A DAY AT ANTWERP.

(By the “VACUUS Viator.”)

In the Place Verte.—­“The traveller,” according to Baedeker, “should at once direct his steps to the Cathedral.”  Not going to be bullied by Baedeker!  Shall assert my independence by directing steps somewhere else first.  Carillon tinkling fitfully up in tower.  Like an elderly ghost with failing memory, trying to play every tune she ever knew all at once on a cracked, old spinnet.  Fancy I detect fragment of “The Heavens are Telling,” tripped up by the “Old Hundredth,” and falling over “Haydn’s Surprise.”  Ghost tries back, and just as she seems about to arrive at something definite—­suddenly gives it up as hopeless.  To Church of St. Paulus, to see the Calvary.  Small but highly intelligent Belgian Boy, who speaks English, insists on volunteering services. (Why aren’t our street-boys taught French and German in Board Schools?—­make all the difference to foreigners in London.) Boy takes me up avenue of heroic-sized scriptural statues, introduces me to “Moise,” “Dahvit mit de ’arp,” and others.  Kind of him—­but I wish he would go.  Offer him twopence.  Boy declines with indignation.  Young Belgium evidently high-minded and sensitive.  He informs me that, in a certain church he refers to as “Sin Yack,” there are “Rubens’ peecture—­moch fine,” and plainly proposes to conduct me thither.  Mustn’t hurt his feelings again—­so accept.  Boy clumps on ahead, down alleys, and through back-streets, and round corners, looking round severely at intervals to see that I am not giving him the slip.  Nice friendly little fellow—­but despotic.  Don’t seem to be much nearer; “Sin Yack” evidently a saint of retiring disposition....  At last.  Boy points him out triumphantly.  Thank him, with apologies for taking him so much out of his way.  Boy demands two francs.  Hint, as delicately as possible, that I consider this estimate of the value of his time and society somewhat high.  Boy peremptory.  Give him fifty centimes.  Boy abusive; follows me with uncomplimentary remarks.  I can not go about Antwerp all day with a hostile boy harassing my rear like this!  So undignified.  However, shall find sanctuary with “Sin Yack.”  Every door closed.  Boy at a distance—­chuckling, I am afraid.  Shall walk on—­not hurrying, but briskly.  Boy gone at last—­thank goodness!—­with Parthian yelp of “Rosbif!”

[Illustration:  “Rosbif!”]

In the Cathedral.—­Being shown round by Sacristan, in company with two respectable young Britons.  “You shee dot oltarbiece, gentlemens,” says Sacristan, “paint by Rubens, in seexteen day, for seexteen hondert florin.”  Whereupon both Britons make a kind of “cluck” with their tongues.  “Dat vos von hondert florin efery day he vas paint,” explains the Sacristan.  Britons do this division sum in their heads, check