The fowler is no longer a common object of the country, as he seems to have been in Albert Cuyp's day, when he returned in the golden evening laden with game--for Jan Weenix to paint.
St.Jacobie Parochie on a fine Sunday morning is no place for a sensitive man.

The whole of the male population of the village had assembled by the church--not, I fancy, with any intention of entering it--and every eye among them probed me like a corkscrew.

It is an out of the world spot, to which it is possible no foreigner ever before penetrated, and since their country was a show to me I had no right to object to serve as a show to them.

But such scrutiny is not comfortable.

I hastened to the sea.
One reaches the sea by a path across the fields to an inner dyke with a high road upon it, and then by another footpath, or paths, beside green ditches, to the ultimate dyke which holds Neptune in check.