here is ghent. it is a large city, and a great many of the brussells carpets are made here. there is no doubt it is as old a city as london. it is here the famous “treaty of ghent” was made by henry clay and john adams. i have just been in their old residence, which, from appearances, must have been one of the best houses in ghent. a good deal of silk is manufactured here even now. a great many flemish families live here. the city supports an opera, besides theatres and other places of amusement. they are inclined to be frenchy on the sabbath. i went on the sabbath to see a horse go up in a balloon. three men, who paid a certain sum, took passage with the beast, and as he hung below the balloon, well strapped so he could not kick or agitate himself, these passengers were seated above; i hated it much, as the beast looked so melancholy and innocent. i had seen the same performance at paris. it was not such a novelty to the horse as to me, for this was the same horse i had seen at paris some time before. away they went, upward like a cloud, in a hurry toward the sea, and were soon lost to our sight.
another day is gone and leaves me in bruges; an old quiet city that figured much in the romantic affairs of flanders. bad hotels are plentiful here, with wise men to keep them, for if a man was to keep them better, he would soon have to keep none. we were the only occupants, or even strangers in town. and as we walked out to see its wonders, we found that our arrival had excited the curiosity of a hundred beggars. it is a characteristic trait of beggars, to keep quiet when they see a stranger in town, like a dog with his bone he wishes the picking of alone. but always betray themselves by waiting too long about the hotel where their victim resides. they generally watch the movement of the shrewdest beggar, and keep in his track. they most always keep themselves concealed from view, until they get their victim fairly launched; then with the sails of poverty, like boreas, they will follow him up till they drive his temper straight into the channel of charity, where we can only find safety in our acts of humanity. here i was right for once, because i had procured an immense quantity of the smallest coin. i called them all up, and told the lacquey de place to tell them i would give them all i had, if they would cease to follow us, it was agreed, and i give him about half a pint of small coin to divide among them; he give it to a responsible one and they all followed him in counsel.
i said in august on my departure from paris, that i was leaving it to “enjoy the anxiety to get back.” now i am biasing my tour in verification of that expression. i am now close to paris, and can go there to night. it is eleven o’clock at night, and i am at paris. i am going to stay this winter, as i am getting used to the life here. last night i arrived at the hotel des princes; the pretty little portress was glad to see me, and i felt at home. she asked me if i wanted a bottle of water with ice inside; she gave me all the news, and showed me a list of her american occupants, and said the russian princess was gone, not from paris, but to private rooms. i put a five franc piece in her hand to convince her i was the same man in all particulars, and went to my room and looked around for elverata, who used to arrange my wardrobe so nice and say, with neatness on her brow, “how do you like that, mr. dorr?” i did not see her and rang the bell, when a strange waiter came quickly and i enquired for elverata; he satisfied the enquiry by saying he was only a few days there and could not say. i went to bed. next morning i saw the shadow of a woman moving towards my drawer, i raised my weary head on my elbow and said, “good morning, elverata.” the woman quietly passed out; i rose and dressed and went to enquire for unpretending elverata, but like a plant under the cloud of night, i was seeking a tear, she was dead! and dead only one month, and everybody had forgotten her. i had difficulty in that vast hotel to make them understand who i was seeking. i asked what graveyard she was buried in, but that, like elverata, was forgotten. i shall never see her again! she a good, honest, and religious girl; though nothing here below, in heaven she will be more than a femme de chambre. some may well say,
“happy those who linger yet
the steep ascent to climb,
for jewels lie like treasures set
upon the breast of time.”
