It ranked with the old city of Bruges in importance up to 1914, when it had some thirty-five thousand inhabitants. In the middle of the beflowered Grand' Place stood a quaint brick belfry containing a good chime of bells, and on market days when surrounded with the farmers' green wagons and the lines of booths about which the people gathered chaffering, its appearance was picturesque enough to satisfy anyone, even the most blase of travelers. The belfry had four large gilt clock faces, and its bells could be plainly seen through the windows hanging from the huge beams. On the tower were gilded escutcheons, and a couple of armor-clad statues in niches. There was a fine church dedicated to Notre Dame, which was commenced by Baldwin in 1199, and a very beautiful "Counts Chapel" with rows of statues of counts and countesses of Flanders whose very names were forgotten. Here was one of the few remaining "Beguinages" of Flanders, which we might have overlooked but for the kindness of a passerby who, seeing that we were strangers, pointed out the doorway to us. On either hand were small houses through the windows of which one could see old women sitting bowed over cushions rapidly moving the bobbins over the lace patterns. A heavy black door gave access to the Beguinage, a tiny retreat, _Noye de Silence_, inaugurated, tradition says, in 1238, by Jean de Constantinople, who gave it as a refuge for the Sisters of St. Bogga. And here about a small grass grown square in which was a statue of the saint, dwelt a number of self-sacrificing women, bound by no vow, who had consecrated their lives to the care of the sick and needy. We spent an hour in this calm and fragrant retreat, where there was no noise save the sweet tolling of the convent bell, and the cooing of pigeons on the ridge pole of the chapel. In the square before the small station was a statue, which after questioning a number of people without result, I at length found to be that of Jean Palfyn who, my informant assured me, was the inventor of the forceps, and expressed surprise that I should be so interested in statuary as to care "who it was." He asked me if I was not English and when I answered that I was an American, looked somewhat dazed, much as if I had said "New Zealander" or "Kamschatkan," and was about to ask me some further question, but upon consideration thought better of it, and turned away shrugging his shoulders. To show how well the river Lys is loved by the people, I quote here a sort of prose poem by a local poet, one Adolph Verriest. It is called "Het Leielied."