ant 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
look up at the superb tower, sharp in its details, and wonder at its
fine proportions; then turn to the ruined aisles, and with a sort of
grief recall that this, one of the wonders of France, had been in
perfect condition not a hundred years ago, and at the time of the
Revolution had been stripped, unroofed, and purposely reduced to its
present condition! This disgrace reflects upon the Jacobins--Goths and
Vandals indeed.

The streets of this old town, as it is remarked by one of the Guide
Books, 'want animation'--an amiable circumlocution. Nothing so
deserted or lonely can be conceived, and the phenomenon of 'grass
literally growing in the streets' is here to be seen in perfection.
There appeared to be no vehicles, and the few shops carry on but a
mild business. A few English families are said to repair hither for
economy. I recognise a peculiar shabby shooting-coat which betokens
the exile, accounted for by the pathetic fact that he clings to his
superannuated garment, long after it is worn out, for the reason that
it 'was made in London.' There is a rich and beautiful church
here--Notre Dame--with a deeply embayed porch full of lavish detail.
Here, too, rises the image of John Kemble, who actually studied for
the priesthood at the English College.

By this time the day has gone, and darkness has set in. It is time to
think of journeying home. Yet on the way to Calais there are still
some objects to be seen _en passant_. Most travellers are familiar
with Hazebrouck, the place of 'bifurcation,' a frontier between France
and Belgium. Yet this is known for a church with a most elegant spire
rising from a tower, but of this we can only have a glimpse. And, on
the road to Bergues, I had noted that strange, German-named little
town--Cassel--perched on an umbrageous hill, which has its quaint
mediaeval town-hall. But I may not pause to study it. The