But the crowning glory
of all is the cathedral itself, a grand old pile founded in the eleventh
century, and the building of which occupied nearly two hundred years. Here,
everything is redolent of the past. The chance wayfarer from these western
shores who happens to stray within the walk of this majestic specimen
of mediaeval architecture will have some difficulty, for the nonce, in
believing in the reality of such contrivances as steamboats and railways.
Certainly it is one of the last places in the world where one might
naturally expect to see anything to remind him of so modern a spot as the
capital of Ontario. But should any Torontonian who is familiar with his
country's history ever find himself within those walls, let him walk down
the south aisle till he reaches the entrance to the little chapel of St.
Gabriel. If he will then pass through the doorway into the chapel and look
carefully about him, he will soon perceive something to remind him of
his distant home, and of the Province of which that home is the capital.
Several feet above his head, on the inner wall, he will notice a
medallian portrait in bold relief, by Flaxman, of a bluff, hearty,
good-humoured-looking English gentleman, apparently in the prime of life,
and attired in the dress of a Lieutenant-General.
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