though baggageless, and to pass through the searching-room, making
heroic protest as I did so that '_I had nothing to declare_.' It was
easy to distinguish the two nations in their fashion of performing
this function, the French taking it _au sérieux_, and going through it
histrionically, as it were; the Belgian being more careless and
good-natured. There lingers still the habit of 'leading' or
_plombé_-ing a clumsy, troublesome relic of old times. Such small
articles as hat-cases, hand-bags, etc., are subjected to it; an
officer devoted to the duty comes with a huge pair of 'pincers' with
some neat little leaden discs, which he squeezes on the strings which
have tied up the article.

Now we fly past the flourishing Poperinghe--a bustling, thriving
place, out of which lift themselves with sad solemnity a few tall
iron-gray churches, and another--yet one more--elegant belfry. There
seems something quaint in the name of Poperinghe, though it is hardly
so grotesque as that of another town I passed by, 'Bully Greny.'

As this long day was at last closing in, I noticed from the window a
bright-looking town nestling, as it were, in rich green velvet and
dark plantation, with a bright, snug-looking gate, drawbridge, etc.
One of these gates was piquant enough, having a sort of pavilion
perched on the top. Here there was a quaint sort of 'surprise' in a
clock, the hours of which are struck by a mechanical figure known to
the town as 'Mathurin.' There was something very tempting in the look
of the place, betokening plenty of flowers and shaded walks and
umbrageous groves. Most conspicuous, however, was the magnificent
abbey ruin, suggesting Fountains Abbey, with its tall, striking, and
wholly perfect tower. This is the Abbey of St. Bertin, one of the most
striking and almost bewildering monuments that could be conceived. I