Delightful old Rouen, city of a hundred memories, sitting by the winding waters of the Seine, which glide like memories away! Where can we go now-a-days, in this blessed nineteenth century, to see a city so complete an embodiment of the past? Perhaps Pompeii; certainly not the boulevards, the gas-lit streets, and the flaming shops of the generality of French towns. However, there before us is the glorious old cathedral, the handiwork of our Norman ancestors, defying shocks, storms, and time. The Gothic façade, the impression produced by which is so imposing, is a miracle of profuse lace-work petrified; and the dark towers and pinnacles, which rise high over all, are so richly ornamented as to resemble filigree work. We lift a heavy curtain, and facing us as we enter, motionless, on a high stool placed in a corner, sits an awful creature, completely draped in a costume of coarse black serge, with bent head deeply veiled. It seems some living thing from a few low moans which issue occasionally from underneath the drapery, but otherwise is without form, though it can scarcely be called void. A pale skeleton hand nevertheless now and then slowly turns from one side to another a tin box full of copper coins. Throughout the live-long days, year after year, sits this dismal-looking being, concealing, it may be, beneath that dark veil and hood, some mystery which excites a painfully intense curiosity as one stands in its presence amongst the tombs and gloom of the old cathedral. The grand Gothic arches are lofty and beautifully proportioned, meeting above and lessening away into perspective, like the great avenue of some old forest of an earlier world, with its stems and foliage now turned into everlasting stone. The large rose-windows let in from the day without floods of rich and mellow lights, colouring the dim, heavy air with a splendid diversity of hue. The chaunt of gaudily-robed priests rises upward with the pomp and incense of High Mass, and a dark crowd kneels on the cold stones which cover the bones of ancient chivalry. No language can describe the elevation of feeling which one experiences as he treads these solemn aisles where generations of worshippers have in succession raised their thoughts to Heaven. As the organ peals forth its solemn notes we feel inspired by the spirit of devotion, and are sensible of that diviner principle within us which carries the thoughts of man beyond the bounds of time and space. We have heard organs innumerable, but never have we listened to one which produced such an effect as that of which we were sensible on the occasion in question. A perfect storm of passion seemed to be swept from the great pipes, and when that was succeeded by the soft strains of the _voix céleste_, one felt as if he were yielding to the gentle influence of some radiant presence, not of this, but of a better world. When men can produce such music, we may naturally ask if the spirits of