which the present single pinnacle inspires the beholders.  As there cannot be two suns in the same sphere, neither could the spire of Antwerp have borne a rival near its solitary, aerial throne.  It soars aloft with such grandeur, that in gazing upon it my brain actually grew dizzy with the sight:  never was I conscious in an equal degree of such a feeling of awe from a work of art, and my mind really ached with the intensity of the impression.—­We seemed to view this sublime object with mutual wonder and admiration—­gazing upon it in one position, then in another—­walking about—­stopping—­excited as it were by the same impulse.  Once, when nearly dark, as our eyes were fixed upon the top, a gentle light suddenly appeared upon the very summit, crowning the majestic fane with glory, as if pointing it out for admiration to a surrounding world:  it was a star twinkling upon the very spot where the highest point of the spire rested on the sky.

The name of Antwerp is derived from Hand-werpen or Hand-thrown:  so called from a legend, which informs us that on the site of the present city once stood the castle of a giant, who held the neighbouring country in thraldom, and who was accustomed to amuse himself by cutting off, and casting into the river, the right hands of the unfortunate wights that fell into his power; but that being at last conquered himself, his own immense hand was disposed of, with poetical justice, in the same way.  With the impression of this story on my mind, it came into my head that the giant was personified by the towering spire:  no wonder, thought I, that Don Quixote mistook a windmill for a giant, since I, even in my sober senses, cannot get rid of the idea that I see the mighty hand-thrower before me.  With a little confusion of the image, I then imagined the spire to be the guardian of the city—­that it took cognizance of all its affairs, and that it would watch me even into my retreat for the night.  Like the adored phantom of youthful love, it pervaded every place, and haunted me in my dreams.  Often the motion of the clouds seemed to be transferred to the lofty spire, which again assuming the giant character startled me with the impression that it was falling towards me, or rushing to crush its victims, like the horrid car of Jaggernaut.

Through the Giant’s Gate, so called from a colossal statue reclining upon it, there is an opening to the Scheldt;—­without is the quay, covered with merchandize unloading from the ships in the river, and serving as an evening promenade.  Here you may see the other eminences of the city occasionally, but the gigantic one—­always:  it stalks out from amidst the cluster of buildings your constant companion wherever you go—­as you walk along, it appears to move with you, and when you stop it waits with patience until you go on again.  On another occasion we took a boat on the Scheldt, and landing at some distance below the town, had a delightful walk along its banks, which are elevated like part