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soft eyes seem to turn fondly from her own child towards her who had gathered the first full vintage of her husband's love. She it was who placed this picture over his grave. Behind them is Rubens himself, in full armour, waving the banner of St George. How proudly, how grandly he speaks the consciousness of power! Furl thy triumphant banner, great, glorious Peter Paul Rubens, thy victory is won. Put off thy gorgeous armour; thy battle is over. Lay that noble head down in the dust by the wife of thy youth; thy immortality is secured. Pilgrims shall come and bow at thy shrine, fitting worshippers. From the banks of the Tamar shall come one whose soul was instinct with grace and beauty. From beside a river sluggish as the Scheldt-from beneath the shadow of a cathedral magnificent as thy own, shall come one on whose sickly frame and heavy brow genius had shed a ray whose brightness is not dimmed even beside thine. Nor shall other pilgrims be wanting. A Cockney shall pack up his carpet-bag, roll down Brixton Hill in an omnibus, book himself by the "Baron Osy," and where Reynolds and Etty bowed in reverend worship, Ruskin shall stand and scoff.
I had been looking for some time at "The Communion of St Francis," in the Musée, when, as I turned away, I observed a young man engaged in copying Valentino's "Le Brelan." There was something peculiar about him which attracted my attention, and when I came nearer I discovered that he was painting, not with his hands, but with his feet. A short cloak or cape hung over his shoulders and concealed his want of arms; he held his brush between the first and second toes of his right foot; his palette, maul-stick, and a sheaf of spare brushes, were held not ungracefully in the left, and he worked rapidly, easily, and well. When the clock struck twelve and announced the hour at which the pictures in the cathedral are open for exhibition, he laid down his
brush, cleaned his palette, packed up his colours and brushes (all with his feet), and then put on his shoes and walked out of the Museum. A quarter of an hour afterwards I found him again seated in the cathedral busily engaged on a copy of "The Descent from the Cross." One of the stones of the floor under his stool had slightly sunk, making his seat unsteady, and as he was obliged to balance himself without any assistance from his feet, which were engaged upon his picture, this of course required immediate remedy. He took out his handkerchief, folded it into a little compact bundle, and tucked it under the leg of his stool, and then resumed his work. An accidental circumstance now gave me an opportunity of entering into conversation with him his manner was easy and gentlemanly, and his remarks those of a cultivated and intelligent man. There was neither embarrassment from any consciousness of his misfortune, nor display of the marvellous skill which enabled him to overcome it. He used his feet in every way as most men use their hands, and it seemed as natural and easy to him to do so. Yet, what struck me as very remarkable, though painting with great delicacy and skill, his foot looked all the time just as awkward an instrument as one's own. After some conversation he offered me his card, put his foot in his pocket, took out one of those little wallets which everybody now carries, slipped the elastic band off with his toe, selected a card from several, placed it on the back of the case, put his foot again into his pocket, took out a pencil, and in a far better hand than the compositor has to decipher before this article can go to press, added the address, "Anvers, 5o Section, 126 Rue des Images," to the name of "Charles Felu, Artiste Peintre." So completely had he overcome all appearance of awkwardness that a lady whom I happened to sit next to at the table d'hôte told me that she had conversed with him for a considerable time without dis
covering that his legs were not arms. I have no doubt he shaves himself, for, contrary to the prevailing custom amongst artists,
"His chin, new reaped, Showed like a stubble field at harvesthome;"
a light mustache being the only evidence of beard that was allowed to remain on an intelligent, pensive, and rather handsome face.
My day at Antwerp ended in the comfortable Hôtelrie of Saint Antoine, to whose courtyard I was welcomed by the gambols of three
little white Spitz dogs who might have known that their grandmamma, little Madame Blanche, used to coax me, years ago, out of the greater portion of the sugar which was des tined for my café noir, and who were quite ready to pay me the same disinterested attention themselves. As I sat in the old courtyard and watched the smoke of my cigar curling up amongst the leaves of the orange-trees, I determined to ask the readers of Maga to sympathise with the pleasure I had enjoyed during my day in Antwerp. PEREGRINE.
NOBLE in presence, though a cloud of grief
Fared, as men walk an unfamiliar road
In dreams, not doubting-till he reached the King.
Him found he throned beneath a mimic sky
Shone the soft image of the lunar queen ;
Most wondrous; and beneath his raiment's hem
That tranquil self-perfection, without pain,
Spring, flowery-zoned, and Summer, wreathed with corn;
So, ere he well returned into himself,
From the weird influx of those dreamy orbs,
Went forth the voice of Phoebus :-" Phaethon,
Not strange, to no inhospitable halls
I too have marked, 'mid yonder evil brood,
Courage thou shalt not hence without a boon,
Spare not, but ask-I swear by ninefold Styx,
Then leapt the heart of Phaethon for joy;
Whether by thought mapped out, or lighted on
And readily he drew near unto his sire
And spake, appealing to that swerveless oath :
"My father, for thy words rhyme well with hope.
To thy most royal prelude, and to ask
He ended; but the brows of Phoebus lowered;
"Child, thou hast asked a hard and a perilous thing, A thing to be denied even to Zeus.
Woe worth the moment when I swore by Styx
To this most dire completion of a will
So wayward! Thou hast asked a boonless boon,
So Phoebus; but the child of Clymene
Through his wide palace wandered up and down;
Still pausing when he passed the silver plains
Which earth and heaven and Nereid-haunted deep
And ever as he paused he sighed, as if
In earth or heaven or Nereid-haunted
Soon conscious of his child, he turned, and there
Spake; but that other would not. And they moved
In silence, till they reached the empyreal gates,
But Phaethon stood silent-that white reach
Nursed in his dream and once he half drew back
The Sun-god, who made parley yet once more :
"Son, for thine hour is coming, not yet come,
He ended; but the child of Clymene,