These old cities—­Lille, Douai, and Valenciennes—­all boast their gateways, usually named after the city to which the road leads.  Thus we have ‘Porte de Paris,’ ‘Porte de Lille,’ etc.  I confess to a deep interest in all gateways of this kind; they have a sort of poetry or romance associated with them; they are grim, yet hospitable, at times and seasons having a mysterious suggestion.  There are towns where the traveller finds the gate obdurately closed between ten o’clock at night and six in the morning.  These old gates have a state and flamboyant majesty about them, as, in Lille, the Porte de Paris is associated with the glories of Louis XIV.; while in Douai there is one of an old pattern—­it is said of the thirteenth century—­with curious towers and spires.  Even at Calais there is a fine and majestic structure, ‘Porte de Richelieu,’ on the town side, through which every market cart and carriage used to trundle.  There are florid devices inscribed on it; but now that the walls on each side are levelled, this patriarchal monument has but a ludicrous effect, for it is left standing alone, unsupported and purposeless.  The carts and tramcars find their way round by new and more convenient roads made on each side.

How pleasant is that careless wandering up through some strange and unfamiliar place, led by a sort of instinct which habit soon furnishes!  In some of the French ‘Guides,’ minute directions are given for the explorer, who is bidden to take the street to right or to left, after leaving the station, etc.  But there is a piquancy in this uncertainty as compared with the odious guidance of the laquais de place.  I loathe the tribe.  Here was to be clearly noted the languid, lazy French town where nothing seemed to be doing, but everyone appeared to be comfortable—­’the fat, contented, stubble goose’—­another type of town altogether from your thriving Lilles and Rouens.

The pleasure in surveying this extraordinary combination of beautiful objects, the richness and variety of the work, the long lines broken by the charming and, as they are called, ‘escalloped’ gables, the Spanish balconies, the pillars, light and shade, and shops, made it almost incredible that such a thing was to be found in a poor obscure French town, visited by but few travellers.  On market-day, when the whole is filled up with country folks, their wares and their stalls sheltered from the sun by gaily-tinted awnings, the bustle and glinting colours, and general va et vient, impart a fitting dramatic air.  Then are the old Spanish houses set off becomingly.