Before leaving Ghent we visited the great Convent of the town--the Béguinage. It is of a vast extent, containing entire streets and squares of its own. Each nun has a house to herself, over which is written not her name, but that of some saint under whose protection she has been pleased to put it. In some cases where the name was more than usually quaint, we felt disposed to knock at the door and to ask if he was in; but refrained, as it was rather late, and we feared he might be gone to bed. We witnessed the vesper service, which rather surprised us, as we thought that among the tunes played we could recognize “Jim Crow” and “Nix my dolly.” At the end, each nun finds a kind of towel somewhere, which she folds up and puts on the top of her head; during the service, a rather sloshy[2] one goes about with a policeman’s bull’s eye, collecting coppers. At our entrance and departure, Hunt dipped his fingers in the holy-water stoup, and commenced some violent gesticulations, which I was obliged to bring to an abrupt conclusion. We have bought an extraordinary self-concocting coffee-pot for state-occasions of the P.R.B. We have likewise purchased a book containing a receipt for raising the Devil, and in Paris a quantity of Gavarni’s sketches, which I long to look over with you. When I left London I had the intention of finishing _Bride-Chamber Talk_ during my absence. I have not written a line of it. The only thing I have done, that nobody has had, are two songs, one wanting the last verse, and the other the first. The former I will proceed to copy here in spite of its shortcomings; as news seems to come shorter still. I intend adding the last stanza to-morrow, when we shall ascend the Belfry here. THE CARILLON. (Antwerp and Bruges.) [Here follows the poem printed in _The Germ_ to end of Stanza 5.] I wish I had finished this blessed ditty, dear P.R.B.; but I have not, “and there an end,”--or no end at all rather. I will not delay posting the letter, as we do not know exactly when we may leave Bruges for our return, and the letter might chance to reach after Hunt and self. I must inform you that Memmelinck[3] is an authentic variation in the orthography of that stunner’s name, and not of mine own evil devising. The song is, of course, quite original; there is in particular a Yankee of the name of Longfellow with whose works it has no affinity. I forgot to tell you that there is a Square here called Place Jean van Eyck. Some of the houses in it, as indeed throughout the town, are in all likelihood quite as old as his days. Rubens seems here to be considered a common fool enough.