The water of the Channel was smooth as glass and as the sun rose, the far chalky cliffs gleamed along the horizon, a belt of fire.  I waved a good-bye to Old England and then turned to see the spires of Dunkirk, which were visible in the distance before us.  On the low Belgian coast we could see trees and steeples, resembling a mirage over the level surface of the sea; at length, about ten o’clock, the square tower of Ostend came in sight.  The boat passed into a long muddy basin, in which many unwieldy, red-sailed Dutch craft were lying, and stopped beside a high pier.  Here amid the confusion of three languages, an officer came on board and took charge of our passports and luggage.  As we could not get the former for two or three hours, we did not hurry the passing of the latter, and went on shore quite unincumbered, for a stroll about the city, disregarding the cries of the hackney-coachmen on the pier, “Hotel d’Angleterre,” “Hotel des Bains!” and another who called out in English, “I recommend you to the Royal Hotel, sir!”

There is little to be seen in Ostend.  We wandered through long rows of plain yellow houses, trying to read the French and low Dutch signs, and at last came out on the wall near the sea.  A soldier motioned us back as we attempted to ascend it, and muttering some unintelligible words, pointed to a narrow street near.  Following this out of curiosity, we crossed the moat and found ourselves on the great bathing beach.  To get out of the hands of the servants who immediately surrounded us, we jumped into one of the little wagons and were driven out into the surf.

To be certain of fulfilling the railroad regulations, we took our seats quarter of an hour before the time.  The dark walls of Ostend soon vanished and we were whirled rapidly over a country perfectly level, but highly fertile and well cultivated.  Occasionally there was a ditch or row of trees, but otherwise there was no division between the fields, and the plain stretched unbroken away into the distance.  The twenty miles to Bruges we made in forty minutes.  The streets of this antique city are narrow and crooked, and the pointed, ornamented gables of the houses, produce a novel impression on one who has been accustomed to the green American forests.  Then there was the endless sound of wooden shoes clattering over the rough pavements, and people talking in that most unmusical of all languages, low Dutch.  Walking at random through the streets, we came by chance upon the Cathedral of Notre Dame.  I shall long remember my first impression of the scene within.  The lofty gothic ceiling arched far above my head and through the stained windows the light came but dimly—­it was all still, solemn and religious.  A few worshippers were kneeling in silence before some of the shrines and the echo of my tread seemed like a profaning sound.  On every side were pictures, saints gilded shrines.  A few steps removed one from the bustle and din of the crowd to the stillness and solemnity of the holy retreat.