Bishop had his stool in the church of St. Donatian, till this was destroyed by the foolish Revolutionaries in 1799.  In a side-chapel of Notre Dame, and carefully boarded up for no reason in the world save to extort a verger’s fee for their exhibition, are the splendid black marble monuments, with recumbent figures in copper gilt, of Charles the Bold, who fell at Nancy in 1477 (but lives for ever, with Louis XI. of France, in the pages of “Quentin Durward"), and of his daughter, Mary, the wife of the Emperor Maximilian, of Austria, who was killed by being thrown from her horse whilst hunting in 1482.  These two tombs are of capital interest to those who are students of Belgian history, for Charles the Bold was the last male of the House of Burgundy, and it was by the marriage of his daughter that the Netherlands passed to the House of Hapsburg, and thus ultimately fell under the flail of religious persecution during the rule of her grandson, Spanish Philip.  Close to Notre Dame, in the Rue St. Catherine, is the famous old Hospital of St. Jean, the red-brick walls of which rise sleepily from the dull waters of the canal, just as Queens’ College, or St. John’s, at Cambridge, rise from the sluggish Cam.  Here is preserved the rich shrine, or chasse, “resembling a large Noah’s ark,” of St. Ursula, the sides of which are painted with scenes from the virgin’s life by Hans Memling, who, though born in the neighbourhood of Mayence, and thus really by birth a German, lived for nearly a quarter of a century or more of his life in Bruges, and is emphatically connected, like his master Roger van der Weyden and the brothers Van Eyck, with the charming early Flemish school.  There is a story that he was wounded under Charles le Temeraire on the stricken field of Nancy, and painted these gemlike pictures in return for the care and nursing that he received in the Hospital of St. Jean, but “this story,” says Professor Anton Springer, “may be placed in the same category as those of Durer’s malevolent spouse, and of the licentiousness of the later Dutch painters.”  These scenes from the life of St. Ursula are hardly less delightfully quaint than the somewhat similar series that was painted by Carpaccio for the scuola of the Saint at Venice, and that are now preserved in the Accademia.  Early Flemish painting, in fact, in addition to its own peculiar charm of microscopic delicacy of finish, is hardly inferior, in contrast with the later strong realism and occasional coarseness of Rubens or Rembrandt, to the tender poetic dreaminess of the primitive Italians.  Certainly these pictures, though finished to the minutest and most delicate detail, are lacking in realism actually to a degree that borders on a delicious absurdity.  St. Ursula and her maidens—­whether really eleven thousand or eleven—­in the final scene of martyrdom await the stroke of death with the stoical placidity of a regiment of dolls.  “All the faces are essentially Flemish, and some of the virgins display to great advantage the pretty