a church
spire and a few roofs, one had expected only a village; and behold
street runs into street until one's legs ache. This is peculiarly
the case with Gorinchem, which is almost invisible from the line;
and it is the case with Middelburg, and Hoorn, and many other towns
that I do not recall at this moment.

My advice to travellers in Walcheren is to stay at Middelburg rather
than at Flushing (they are very nigh each other) and to stay, moreover,
at the Hotel of the Abbey. It is not the best hotel in Holland as
regards appointment and cuisine; but it is certainly one of the
pleasantest in character, and I found none other in so fascinating
a situation. For it occupies one side of the quiet square enclosed
by the walls of the Abbey of St. Nicholas (or Abdij, as the Dutch
oddly call it), and you look from your windows through a grove of
trees to the delicate spires and long low facade of this ancient
House of God, which is now given over to the Governor of Zeeland,
to the library of the Province, and to the Provincial Council, who
meet in fifteenth century chambers and transact their business on
_nouveau art_ furniture.

What the Abbey must have been before it was destroyed by fire we can
only guess; but one thing we know, and that is that among its treasures
were paintings by the great Mabuse (Jan Gossaert), who once roystered
through Middelburg's quiet streets. Another artist of Middelburg was
Adrian van der Venne, who made the quaint drawings for Jacob Cats'
symbols, of which we have seen something in an earlier chapter. But
the city has never been a home of the arts. Beyond a little tapestry,
some of which may be seen in the stadhuis, and some at the Abbey,
it made nothing beautiful. From earliest times the Middelburgers were
merchants--wool merchants and wine merchants principally, but always
tradespeople and always prosperous and contented.

A tentoonstelling (or exhibition) of copper work was in progress when
I was there last summer; but it was not interesting, and I had better
have taken the advice of the Music Hall manager, in whose grounds
it was held, and have saved my money. His attitude to _repousse_
work was wholly pessimistic, part prejudice against the craft
of the metal-worker in itself, but more resentment that florins
should be diverted into such a channel away from comic singers and
acrobats. Seated at one of the garden tables we discussed Dutch taste
in varieties.

The sentimental song, he t