hunted over ploughed fields to form a ring,
merely for the formal exhibition of a scarecrow
law? Will he give notice of a motion for
enabling himself and me to see the next fight,
in some commodious public building in London
hired for the occasion, surrounded by every
convenience and every comfortable appliance?

BURIED ABOVE-GROUND.

GENERALLY speaking, Mr. Murray is a very
trustworthy guide. At all events, he inspires
British tourists with a furor for seeing, and a
taste for appreciating works of art and wonders
of nature, for climbing mountains, and traversing
glaciers, which is highly commendable, and
creditable to their character as Englishmen.
But there are still a few unknown recesses,
which are revealed only to the earnest art-
student, the curious antiquarian, or the favoured
child of chance and adventure. Many of these
choice nooks are yet to be found in the old
historic towns of Flanders. There is a quaint old
fountain up that dingy alley, a strange old sign
upon yonder Spanish-built house, and thereto
hangs a tale of genius, or crime, or heroism, or
a romance of love, that may be gathered from
the lips of the aged woman who sits at her
spinning beneath it.

At one end of a certain lace-making town in
Flanders aforesaid, and spanning one of the
principal streets of that town, stands a
portcullised gateway, flanked by two picturesque
pointed towers, grey, sombre, and massive, a
relic of the old feudal times. One longs for a
man-at-arms, with halberd and cuirass, instead of
the shako'd grenadier who paces up and down
beneath its shadow.

The arch is narrow and deep. A waggon of
hay, with its two fat amiable-looking Flemish
horses, I once saw standing beneath it, sheltered
from the rain, which a thunder-cloud was pelting
down. I was resting there myself, and wondering
how long it would take the bright gleam,
which dazzled the eye in the direction of Brussels,
to pass across the plain, and burst upon
the town of lace. The thunder rattled overhead,
like a discharge of arms, and there seemed
no hope of a clear sky. I was resolving to make
a rush for my hotel up the splashy street, when
my glance rested on a wooden door in the side
of the arch, with “Atelier” in somewhat rude
characters chalked upon it. My curiosity was
excited. I squeezed by the waggon, opened the
door, and entered.

I found myself in a low crypt. Nothing but
a wooden staircase rewarded my scrutiny. This
I mounted, and emerged into a large stone
chamber, apparently extending the whole length
of the arch and two side towers. The walls
were of vast thickness, and the roof cryptal, like
that of the chamber below. Suddenly I heard
steps, and a boy came rapidly down some stairs
from above. I asked him where I was, and he
said, “In the studio.” I feared that I was
trespassing, but the amiable youth said that the
genius of the place would be glad to see me.
So up I climbed, eager to discover what manner
of man inhabited this gloomy pile. I passed into
another chamber, similar to the one I had left
below; no sign of life from an owl to a reasonable
soul with human flesh subsisting! Suddenly
some dark steps, leading in the direction of one
of the side towers, caught my eye. I mounted,
and pushed open a massive door, that creaked
and screamed upon its old hinges. It sounded
like a chorus of goblins. I expected to come
upon a troop of them dancing a war-dance, or
playing pitch and toss with their own heads, and
thought of Tarn O'Shanter. But the goblins
turned into busts and statues, plasters, casts,
and marbles, Cupids and Madonnas, and pure
flesh and blood, in the shape of a short, thick-
set man, in blouse, red fez, and slippers, with
iron-grey hair and profusion of beard and
moustache, who stood gazing quietly at me with
bright, piercing eyes.

With the uncomfortable bashfulness of a
trespasser who feels that he has no business at all
to be where he is, I stood irresolute whether to
advance or turn and fly. The frank welcome of
the solitary being in a moment placed me at my
ease. He begged me to enter, and began at
once to draw my attention to the various objects
of art grouped around, and seemed to evince
no small gratification in exhibiting his chefs-
d'oeuvre.

The studio was crowded on all sides with
busts and models; here a wooden figure with
movable joints, to indicate the various postures
of the body and movements of the limbs; here a
plaster-cast with rags depending from it, to
serve as a model for the arrangement of drapery;
here copies and casts from the life; groups in
every stage of development; silent, still forms,
fit inhabitants of this silent tower. I have often
since pictured the grey-bearded sculptor sitting
in the midst of his silent company in the lonely
old pile.

Once upon a time, every old nook had its
alchemist, its philosopher, its star-gazer, its
wizard. Now we are too bustling and practical
for such pursuits. Commerce is too unromantic
to bear them. Every old arch, or nook and
corner, however ghostly and rich in associations,
is converted into a cellar or a warehouse. If the
old Flemish sculptor lives long enough to see
trade billet its conquering and swarming myrmidons
in the dull, drowsy, lace-making town, a
thousand to one he will have to evacuate, and
his tower will become the depôt of a brewer, or
a photographic establishment.

After I had examined the beauties of the
studio, he led the way nimbly up some rickety
ladders, which total darkness, and ignorance of
the locality, rendered extremely painful to
mount. I could hear his steps rattling above
my head as I slowly crawled up, occasionally
knocking it against a beam, or squeezing through
a hole in the rafters. I seemed in a perfect
wilderness of ladders, all so old and infirm, that I
feared the whole system would fall to pieces with
our weight. Suddenly a stream of light poured
down upon us, and we stood, directly, in a small