'Then over the waste of water The morning sun uprose, Through the driving mist revealed, Like the lifting of the Host By incense clouds almost Concealed.' A boat finally came off and piloted us into harbour, which we reached at seven o'clock Saturday morning--eight hours' passage. Numbers were ill--the ladies, most dreadfully; I did not feel a qualm. I went on by the next train at 9.30 to Brussels, and reached it at one o'clock...." Brussels, at this moment, was full of French people mad with grief and excitement at the conduct of the war and the disasters of their country. Jefferies does not appear, however, to have been much struck with the terror and pity of the situation. It was his first experience of foreign life, not counting his boyish escapade; his delight in the hotel, the _table d'hote_, the wine, the brightness and apparent happiness of the Brussels people--they do somehow seem younger and happier than any other people in the world, except, perhaps, the Marseillais--is very vividly expressed. The ladies dazzle him; he thinks of "our London dowdies" and shudders; but alas! he cannot talk to them. Then he goes back to Swindon, but not, for the present, to Coate. There is trouble at home. His father has to be brought round gradually to look at things from his son's point of view. Till that happy frame of mind has been arrived at he cannot go home. But his mother visits him, and so far as she is concerned all is well. He is out of work and has no money--two shillings and threepence can hardly be called money. Meantime, his mind is still excited by his recent experiences. He will never be happy in the country again; he must find a place in London. It is the kind aunt who fills his purse with a temporary supply. The following letter relates the difficulties of finding work: