-Messieurs, le Dieu des peintres�: We felt odd:
'Twas Rubens, sculptured. A mean florid church
Was the next thing we saw,-from vane to porch
His drivel. The museum: as we trod
Its steps, his bust held us at bay. The clod
Has slosh by miles along the wall within.
(-I say, I somehow feel my gorge begin
To rise.�)-His chair in a glass case, by God!
. . . To the Cathedral. Here too the vile snob
Has fouled in every corner. (-Wherefore brave
Our fate? Let's go.�) There is a monument
We pass. -Messieurs, you tread upon the grave
Of the great Rubens.� -Well, that's one good job!
What time this evening is the train for Ghent?�