Great yellow blankets were on the iron beds, the linen was scrupulously clean, glittering pewter-jugs and goblets stood by the side of each patient, and they were provided with godly books (to judge from the building), in which several were reading at leisure.  Honest old comfortable nuns, in queer dresses of blue, black, white, and flannel, were bustling through the room, attending to the wants of the sick.  I saw about a dozen of these kind women’s faces; one was young,—­all were healthy and cheerful.  One came with bare blue arms and a great pile of linen from an out-house—­such a grange as Cedric the Saxon might have given to a guest for the night.  A couple were in a laboratory, a tall, bright, clean room, 500 years old at least.

“We saw you were not very religious,” said one of the old ladies, with a red, wrinkled, good-humored face, “by your behavior yesterday in chapel.”

And yet we did not laugh and talk as we used at college, but were profoundly affected by the scene that we saw there.  It was a fete-day; a work of Mozart was sung in the evening—­not well sung, and yet so exquisitely tender and melodious, that it brought tears into our eyes.  There were not above twenty people in the church; all, save three or four, were women in long black cloaks.  I took them for nuns at first.  They were, however, the common people of the town, very poor indeed, doubtless, for the priest’s box that was brought round was not added to by most of them, and their contributions were but two-cent pieces—­five of these go to a penny; but we know the value of such, and can tell the exact worth of a poor woman’s mite!

The box-bearer did not seem at first willing to accept our donation—­we were strangers and heretics; however, I held out my hand, and he came perforce as it were.  Indeed it had only a franc in it; but “que voulez vous?” I had been drinking a bottle of Rhine wine that day, and how was I to afford more?  The Rhine wine is dear in this country, and costs four francs a bottle.

Well, the service proceeded.  Twenty poor women, two Englishmen, four ragged beggars, cowering on the steps; and there was the priest at the altar, in a great robe of gold and damask, two little boys in white surplices serving him, holding his robe as he rose and bowed, and the money-gatherer swinging his censer, and filling the little chapel with smoke.

The music pealed with wonderful sweetness; you could see the prim white heads of the nuns in their gallery.  The evening light streamed down upon old statues of saints and carved brown stalls, and lighted up the head of the golden-haired Magdalen in a picture of the entombment of Christ.  Over the gallery, and, as it were, a kind protectress to the poor below, stood the statue of the Virgin.

GHENT[A]

[Footnote A:  From “Cities of Belgium.”]

BY GRANT ALLEN