? I've another coming along." Elder man declines stiffly, on plea that he is almost a teetotaller. "Well, maybe you're wise," says the Harvard man, "but I've discovered a thing that'll put you all right in the morning when you've eaten or drunk more'n's good for you overnight. I'll tell you what that thing is. It's just persly—plain ordinary simple persly. You eat a bunch o' fresh persly first thing you get up, and it don't matter what you've taken, you'll feel just as bright!" Elder man, who has been cutting up his chicken into very small pieces, looks up and says solemnly, "You may consider yourself vurry fortunate in being able to correct the errors you allude to by a means which is at once so efficacious and so innocent." After which he subsides into his salad. Harvard man shut up.

In the Fumoir.—Two drearily undecided men trying to make up their minds where to go next. Shall they stay at Antwerp for a day or two, or go over to Brussels, or go back to Calais and stay there, or what? "Calais is on their way home, anyhow," says one,