to
it, ferreting out concealed attractions, attaching undue importance to
them, undervaluing obvious defects: has he gone on in this way for
three weeks,' or rather three days, 'out of his month, then suddenly
broken down, found out his mistake, and pined in secret for
deliverance?' So it would be, as I conceive, at Bruges, or perhaps at
St. Omer. There you indeed appreciate the dead-alive city 'in all its
quiddity.' But a few days in a 'dead-alive' city, were it the most
picturesque in the world, would be intolerable.

By noon, when the sun has grown oppressively hot, I find myself set
down at a sort of rural town, once flourishing, and of some
importance--Bethune. A mile's walk on a parched road led up the hill
to this languishing, decayed little place. It had its forlorn omnibus,
and altogether suggested the general desolation of, say, Peterborough.
Had it remained in Flemish hands, it would now have been flourishing.
I doubt if any English visitor ever troubles its stagnant repose. Yet
it boasts its 'grand' _place_, imposing enough as a memorial of
departed greatness, and, as usual, a Flemish relic, in the shape of a
charming belfry and town-hall combined. It was really truly
'fantastical' from the airiness of its little cupolas and galleries,
and was in tolerable order. Like the old Calais watch-tower, it was
caked round by, and embedded in, old houses, and had its four curious
gargoyles still doing work.

On this 'grand' _place_ I noticed an old house bearing date '1625,'
and some wonderful feats in the way of red-tiled roofing, of which
there were enormous stretches, all narrow, sinuous, and suggesting
Nuremberg. I confess to having spent a rather weary hour here, and
sped away by the next train.

VIII.

_LILLE._

Two o'clock. We are on the road again; the sun is shining, and we are
speeding on rapidly--changing from Flanders to France--which is but an
hour or so away. Here the bright day is well forward. Now the welcome
fat Flemish country takes military shape, for here comes the scarp,
the angled ditch, the endless brick walling and embankment--a genuine
fortified town of the first class--LILLE. Here, too, many travellers
give but a glance from the window and hurry on. Yet an interesting
place in its way. Its bright main streets seem as gay and glittering
as those of Paris, with the additional air of snug provincial comfort.
To one accustomed for months to the solemn sobriety of our English
cap