We are getting on capitally, and enjoying it immensely.  I hope T. got home pretty well.  I miss him dreadfully, tell him—­especially to-day—­for both Churches and pictures bore R. However, I have only taken him into one Church to-day, that of S. Jacques, where he really was pleased to see the tomb of Rubens.  I have found the whereabouts of two other celebrated ones, and shall try to slip off without him.  He is utterly happy when he has got a cigar, “tooling” up and down the streets, turning in at a cafe, or buying a peach, and doing “schneeze” with the “Flams.”  He does a little French now and then with people in the streets.  I got into the Cathedral just in time to see the glorious Descent from the Cross, and (which I admire less) the Elevation ditto by Rubens.  I must tell you this morning I went to high mass in the Cathedral.  In fact I heard two masses and a sermon in Flemish.  It was wonderful.  A very intelligent-looking old priest in surplice and stole, in the huge carved pulpit, preached with the most admirable dramatic force, in a language that one can all but understand.  It is so like English and German.  Every now and then I could catch a word.  If you want to have an idea of the congregation, imagine the nave of York Minster (the side aisles rather filled up by altars, etc.)—­covered like a swarm of bees, with a congregation with really rare exceptions of Flemish poor.  Flam women, men, and children, and a great many common soldiers.  The women are dressed in white caps, and all have scarves (just like funeral scarves) of fine ribbed black silk; and, Flemish prayer-books in hand, they sit listening to the sermon.  Then it comes to an end with some invocation of something, at which there is a scraping of chairs and everybody goes round to the Altar.  Then organ, fiddles, all sorts of instruments, and a splendid “company” of singers—­the musical Mass began.

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It is all wonderful, and I feel laying up a store of happiness in going over it at home.  How I wish some of you were here!  I know my letters are very dull, and I am so sorry.  But though I have a famous appetite, and can walk and “sight-see” like anything, I have not got back my nerve.  Somehow I can’t describe it, but you must excuse my stupidity.  I hope R. is happy.  He says he is, and dreads it coming to an end!!!  I am very glad, for I feel a heavy weight on him and he feels like reposing on a floating soap-bubble!  We are as jolly as possible really, and nothing is left in me, but a rather strained nervous feeling, which will soon be gone.  You would have laughed to see R. buying snuff to-day, and cigars.  He goes in, lays his finger on the cigars, and says—­“Poor wun frank?” To which the woman replies—­“trieze,” and he buys six and sneezes violently, on which she produces snuff, fills his box, and charges a trifle, and he abuses her roundly in English, with a polite face, to his own great enjoyment.  We mean to make the cash hold out if possible to come home in the Alster.  If it runs short, we shall give up Ghent and Bruges—­this place alone is worth coming for.