alley road to Namur (no _pave_ here), that it took us eight hours
of a long summer's day to get away from Dinant and get settled down
again for the night in the Hotel d'Harscamp at Namur.

The native declares there is nothing to equal the view from the
fortress-height of the citadel of Namur, neither in Switzerland nor
the Pyrenees; but though we climbed the three twisting kilometres to
the fort, there was nothing more than a ravishing view of the
charming river valley at our feet. The majesty of it all was in the
imagination of the inhabitant, but all the same it was of a
loveliness that few artists can describe in paint, few authors
picture in words, and no kodakist reproduce satisfactorily in print.
There is but one thing for the curious to do, and that is to go and
see it for himself.

The rest of the journey across Belgium to Brussels the writer would
like to forget. Oh, that terrible next day! Sixty kilometres of one
of the worst and most destructive roads, for an automobile, in
Europe, and through a most uninteresting country. Perhaps, if the
road had been better, the landscape might not have had so oppressive
an effect. As it was, an automobilist journeys along the road--which
is practically across the kingdom--his eyes glued to it, his heart in
his mouth, and he bumps and slides over the wearying kilometres until
he all but forgets the beauties of the Meuse now so far behind.
Kilometre after kilometre of this vile road is paved with blocks of
stone as big as one's head, half of which are out of place. And when
one's automobile sinks into the holes one can but shudder. One hears
of a road that is paved with good intentions. It does not enjoy a
good reputation, but it can't be worse than the road from Namur to
Brussels!

We passed through what, for the want of a better and more distinctive
name, may be called the Waterloo region; but, for the moment, we
cared not a jot for battle-fields. Our battle with the ugly roads of
Belgium was all-sufficient.

Southey's verses are so good, though, that they are here given in
order that the writer may arrive the quicker at Brussels and take his
well-earned rest:

"Southward from Brussels lies the field of blood,
Some three hours' journey for a well-girt man;
A horseman who in haste pursued his road
Would reach it as the second hour began.
The way is through a forest deep and wide,
Extending many a mile on either side."

"No cheerful woodland this of a