tawdry red canopy, a priest walked beneath it holding the sacrament
covered with a cloth, and before him marched a couple of little
altar-boys in short white surplices, such as you see in Rubens, and
holding lacquered lamps. A small train of street-boys followed the
procession, cap in hand, and the clergyman finally entered a hospital
for old women, near the church, the canopy and the lamp-bearers
remaining without.

It was a touching scene, and as I stayed to watch it, I could not but
think of the poor old soul who was dying within, listening to the last
words of prayer, led by the hand of the priest to the brink of the black
fathomless grave. How bright the sun was shining without all the time,
and how happy and careless every thing around us looked!


The Duke d'Arenberg has a picture-gallery worthy of his princely house.
It does not contain great pieces, but tit-bits of pictures, such as suit
an aristocratic epicure. For such persons a great huge canvas is too
much, it is like sitting down alone to a roasted ox; and they do wisely,
I think, to patronize small, high-flavored, delicate morceaux, such as
the Duke has here.

Among them may be mentioned, with special praise, a magnificent small
Rembrandt, a Paul Potter of exceeding minuteness and beauty, an Ostade,
which reminds one of Wilkie's early performances, and a Dusart quite
as good as Ostade. There is a Berghem, much more unaffected than that
artist's works generally are; and, what is more, precious in the eyes of
many ladies as an object of art, there is, in one of the grand saloons,
some needlework done by the Duke's own grandmother, which is looked at
with awe by those admitted to see the palace.