employed in the left of the painting,
St. Christopher could be introduced, there, by making him somewhat
diminutive. Rubens rejected the proposal with disgust: his great work
was not to be destroyed by such an anomaly as this: and so, breaking
off the negotiation at once, he dismissed the "Arquebuss" men, and
relinquished all pretension to the "promised land."

Matters remained for some months thus, when the burgomaster, who was an
ardent admirer of Rubens' genius, came to hear the entire transaction;
and, waiting on the painter, suggested an expedient by which every
difficulty might be avoided, and both parties rest content. "Why not,"
said he, "make a St. Christopher on the outside of the shutter? You have
surely space enough there, and can make him of any size you like." The
artist caught at the proposal, seized his chalk, and in a few minutes
sketched out, a gigantic saint, which the burgomaster at once pronounced
suited to the occasion.

The "Arquebuss" men were again introduced; and, immediately on beholding
their patron, professed themselves perfectly satisfied. The bargain
was concluded, the land ceded, and the picture hung up in the great
cathedral of Antwerp, where, with the exception of the short period that
French spoliation carried it to the Louvre, it has remained ever since,
a monument of the artist's genius, the greatest and most finished of
all his works. And now that I have done my story, I'll try and find out
that little quaint hotel they call the "Fischer's Haus."

Fifteen years ago, I remember losing my way one night in the streets
of Antwerp. I couldn't speak a word of Flemish: the few people I met
couldn't understand a word of French. I wandered about, for full two
hours, and heard the old cathedral clock play a psalm tune, and the St.
Joseph tried its hand on another. A watchman cried the hour through
a cow's horn, and set all the dogs a-barking; and then all was still
again, and I plodded along, without the faintest idea of the points of
the compass.

In this moody frame of mind I was, when the heavy clank of a pair
of sabots, behind, apprised me that some one was following. I turned
sharply about, and accosted him in French.

"English?" said he, in a thick, guttural tone.

"Yes, thank heaven" said I, "do you speak English?"

"Ja, Mynheer," answered he. Though this reply didn't promise very
favourably, I immediately asked him to guide me to my hotel, upon which
he shook his head gravely,