#Willem Schellinks

[illustratus]

The Raid on the Medway, 1667 by Willem Schellinks

[classic-art-favourites]

City Walls in Winter by Willem Schellinks, 1650-1670.

[didoofcarthage]

City Walls in Winter (and detail) by Willem Schellinks

Dutch, c. 1650-1670

oil on canvas

Rijksmuseum

[sky60038]

Willem Schellinks, 1650-1670.

Willem Schellinks (1623-1678) était un peintre, dessinateur et graveur néerlandais de paysages et de scènes marines et également poète. Willem Schellinks était l'un des artistes néerlandais les plus voyagés de son époque. Il voyagea le long de la Loire et de la Seine en 1646, et entre 1661 et 1665, il visita l'Angleterre, la France, l'Italie, Malte, l'Allemagne et la Suisse, gardant une trace de ses voyages dans de multiples paysages et vues panoramiques ainsi qu'un journal. [1] Orthographes alternatives, Schellinger et Schellinx.

[arshopsworld]

Winter scenery - City Walls in Winter by Willem Schellinks 

Canvas Print by AR-shop

[italyandthegrandtour]

Willem SCHELLINKS (Amsterdam, 1623 – Amsterdam, 1678), attribué à Rome : le forum Boarium et le temple d’Hercule Victor Lavis de bistre sur papier vergé, filigrane à l’ancre dans un cercle 19 x 33 cm Vers 1664

[lionofchaeronea]

City Walls in Winter, Willem Schellinks, ca. 1650-70

[mesillusionssousecstasy]

11:51 am : "Vlietzorg et Zorgvliet sur la Spaarneen, périphérie de Haarlem, 1689-1709" par Willem Schellinks ? (Huile sur toile) pour l'exposition "Jardins" au Grand-Palais -  Paris, Avril MMXVII. 

(© Sous Ecstasy)

[meisterdrucke]

Brennen der englischen Flotte bei Chatham, Juni 1667, 1667-78 von Willem Schellinks Gemalt 1667, Öl auf Leinwand Museum: Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam, The Netherlands

[weepingwidar]

Willem Schellinks (The Netherlands) - The Breach of Sint Anthonis Dyke Near Houtewael (1651)

[1122deactivated2211]

Stadswal in de winter (City walls in winter) (17th century) by Willem Schellinks (Dutch)

[illustratus]

The Raid on the Medway, 1667 by Willem Schellinks

[whatevergreen]

The Dutch burn English ships during the Battle of Chatham (Raid on the Medway), 1667. Jan van Leyden (1669). Rijksmuseum.

Attack on the Medway, June 1667, Pieter Cornelisz van Soest

The Battle of Chatham, June 1667, Willem Stoop. Skokloster Castle

In June 1667, the Dutch fleet, under command of Michiel Adriaanszoon Reuter (1607-76), sailed up the river Medway to the British naval base at Chatham, Kent, where they burnt a large part of the British Royal Navy. They destroyed several forts and captured the town of Sheerness. The British flagship Royal Charles was brought back to Amsterdam as war booty, where its counter decorations still can be seen in the Rijksmuseum.

Battle of Chatham and the Conquest of the Isle of Sheppey, 1667. Romeyn de Hooghe, after Willem Schellinks, 1667.

. "It was a battle that set a river on fire, caused panic across London, and left England nursing the wounds of one of its worst ever military defeats. Yet not many people today have heard of the Battle of Medway. Why?"

Mmm? I wonder... 🙄🤣

[didoofcarthage]

Mountain Landscape with River and Wagon by Herman Nauwincx and Willem Schellinks 

Dutch, third quarter of the 17th century

oil on panel

J. Paul Getty Museum

[geritsel]

Willem Schellinks - winterscape

[nellygwyn]

Enough of the past. It is time to return to our own world, but that involves saying goodbye not just to the changes and chances of the Restoration period, but also to its people. In writing this book, I have become familiar with many characters and I hope you have come to appreciate them the finer points of some of them too. I'm sad to say goodbye to the intrepid Celia Fiennes, and the heavy-smoking Earl of Bedford, the straight-talking Edward Barlow, the maverick Lord Rochester, and even the dry Ralph Thoresby. I will also miss the sesquipadalian Ned Ward, and the sociable Willem Schellinks, the refined Italian Lorenzo Magalotti, and the Anglophile Monsieur Misson. But I will miss even more listening to our two great diarists: Samuel Pepys, the foremost exponent of that medium, and his friend, John Evelyn, the most erudite and sympathetic gentleman to have left a personal record of the period. Saying goodbye to them all is hard.

In finally closing the door that leads to their world, I know that their opinions, jokes, insights and reminiscences are all going to be replaced with an unending silence. So, as I do close it, I find myself straining to hear a final word from one of them. And a voice does reach me. To my surprise, it does not belong to one of these characters. Nor is it that of King Charles II, whispering sweet nothings to one of his mistresses. Nor Milton calling out in his blindness. Nor the London theatregoers shouting for an encore from Mrs Barry or Nell Gwynn. Instead, it is that of humble Joseph Pitts of Exeter, the fourteen year old boy who was captured in the English channel by Barbary pirates in 1678 and sold in the slave markets of Algiers. If you remember, after fifteen years of slavery, he made the pilgrimage to Mecca and, after another year or so, managed to return to England. He was thus 30 when he returned, the same age as the king on his Restoration. What you don't know is that, when he finally came home, Joseph learnt that his mother had died and his friends had given up all hope of ever seeing him again, but his much loved father was still alive. Joseph himself tells the story best:

I thought it would not be prudent to make myself known to my father at once, lest it should quite overcome him and therefore, went to a public house not far from where he lived, and enquired for some who were playmates before I went to sea. They told me there was one Benjamin Chappell lived near there with whom I had been very intimate while a lad. I sent for him and acquainted him with who I was, desiring that he would go to my father and bring it out to him by degrees. This he readily undertook, well knowing he would be a most welcome messenger, and in a little time, brought my father to me. The public house was soon filled with the neighbourhood who came to see me. What joy there was at such a meeting, I leave the reader to conceive of, for it is not easily expressed. The first words my father said to me were 'Art thou my son, Joseph?' with tears. 'Yes, father, I am' said I. He immediately led me home to his house, many people following us, but he shut the door against them and would admit no one until, falling on his knees, he had returned hearty thanks to God for my signal deliverance.

If you listen carefully at the door of the past, what you hear most, above all the distant sounds of daily life and death, is the beating of the most unstoppable heart.

~ the final paragraphs of Ian Mortimer's 'A Time Traveller's Guide to Restoration Britain'