in that black picturesque dress of the French
clergy, and who tried to learn English (but
never succeeded), and who delighted in these
little processions.

There was a magnificence about these
pageants which never palled, and the honest
rustics of the neighbourhood were never tired of
doing them honour, and of putting on their best
finery to that end. The stout man who blew
with a will into what then seemed a black
boa-constrictor that wound itself about his
surplice, but what I now know to be a musical
instrument called a faux-bourdon, always
excited my alarm and yet interest—pleasure and
terror. But pleasure unmixed was always
associated with a great cake borne in the procession
on a man's head—a cake, too, that was later
cut up in the church, and distributed in what
seemed to me discreditably shabby portions.
These were charming little festivals; there was
an air of innocence over them as they wound
through the street and the dresses glittered,
and the young girls in veils and flowers looked
down on the ground, and the faux-bourdon
brayed, and even the cake on the man's head
looked not in the least glorified, as though
knowing that in the fulness of time its merits
would be acknowledged, and needed no
adventitious aids. A short time ago at some
profaner rout, at which I found myself with
a heart more rusted than it was in those days,
was offered to me a cake, the very sight of
which sent me searching back through all the
thick mists, and fogs, and jungles of life to those
bygone and innocent times. And while the
fiddlers were at their work hard by, and the
cornet was winding out a Valse de Desir, and
the lovely Lydia had just swept past me, there
I abstractedly searching the mermaid caves
of memory with this cake as a talisman; at last
led me back to the little hill, the Côte, over the
French town, and from the hill to the Sunday
procession, and the great cake on the man's head.
In honour of those old days, how many years
ago? and perhaps to the astonishment of the
polite gentlemen who waited behind me, I went
and cut myself a huge tranche in memoriam.

I have other Sundays to think of. A Sunday,
as it were yesterday, at one of the gambling
towns; where the old church, which has four old
Belgian round-about spires—one at each corner,
of the piano-leg style of architecture—lies
over against the rooms, the house of play and
the house of God being close together. It was
a very old edifice, with pale hock-coloured
windows that eddied and rippled. And here, on
this Sunday, there was a ceremony and a sermon
by a preacher of distinction, who came from
Antwerp, which, taken together, rather
protracted the rites, until it was actually time for
Le Jeu to begin over the way. And the weather
being hot, the old organ pealed on, and came
rolling in at the open windows of the gambling-
house, and the hymn mixed with the cries of
"Messieurs, faites le jeu!" and "Le couleur
gagne." The players did not quite relish it.
It seemed like the cathedral scene in Faust,
where the demon's cries mix with the organ.
And it seemed to me that the director thought
the coincidence awkward, and had the windows
put down. His theory was that his profession
should be in harmony, in all respects, with the
march of the age, even with the religious
instincts of the day. Naturally he was annoyed.

Coming home again to fatherland, I look out
through the fog for another Sunday, and find
myself in a steamer coming up the great dark
highway of a great river, about four in the
morning; which watery road is made much
more like a highway from its being dotted
on both sides with long lines of lights that
twinkle like stars. We have had a rough night,
and signs of land are welcome. So, too, getting
further on, is the tall tower with the blazing
clock-face which seems to hang in the air. The
waters look dark and Stygian, the air is stiff
and sharp, and with a suspicion of sleet. And
presently, wheeling sharply to the right, we
make for a dock where there are heavy red piers
massive as rocks and gates to a giant's castle,
and where there are flaring lamps and shadowy
men that seem to drip through the fog. Then
we are put ashore, and grope darkly among
sheds, and huge casks, and monster carts half
loaded or half unloaded; but all dark and not
discernible till one is on them. For this is a
Sunday morning, and the genii that load and
unload are gone and have left their work half
done. Drawbridges that rumble hollowly, chains
that clank, patches of Styx again glistening
below, and here are the great gate and the open
road and the street.

What the hour was by this time, I did not
know. It was strictly no concern of mine, as I
was going on by one of the many trains that
doubtless left every day, this being a great
commercial place. But down at the dock gates, or near
the dock gates, there were no cabs: which was
strange, considering what a great commercial city
this was. Howbeit, a strong porter went on before,
and led the way past grim streets and tall chocolate
coloured warehouses, and smoking chimneys,
and great funereal yards that seemed filled with
coal, and long viaducts of smutty-looking
arches. But all this was quiet. By-and-by
we got to the railway—the London and Grand
Diagonal. And now for breakfast at a good
hotel—was there not one called the Grecian?—
ham, eggs, and "devils" generally—a repast
that seems always to harmonise with the human
system on coming out of a packet. Here was
certainly the London and Grand Diagonal, but
all its great gates were shut. It had an air of
death—very odd for so great a commercial
community. What did it mean? The porter,
who knew the truth, down at the dock, said he
was "afeard" that the train had gone. "You
know—Sunday," he said. A railway porter
appeared. "Lord bless me! First train gone
a quarter before—the mail up, you know.
Sunday, you see. No train till ha'past ten to-night.
One train o' Sundays, you see. Mail, up."
Here was a blow indeed; to wait till "ha'past
ten " at night in that place—a great