Bois le Duc has the richest example of mediaeval architecture in Holland—­the cathedral of St. John, a wonderful fantasy in stone, rich not only without, but, contrary to all Dutch precedent, within too; for we are at last again among a people who for the most part retain the religion of Rome.  The glass of the cathedral is poor, but there is a delicate green pattern on the vaulting which is very charming.  The koster is proudest of the pulpit, and of a figure of the Virgin “which is carried in procession through the town every evening between July 7th and 16th”.

But I was not interested so much in particular things as in the cathedral as a whole.  To be in the midst of this grey Gothic environment was what I desired, and after a little difficulty I induced the koster to leave me to wander alone.  It was the first church in Holland with the old authentic thrill.

Bois le Duc (as it is more simple to call it) is a gay town with perhaps the most spirited market place in the country.  The stalls have each an awning, as in the south of Europe, and the women’s heads are garlanded with flowers.  I like this method of decoration as little as any, but it carries with it a pleasant sense of festivity.

From Bois le Duc one may go due north to Utrecht and Amsterdam, passing on the way Bommel, with its tall and impressive tower rising from its midst.  Or one may keep to the western route and reach Walcheren.  That is my present course, and Bommel may be left with a curious story of the Spaniards in 1599.  “Two brothers who had never seen, and had always been inquiring for, each other, met at last by chance at the siege, where they served in two different companies.  The elder, who was called Hernando Diaz, having heard the other mentioned by the name of Encisso, which was his mother’s surname, and which he had taken through affection, a thing common in Spain, put several questions to him concerning a number of family particulars, and knew at last by the exactness of his answers that he was the brother he had been so long seeking after; upon which both proceeding to a close embrace, a cannon ball struck off both their heads, without separating their bodies, which fell clinging together.”

Helvoet, on the way to Tilburg, is the scene of an old but honourable story.  Ireland tells us that George the Second, being detained by contrary winds on his return from Hanover, reposed at Helvoet until the sea should subside.  While there he one day stopped a pretty Dutch girl to ask her what she had in her basket.  “Eggs, mynheer.”  “And what is the price?” “A ducat a piece, mynheer.”  “Are eggs so scarce then in Holland?” “No. mynheer, but kings are.”

At Tilburg I did not tarry, but rode on to Breda (which is pronounced with all the accent on the second syllable) and which is famous for a castle (now a military school) and a tomb.  The castle, a very beautiful building, was built by Count Henry of Nassau.  On becoming in due course the property of William the Silent, it was confiscated by the Duke of Alva.  How it was won back again is a story worth telling.