"Voici, Messieurs et Madame, entrons dans la Cour Impériale," and another moment hoisted us within the covered gateway of this Hotel of Imperial appellation. Our arrangements for sleeping and eating being complete, we sat down on a bench before the door to gaze, but not to be gazed upon, for the good people never cast an eye upon us. On retiring to tea, good Farmer Dinmont's countenance relaxed as he flung himself into a chair; he put his hands upon the table and exclaimed, "Well, well, here I am sitting down for the first time out of Old England!" ... A cup of tea, or rather a kettle full, for our salt beef had kindled an insatiable thirst, put him in good humour again, and, but for a sort of sigh or a look or a jerk which proved Old England to be uppermost in his thoughts, he appeared quite satisfied. With some trouble Kitty secured the fly cap chambermaid and had taken possession of her room; having seen her safe, I descended to give orders for a warming-pan, leaving her (after having been 2 nights in her clothes) to the luxury of an entire change of linen and course of ablutions. On re-crossing the court 10 minutes afterwards I ran against a waiter running off with a warming-pan, glowing with red-hot embers. "Mais donc" said I, "Madame wants a warming-pan. Allons, where is the chambermaid to carry it?" "Oh, n'importe," replied this flying Mercury; "c'est moi qui fera cela pour la dame!" Only guess Kitty's escape! Another moment and he would have been in her presence, warming-pan and all. By dint of remonstrating I checked his course and prevailed upon the Maid to go herself with vast ill humour, innumerable shrugs, and some few "Mon Dieu's" and other suitable expressions. Kitty must herself be the interpreter of her own feelings in these lands of novelty. I am almost glad you were, none of you, here to witness what she will have such pleasure in describing. Our morning passed away in strolling over the town. Kitty and I dined at the table d'hôte with about 20 people. Farmer Dinmont sent for a bottle of the best wine to try it and offered me a glass. I begged to propose a toast, "Prosperity to Old England." His features brightened up, he grasped the bottle, filled a bumper, and replied, "Aye, aye, with all my heart; that Toast I would drink in ditch water." We left Ostend at 3 o'clock to take passage in the Bruges canal, and I do assure you we all felt quite sorry to leave our dear, good, honest John Bull. At Saas we fell in with a specimen of Lord Wellington's operations. There is a formidable battery erected last year by way of guarding Ostend from a "coup de main"; it is singular that the English have placed a Battery for the defence close to the celebrated sluice gates of this canal, which gates were blown up by Sir Evelyn Coote to prevent the French from inundating the country, when he invaded it some years before.