burgher city, indeed, with the true flavour, though beshrew them for
meddling with the fortifications!

That little scene in this _place_ of Tournay is always a pleasant,
picturesque memory.

I entered with the others. Within the cathedral was the side chapel,
with its black oak screen, and a tawny-cheeked Belgian priest at the
altar beginning the mass. Scattered round and picturesquely grouped
were the crones and maidens aforesaid, on their wicker-chairs. A few
surviving lamps twinkled fitfully, and shadowy figures crossed as if
on the stage. But aloft, what an overpowering immensity, all vaulted
shadows, the huge pillars soaring upward to be lost in a Cimmerian
gloom!

Around me I saw grouped picturesquely in scattered order, and kneeling
on their _prie-dieux_, the honest burghers, women and men, the former
arrayed in the comfortable and not unpicturesque black Flemish cloaks
with the silk hoods--handsome and effective garments, and almost
universal. The devotional rite of the mass, deeply impressive, was
over in twenty minutes, and all trooped away to their daily work.
There was a suggestion here, in this modest, unpretending exercise, in
contrast to the great fane itself, of the undeveloped power to expand,
as it were, on Sundays and feast-days, when the cathedral would
display all its resources, and its huge area be crowded to the doors
with worshippers, and the great rites celebrated in all their full
magnificence.

Behind the great altar I came upon an imposing monument, conceived
after an original and comprehensive idea. It was to the memory of _all