and hoarse and wheezy with centuries of work. Often we pass on;
sometimes we descend, and walk up to the little town and wander
through its deserted streets. We are struck with wonder at some vast
and noble church, cathedral-like in its proportions, and nearly always
original--such variety is there in these antique Belgian fanes--and
facing it some rustic mouldering town-hall of surprising beauty. There
are a few little shops, a few old houses, but the generality have
their doors closed. There is hardly a soul to be seen, certainly not a
cart. There are innumerable dead cities of this pattern.

Coming out, I find it broad day. A few natives with their baskets are
hurrying to the train. I note, rising above the houses, two or three
other solemn spires and grim churches, which have an inexpressibly sad
and abandoned air, from their dark grimed tones which contrast with
the bright gay hues of the modern houses that crowd upon them. There
is one grave, imposing tower, with a hood like a monk's. Then I wander
to the handsome triangle-shaped _place_, with its statue to Margaret
of Parma--erst Governor of the Netherlands, and whose memory is
regarded with affection. Here is the old belfry, which has been so
clamorous, standing apart, like those of Ghent, Dunkirk, and a few
other towns; an effective structure, though fitted by modern restorers
with an entirely new 'head'--not, however, ineffective of its kind.

The day is now fairly opened. There is a goodly muster of
market-women and labourers at the handsome station, which, like every
station of the first rank in Belgium, bears its name 'writ large.' It
is just striking five as we hurry away, and in some half an hour we
arrive at ORCHIES--one of those new spick-and-span little towns,
useful after their kind, but disagreeable to the æsthetic eye.
Everything here is of that meanest kind of brick, 'pointed,' as it is