the people who once trod its pavement; memories that not all the modern
paraphernalia and glitter can obliterate. If we visit the cathedral
after vespers, when the candles in the Lady-chapel look like
glowworm-lights through the dark aisles, we are soon carried back in
imagination to mediæval days. The floor of the nave is covered with
kneeling figures of warriors, each with a red cross on his breast; the
pavement resounds to the clash of arms; there is a low chorus of voices
in prayer, a sound of stringed instruments, a silence--and then, an army
of men rise up and march to war. There is a pause of six hundred years,
and another procession passes through these aisles; the pavement
resounds to less martial footsteps,--they are not warriors, they are
'Cook's excursionists'!

Let us now leave the cathedral, and see something more of the town.

It is a fine summer's afternoon, in the middle of the week, the air is
soft and quiet; the busy population of Rouen seem, with one consent, to
rest from labour, and the Goddess of Leisure tells her beads. One, two
(decrepit old men); three, four, five (nurses and children); six, seven,
eight (Chasseurs de Vincennes or a 'noble Zouave),' and so on, until the
Rosary is complete and there are no more seats.[50] Every day under our
windows they come and wedge themselves close together on the long stone
seats under the dusty trees, to rest; and thread themselves in rows one
by one, as if some unseen hand were telling, with human beads, the
mystery of the Rosary.

Why do we speak of what is done every day in every city of France?
Because it is worth a moment's notice, that in the day-time of busy
cities men can, if they choose, find time to rest. There are gardens
open, and seats provided in the middle of the cities, so that the poor