osed, speciously enough, to have some connection with the place.

X.

_BERGUES._

But _en route_ again, for the sands are fast running out. Old
fortified towns, particularly such as have been protected by 'the
great Vauban,' are found to be a serious nuisance to the inhabitants,
however picturesque they may seem to the tourist; for the place,
constricted and wrapped in bandages, as it were, cannot expand its
lungs. Many of the old fortressed towns, such as Ostend, Courtrai,
Calais, have recently demolished their fortifications at great cost
and with much benefit to themselves. There is something picturesque
and original in the first sight of a place like Arras, or St. Omer,
with the rich and lavish greenery, luxuriant trees, banks of grass by
which the 'fosse' and grim walls are masked. Others are of a grim and
hostile character, and show their teeth, as it were.

Dunkirk, a fortress of the 'first class,' fortified on the modern
system, and therefore to the careless spectator scarcely appearing to
be fortified at all--is a place of such extreme platitude, that the
belated wayfarer longs to escape almost as soon as he arrives. There
is literally nothing to be seen. But a few miles away, there is to be
found a place which will indemnify the disgusted traveller, viz.,
BERGUES. As the train slackens speed I begin to take note of rich
green banks with abundant trees planted in files, such as Uncle Toby
would have relished in his garden. There is the sound as of passing
over a military bridge, with other tokens of the fortified town. There
it lies--close to the station, while the invariable belfry and heavy
church rise from the centre, in friendly companionship. I have noted
the air of sadness in these lone, lorn monuments, which perhaps arises
from the sense of their vast age and all they have looked down upon.
Men and women, and houses, dynasties and invaders, and burgomasters,
have all passed away in endless succession; but _they_ remain, and
have borne the buffetings of storms and gales and wars and tumults. As
we turn out of the station, a small avenue lined with trees leads
straight to the entrance. The bright snowy-looking _place_ basks in
the setting sun, while the tops of the red-tiled roofs seem to peep at
us over the walls. At the end of the avenue the sturdy gateway greets
us cheerfully, labelled 'Porte de Biene,' flanked by two short and
burly towers that rise out of the water; while right and left, t