roadside alone, deserted, the sole traveller set down. The train has
flown on into the night with a shriek. The sleepy porter wonders, and
looks at me askance.

As I take my way from the station and gradually approach the city--for
there is a broad stretch between it and the railway unfilled by
houses--I see the striking and impressive picture growing and
enlarging. The jangling and the solemn occasional boom still go on:
meant to give note that the day is opening. Nothing more awe-inspiring
or poetical can be conceived than this 'cock-crow' promenade. Here are
little portals suddenly opening on the stage, with muffled figures
darting out, and worthy Belgians tripping from their houses--betimes,
indeed--and hurrying away to mass. Thus to make the acquaintance of
that grandest and most astonishing of old cathedrals, is to do so
under the best and most suitable conditions: very different from the
guide and cicerone business, which belongs to later hours of the day.
I stand in the open _place_, under its shadow, and lift my eyes with
wonder to the amazing and crowded cluster of spires and towers: its
antique air, and even look of shattered dilapidation showing that the
restorer has not been at his work. There was no smugness or trimness,
or spick-and-spanness, but an awful and reverent austerity. And with
an antique appropriateness to its functions the Flemish women, crones
and maidens, all in their becoming cashmere hoods, and cloaks, and
neat frills, still hurry on to the old Dom. Near me rose the antique
_beffroi_, from whose jaws still kept booming the old bell, with a
fine clang, the same that had often pealed out to rouse the burghers
to discord and tumult. It pealed on, hoarse and even cracked, but
persistently melodious, disregarding the contending clamours of its
neighbours, just as some old baritone of the opera, reduced and broken
down, will exhibit his 'phrasing'--all that is left to him. Quaint old