We learned from the guide, whom we had engaged because he spoke a few words of English, that there was still a treckshuyt line on the canals, and that one boat leaves to-night at ten o’clock for Ghent.  Wishing to try this old Dutch method of travelling, he took us about half a mile along the Ghent road to the canal, where a moderate sized boat was lying.  Our baggage deposited in the plainly furnished cabin, I ran back to Bruges, although it was beginning to grow dark, to get a sight of the belfry; for Longfellow’s lines had been running through my head all day: 

“In the market place of Bruges, stands the belfry old and brown, Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, still it watches o’er the town.”

And having found the square, brown tower in one corner of the open market square, we waited to hear the chimes, which are said to be the finest in Europe.  They rang out at last with a clear silvery tone, most beautifully musical indeed.  We then returned to the boat in the twilight.  We were to leave in about an hour, according to the arrangement, but as yet there was no sound to be heard, and we were the only tenants.  However, trusting to Dutch regularity, we went to sleep in the full confidence of awakening in Ghent.

I awoke once in the night and saw the dark branches of trees passing before the window, but there was no perceptible sound nor motion; the boat glided along like a dream, and we were awakened next morning by its striking against the pier at Ghent.  After paying three francs for the whole night journey, the captain gave us a guide to the railroad station, and as we had nearly an hour before the train left, I went to see the Cathedral of St. Bavon.  After leaving Ghent, the road passes through a beautiful country, cultivated like a garden.  The Dutch passion for flowers is displayed in the gardens around the cottages; even every vacant foot of ground along the railway is planted with roses and dahlias.  At Ghent, the morning being fair, we took seats in the open cars.  About noon it commenced raining and our situation was soon anything but comfortable.  My cousin had fortunately a water-proof Indian blanket with him, which he had purchased in the “Far West,” and by wrapping this around all three of us, we kept partly dry.  I was much amused at the plight of a party of young Englishmen, who were in the same car; one of them held a little parasol which just covered his hat, and sent the water in streams down on his back and shoulders.

We had a misty view of Liege, through the torrents of rain, and then dashed away into the wild, mountain scenery of the Meuse.  Steep, rocky hills, covered with pine and crowned with ruined towers, hemmed in the winding and swollen river, and the wet, cloudy sky seemed to rest like a canopy on their summits.  Instead of threading their mazy defiles, we plunged directly into the mountain’s heart, flew over the narrow valley on lofty and light-sprung arches,