NOTES OF AN ARTIST. 551 



" Can't presume to advise/' said Faggott, " perhaps they'll con- 

 strue it into a felony exchange is not no robbery/' 



" I know I know ; pray pull up, and let us consult." 



" Eh, why zounds ! Dr. Fogg !" 



" What's the matter, Mr. Faggott ?" 



" Matter, sir, why the matter is, that I'm on a wrong horse too !" 



" Thank God I" 



" Why, you brute " 



" Don't vituperate : but let us reflect : what shall we do?" 



" Can't conceive." 



" I propose that we ride back at full speed, and rectify this error ; 

 which, by a Whig judge and jury, perhaps " 



:f True : I'm in a tremor : turn round and hark forward." 



The respectable pair passed me at full speed, the parson a-head : I 

 followed them at the best pace I could, determined on seeing the 

 upshot of the adventure, and arrived at the Roebuck, just as they 

 had summoned the ostler from his stall. The following colloquy 

 ensued. 



e< My good fellow," quoth the parson, " by some venial accident, 

 I have taken the wrong horse : so has my friend. 



" Yeas," said the ostler, drily, " zo I zeed when you mounted? 

 You ha got the zquire's horse, and the zquire ha' got yours !" 



NOTES OF AN ARTIST. No. II. 



RUBENS. 



RUBENS is the pictorial hero of Flanders ; every church, cathedral, 

 public or private gallery, contains some brilliant emanations of his 

 genius. At Antwerp, his princely house is shewn, and there, in the 

 church of St. Jacques are deposited his bones. Upon entering any 

 building, the walls of which are ornamented with his works, the eye 

 is at once attracted to them ; the pictures, by other hands, appearing 

 dull and lifeless. It is their sparkling effect, rich harmony of colour, 

 and delicious truth of surface, particularly in flesh tints, that makes 

 them tell in this way. He must have had a passion for colour " his 

 delights were dying dolphin-like" they sport above the graver ele- 

 ment, wherein the minds of more thinking painters germinate they 

 were not to be controlled by the subduing spell of the pathetic or the 

 awful his subject was lifted into the ideal world by the charms of a 

 thousand hues ; and, with the fancy of a poet, he expounded, from 

 his palette, the harmonious concord of sweet tints. His pictures owe 

 all their sentiment to colour and chiaroscuro. Should the under- 

 standing rebel against the dominion of these, disgust would often 

 succeed to admiration. While contemplating the physical horrors of 

 martyrdom, being stripped of the poetical medium through which 

 they were first seen, we identify the painter's character with the bru- 

 talities he has depicted. 



Such was the impression left upon my mind, by a picture in the 

 Gallery at Brussels. It is called The Martyrdom of St. Lieven : an 



