interposed, a sort of clustered town with whitened buildings, which
suggested forcibly the view of an English cathedral town seen from the
railway. The most important of the group was a great tower with its
four spires. I knew instinctively that this was the famous old
town-hall, the most astonishing and overpowering of all Belgian
monuments.

Here we halted half an hour. The sun was going down; the air was cool;
and there was that strange tinge of sadness abroad, with which the air
seems to be charged towards eventide, as we, strangers and pilgrims in
a foreign country, look from afar off at some such unfamiliar objects.
There were a number of Flemings here returning from some meeting where
they had been contending at their national game--shooting at the
popinjay. Near to every small town and village I passed, I had noted
an enormously tall white post with iron rods projecting at the top.
This was the target, and it was highly amusing and characteristic to
watch these burghers gathered round and firing at the bird or some
other object on the top. Now they were all returning carrying their
bows, and in high good-humour. A young and rubicund priest was of the
party, regarded evidently with affection and pride by his companions;
for all that he seemed to say and do was applauded, and greeted with
obstreperous Flemish laughter. When an old woman came to offer cakes
from her basket for sale, he convulsed his friends by facetious
remarks as he made his selection from the basket, depreciating or
criticizing their quality with sham disgust, delighting none so much
as the venerable vendor herself. Every one wore a curious black silk
cap, as a gala headpiece.

When they had gone their way, I set off on mine up to the old town.
The approach was encouraging. A grand sweep faced me of old walls,