in a way that calls to mind the High Tor at Matlock Bath.  Dinant, in short, is a kind of Belgian Matlock, and appeals as little as Matlock to the “careful student” of Nature.  If at Dinant, however, you desert the broad valley of the Meuse for the narrow and secluded limestone glen of the Lesse, with its clear and sparkling stream, you will sample at once a kind of scenery that reminds you of what is best in Derbyshire, and is also best and most characteristic in the Belgian Ardennes.  The walk up the stream from Dinant to Houyet, where the valley of the Lesse becomes more open and less striking, is mostly made by footpath; and the pellucid river is crossed, and recrossed, and crossed again, by a constant succession of ferries.  Sometimes the white cliff rises directly from the water, sheer and majestic, like that which is crowned by the romantic Chateau Walzin; sometimes it is more broken, and rises amidst trees from a broad plinth of emerald meadow that is interposed between its base and the windings of the river.  Sometimes we thread the exact margin of the stream, or traverse in the open a scrap of level pasture; sometimes we clamber steeply by a stony path along the sides of an abrupt and densely wooded hillside, where the thicket is yellow in spring with Anemone Ranunculoides, or starred with green Herb Paris.  This is the kind of glen scenery that is found along the courses of the Semois, Lesse, and Ourthe, recalling, with obvious differences, that of Monsal Dale or Dovedale, but always, perhaps, without that subtle note of wildness that robes even the mild splendours of Derbyshire with a suggestion of mountain dignity.  The Ardennes, in short—­and this is their scenic weakness—­never attain to the proper mountain spirit.  There is a further point, however, in which they also recall Derbyshire, but in which they are far preeminent.  This is the vast agglomeration of caves and vertical potholes—­like those in Craven, but here called etonnoirs—­that riddle the rolling wolds in all directions.  Chief among these is the mammoth cave of Han, the mere perambulation of which is said to occupy more than two hours.  I have never penetrated myself into its sombre and dank recesses, but something may be realized of its character and scale merely by visiting its gaping mouth at Eprave.  This is the exit of the Lesse, which, higher up the vale, at the curious Perte de Lesse, swerves suddenly from its obvious course, down the bright and cheerful valley, to plunge noisily through a narrow slit in the rock—­

    “Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
    Through caverns measureless to man
    Down to a sunless sea.”

Rochefort, which itself has a considerable cave, is a pleasant centre for the exploration of these subterranean marvels.  Altogether this limestone region of the Ardennes, though certainly not remarkable for mountain or forest splendour, comes as a somewhat welcome relief after the interminable levels and chessboard fields of East and West Flanders, or of the provinces of Limburgh and Antwerp.