Chapter III: Part 3

"Yes! he did a great many fine things, to be sure, at Antwerp, and he took care to make us pay for them. Au reste," continued he, "the people of Antwerp, that is, the merchants and the manufacturers, and all the decent, industrious people, hate him with their whole hearts." "And why do the Belgians hate him so much?" I asked. "Why! because he stopped our trade; he ruined our manufactures and commerce; he took our men to fight his battles, and our money to fill his pockets; and he took from us the means to get money: here, in this very town, the lace manufacturers were starved; the work-women had no employment; our streets were filled with beggars; our priests were insulted: he destroyed, he consumed everything." "Il a mangé tout," was the phrase he frequently repeated, with an expression of hatred in his voice and gesture so strong that I can give no idea of it. "But he cannot live without war, nor can the French; it is their trade; they live by it; they make their fortunes by it; they place all their hopes in it; they are wolves that prey upon other nations; they live by blood and plunder: they are true banditti (vrais brigands), and they are so cruel, so wicked--ils sont si méchans." It is impossible to give the force of this expression in a literal translation. When we asked him if the Belgians did not dislike the Dutch, and if the government of the House of Orange was not unpopular, he said, "Je vous dirai, monsieur: Les Hollandais et les Belges never liked each other, and one great reason is the difference of our religion. They think us Papists and bigots, and we think them Puritans and Calvinists; besides, we were always rivals, and always jealous of each other, and we think (c'est à dire les Belges) that their king becoming our king, is, as if we had fallen under their dominion. If we may not be an independent nation, we would, perhaps, rather belong to the English, or to the Austrians; but we would rather belong to anything--to the devil himself--than to Napoleon Buonaparte."

The poor lace-makers whom we saw were in nervous trepidation at the expected approach of the dreaded French, whom they reviled with all the bitterness and volubility of female eloquence. The same sentiments were written upon every countenance, and uttered by every tongue. In every village and every hamlet through which we passed, the utmost consternation seemed to reign. We met officers on horseback, and detachments of troops marching to join the army. It was with difficulty I refrained from beseeching them to hasten forwards: it seemed to me that every man was of importance. At another time I might have been interested with seeing the country; but now--I could not look at it--I could not think of it; and as my eye rested with a vacant gaze upon the waving fields of luxuriant corn through which we passed, I could only feel the heart-sickening dread, that the harvests of Belgium, though they had been sown in peace, would be reaped in blood. We had every reason to think that the mortal struggle had been renewed; Lord Wellington himself, the whole army expected it. How then was it possible, believing, as we did, that, within a few leagues of us, the battle was at that time raging that was to decide the fate of Europe, and give or take from our gallant countrymen the palm of victory and of glory--that we could for a single instant feel the smallest interest about anything else?

At a distance, we saw the lofty spire of the cathedral of Antwerp, without _then_ admiring its beauty, or even being conscious that it was beautiful. We looked, we felt, indeed, like moving automatons. Our persons were there, but our minds were absent. Every step we took only seemed to increase our solicitude for all we left behind. Our thoughts still to the battle

"turned with ceaseless pain,
And dragged at each remove a lengthening chain."

A tremendous storm of thunder and lightning and rain burst over our heads. It was peculiarly awful. But what are the thunder and lightnings of heaven to the thunder and lightnings of war, which, perhaps, at this very moment, were sweeping away thousands! The thunderbolts of God are merciful and harmless; those of men deadly and destructive. We thought of this storm, as of everything else, only with reference to our army--to those who were fighting, and those who were bleeding on the field of battle, and who were exposed unsheltered to its rage.

We gazed with admiration at the threatening walls and ancient battlements of Antwerp, which are encircled with a wooden palisade. This seemed a complete work of supererogation, and struck me as being something like putting a strong box of iron into a band-box of pasteboard for further security.[15] Three walls of immense strength and thickness, surrounded by three broad deep ditches or moats, lay one behind another. To an ignorant, unpractised eye like mine, its fortifications seemed to be impregnable; and as we passed under its gloomy gates, and slowly crossed its sounding draw-bridges, I heartily wished that the whole British army were safe within its walls.--This was certainly more "a woman's than a warrior's wish." Antwerp was already crowded with fugitives from Brussels; and with considerable difficulty we got the accommodation of two very small rooms in the hotel of Le Grand Laboureur, in the Place de Maire.

No later authentic intelligence than that which we had heard previously to leaving Brussels had been received here; reports of all kinds assailed us, as quick and varying as the tints of the evening clouds, but we could learn nothing; the commandant knew nothing; we could not even ascertain whether another engagement had taken place to-day, and in miserable suspense we passed the remainder of the evening.

One of the apartments in our hotel was occupied by the corpse of the Duke of Brunswick, which had arrived about two o'clock. It had been already embalmed, and was now placed in its first coffin. My brother went to see it: but the room was so crowded with guards and soldiers, British and foreign military, and with people of every description, that neither my sister nor I chose to go. My brother described the countenance as remarkably placid and noble; serene even in death. It was past midnight: my brother and sister had gone to rest, and I was sitting alone, listening to the incessant torrents of rain which drove furiously against the windows, and thinking of our army, who were lying on the cold, wet ground, overcome with toil, and exposed to all "the pelting of the pitiless storm." Everything was silent,--when I heard, all at once, the dismal sounds of nailing down the coffin of the Duke of Brunswick. It was a solemn and affecting sound; it was the last knell of the departed princely warrior: when at length it ceased, and all again was silent, I went down with the young woman of the house, to look at the last narrow mansion of this brave and unfortunate prince. Tapers were burning at the head and foot of the coffin. The room was now cleared of all, excepting two Brunswick officers who were watching over it, and whose pale, mournful countenances, sable uniforms, and black nodding plumes, well accorded with this gloomy chamber of death. It was but yesterday that this prince, in the flower of life and fortune, went out to the field full of military ardour, and gloriously fell in battle, leading on his soldiers to the charge. He was the first of the noble warriors who fell on the memorable field of Quatre Bras. But he has lived long enough who has lived to acquire glory: he dies a noble death who dies for his country. The Duke of Brunswick lived and died like a hero, and he has left his monument in the hearts of his people, by whom his fate will be long and deeply lamented; and by future times his memory will be honoured.

It seemed to be my invariable lot at the dead hour of the night to be disturbed with some new and terrible alarm. I had not returned many minutes to my room, after this visit to the remains of departed greatness, and I was just preparing to go to bed, when I suddenly heard the well-known hateful sounds of the rolling of heavy military carriages, passing rapidly through the streets, which were instantly succeeded by the trampling of horses' feet, the clamour of voices, and all the hurry of alarm. The streets seemed thronged with people. Concluding that some news must have arrived, I hastily went out to the little apartment which the young woman of the house occupied, and where she told me at any hour she was to be found--but she was gone, and the noise below was so great, and the men's voices so loud, that I durst not venture down stairs. I wandered along the passages, and hung over the balustrades of the staircase, listening to this increasing noise in a state of the most painful suspense. At last the girl returned with a countenance of consternation, and pale as death. I eagerly inquired if there was any news. She said that there was; the very worst;--that all was lost; that our army had been compelled to retreat, and were falling back upon Brussels: the French pursuing them. All the English had left Brussels. People in carriages, on horseback, and on foot, were flying into Antwerp in the greatest dismay. Baggage waggons, ammunition, and artillery, were pouring into the town on all sides: and "enfin, madame," said she, "tout est perdu!"

For a few minutes, consternation overpowered all my faculties. The English retreating, pursued by the French, overwhelmed by a tremendous superiority of numbers--our gallant countrymen vainly sacrificed--the flower of our army laid low--Buonaparte and the French triumphant!--the thought was not to be borne: till this moment I never knew the bitterness, the intensity of my detestation of them. It never occurred to me to doubt that there had been a battle, and it seemed too probable that its result had been unfavourable to the British. I hoped, however, that they were only retreating in consequence of their extreme inferiority of force to the enemy, to wait until they were joined either by the fresh reinforcements of our own troops which were expected, or by the Russians. Some experienced officers had thought this might probably happen, even when the troops first marched out of Brussels. I recollected Lord Wellington entrenching himself in the lines of Torres Vedras. I recalled with proud confidence the multiplied triumphs of my countrymen in arms, and I firmly believed that, whatever might be the temporary reverses, or appearance of reverse, they would eventually prove victorious.

But in vain I endeavoured to reassure this poor terrified girl, or inspire her with the conviction I felt myself, that though the English might retreat before an overpowering force, against which it would be madness to keep the field, they only retreated to advance with more strength; and that when joined by fresh reinforcements they would give battle, and beat the French; and that with such a general and such an army, they never had been, and they never could be, defeated.

I succeeded much better in inspiring myself with hope and confidence than this poor young woman; but all that I myself endured during this long night of misery is not to be imagined or described. The uncertain fate of our army, their critical situation, and the dread that some serious reverse had befallen them, filled my mind with the most dreadful apprehensions. Worn out as I had been with two successive nights of sleepless alarm, this news had effectually murdered sleep; and even when fatigue for a few minutes overpowered my senses, I started up again with a sense of horror to listen to the beating of the heavy torrents of rain, and the dismal sounds of alarm which filled the streets; the rattle of carriages continually driving to the door, crowded with fugitives who vainly solicited to be taken in, and drove away utterly at a loss where to find a place of shelter; and the deafening noise of the rolling of heavy military waggons which, during the whole night, never ceased a single moment. So deep was the impression these sounds made upon my senses, so associated had they now become with feelings of dismay and alarm, that long after every terror was ended in the glorious certainty of victory, I never could hear the rattling of these carriages, and the thundering of their wheels, without a sensation of horror that went to my very heart.

The morning--the eventful morning of Sunday, the 18th of June--rose, darkened by clouds and mists, and driving rain. Amongst the rest of the fugitives, our friends, the Hon. Mr. and Mrs. H., arrived about seven o'clock, and, after considerable difficulty and delay, succeeded in obtaining a wretched little hole in a private house, with a miserable pallet bed, and destitute of all other furniture; but they were too glad to find shelter, and too thankful to get into a place of safety, to complain of these inconveniences; and overcome with fatigue, they went immediately to bed. It was not without considerable difficulty and danger that their carriage had got out of the choked-up streets of Brussels, and made its way to Malines, where they had been, for a time, refused shelter. At length, the golden arguments Mr. H. used obtained for them admittance into a room filled with people of all sexes, ages, countries, and ranks--French Princes and foreign Counts, and English Barons, and Right Honourable ladies and gentlemen, together with a considerable mixture of less dignified beings, were all lying together, outstretched upon the tables, the chairs, and the floor; some groaning, and some complaining, and many snoring, and almost all of them completely drenched with rain. The water streamed from Mr. H.'s clothes, who had driven his own carriage. In this situation, they, too, lay down and slept, while their horses rested; and then, at break of day, pursued their flight. A hundred Napoleons had been vainly offered for a pair of horses but a few hours after we left Brussels, and the scene of panic and confusion which it presented on Saturday evening surpassed all conception. The certainty of the defeat of the Prussians; of their retreat; and of the retreat of the British army, prepared the people to expect the worst. Aggravated reports of disaster and dismay continually succeeded to each other: the despair and lamentations of the Belgians, the anxiety of the English to learn the fate of their friends who had been in the battle the preceding day; the dreadful spectacle of the waggon loads of wounded coming in, and the terrified fugitives flying out in momentary expectation of the arrival of the French:--the streets, the roads, the canals covered with boats, carriages, waggons, horses, and crowds of unfortunate people, flying from this scene of horror and danger, formed altogether a combination of tumult, terror, and misery which cannot be described. Numbers, even of ladies, unable to procure any means of conveyance, set off on foot, and walked in the dark, beneath the pelting storm, to Malines; and the distress of the crowds who now filled Antwerp, it is utterly impossible to conceive. We were, however, soon inexpressibly relieved, by hearing that there had been no engagement of any consequence the preceding day; that the British army had fallen back seven miles in order to take up a position more favourable for the cavalry, and for communication with the Prussians; that they were now about nine miles from Brussels; and that a general and, most probably, decisive action would inevitably take place to-day.

Although it continued to rain, we set out, for to sit still in the house was impossible, and after passing through several streets, we went into the cathedral, where high mass was performing, and

"Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swell'd the note of praise."

For a while its solemn harmony seemed to calm the fever of my mind; it elevated my thoughts to that God, in whose unerring wisdom and divine mercy I could alone at this awful moment put my trust, and to Him "who is the only giver of victory," and at whose command empires rise and fall, flourish and decay; to Him who alone has power to save and to destroy, I breathed a silent prayer to bless the British arms, to shield my brave and heroic countrymen in the hour of danger, and give to them the success and glory of the battle. Intelligence arrived that the action had commenced. We were told that the French had attacked the British this morning at daybreak: the contending armies were actually engaged, and the last, the dreadful battle was at this very moment deciding.

It is impossible for any but those who have actually experienced it to conceive the dreadful, the overwhelming anxiety of being so near such eventful scenes, without being actually engaged in them; to know that within a few leagues the dreadful storm of war is raging in all its horrors, and the mortal conflict going forward which is to decide the glory of your country, and the security of the world:--to think that while you are sitting in passive inactivity, or engaged in the most trifling occupations, your brave countrymen are fighting and falling in the uncertain battle, and your friends, and those whose fate you may deplore through life, perhaps at that very moment breathing their last; to be surrounded by misery that you cannot console, and sufferings that you cannot relieve; to wait, to look, to long in vain for intelligence; to be distracted with a thousand confused and contradictory accounts without being able to ascertain the truth; to be at one moment elevated with hope, and the next depressed with fear; to endure the long-protracted suspense--the deep-wrought feelings of expectation--the incessant alarms, the ever-varying reports--the dreadful rumours of evil--Oh! it was a state of misery almost too great, too agonising for human endurance! Never--never shall I forget the torturing suspense, the intense anxiety of mind, and agitation of spirit, in which this day was passed. In the midst of all that could interest the mind and charm the fancy, and surrounded by all that, at any other time, would have afforded me the highest gratification, I could neither see, hear, observe, admire, nor understand anything; I could think of nothing but the battle. In vain I tried to distract my thoughts, or to force my attention even for a moment to other things: the situation of our army, their danger, their success, their sufferings, and their glory, were for ever present to me. Unable to rest, we wandered mechanically about the town, regardless of the frequent heavy showers of rain, and of the deep and dirty streets, anxiously awaiting the arrival of news from the army--though well aware that for many hours nothing could be known of the event of the battle. With a view to dissipate our fruitless anxiety, and as a shelter from the rain, we visited several cabinets of paintings: but I beheld the noblest works of art, and the finest monuments of departed genius, with indifference. Not even the sublime touches, the affecting images, and the unrivalled productions of Guido, and Raphael, and Rubens; not all the force, the pathos, and the expression of their powerful genius, could at this moment charm or even interest me; for I had no power to feel their beauties.

Every faculty of our minds was absorbed in one feeling, one thought, one interest;--we seemed like bodies without souls. Our persons and our outward senses were indeed present in Antwerp, but our whole hearts and souls were with the army.

In the course of our wanderings we met many people whom we knew, and had much conversation with many whom we did not know. At this momentous crisis, one feeling actuated every heart--one thought engaged every tongue--one common interest bound together every human being. All ranks were confounded; all distinctions levelled; all common forms neglected. Gentlemen and servants; lords and common soldiers; British and foreigners, were all upon an equality--elbowing each other without ceremony, and addressing each other without apology. Ladies accosted men they had never before seen with eager questions without hesitation; strangers conversed together like friends, and English reserve seemed no longer to exist. From morning till night the great Place de Maire was completely filled with people, standing under umbrellas, and eagerly watching for news of the battle; so closely packed was this anxious crowd, that, when viewed from the hotel windows, nothing could be seen but one compact mass of umbrellas. As the day advanced, the consternation became greater. The number of terrified fugitives from Brussels, upon whose faces were marked the deepest anxiety and distress, and who thronged into the town on horseback and on foot, increased the general dismay, while long rows of carriages lined the streets, filled with people who could find no place of shelter.

Troops from the Hanseatic towns marched in to strengthen the garrison of the city in case of a siege. Long trains of artillery, ammunition, military stores, and supplies of all sorts incessantly poured in, and there seemed to be no end of the heavy waggons that rolled through the streets. Reports more and more gloomy reached our ears; every hour only served to add to the general despondency. On every side we heard that the battle was fought under circumstances so disadvantageous to the British, and against a preponderance of force so overpowering, that it was impossible it could be won. Long did we resist the depressing impression these alarming accounts were calculated to make upon our minds; long did we believe, in spite of every unfavourable appearance, that the British would be victorious. Towards evening a wounded officer arrived, bringing intelligence that the onset had been most terrible, and so immense were the numbers of the enemy, that he "did not believe it was in the power of man to save the battle." To record the innumerable false reports we heard spread by the terrified fugitives, who continually poured into the town from Brussels, would be endless. At length, after an interval of the most torturing suspense, a wounded British officer of hussars, scarcely able to sit his horse, and faint from loss of blood, rode up to the door of the hotel, and told us the disastrous tidings, that the battle was lost, and that Brussels, by this time, was in the possession of the enemy. He said, that in all the battles he had ever been engaged in, he had never witnessed anything at all equal to the horrors of this. The French had fought with the most desperate valour, but, when he left the field, they had been repulsed by the British at every point with immense slaughter: the news of the defeat had, however, overtaken him on the road; all the baggage belonging to the army was taken or destroyed, and the confusion among the French at Vittoria, he said, was nothing to this. He had himself been passed by panic-struck fugitives from the field, flying for their lives, and he had been obliged to hurry forward, notwithstanding his wounds, in order to effect his escape. Two gentlemen from Brussels corroborated this dreadful account: in an agitation that almost deprived them of the power of utterance, they declared that when they came away, Brussels presented the most dreadful scene of tumult, horror, and confusion; that intelligence had been received of the complete defeat of the British, and that the French were every moment expected. The carnage had been most tremendous. The Duke of Wellington, they said, was severely wounded; Sir Dennis Pack killed; and all our bravest officers killed, wounded, or prisoners. In vain we inquired, where, if the battle was lost, where was now, and what had become of the British army?--"God alone knows," was the answer. The next moment we heard from a gentleman who had just arrived, that before he left Brussels, the French had actually entered it; that he had himself seen a party of them; and another gentleman (apparently an officer) declared he had been pursued by them more than half way to Malines!

Dreadful was the panic and dismay that now seized the unfortunate Belgians, and in the most piercing tones of horror and despair they cried out, that the French would be at the gates before morning. Some English people, thinking Antwerp no longer safe, set off for Breda, late as it was. Later still, accounts were brought (as we were told) by three British officers, confirming the dreadful tidings of defeat; it was even said that the French were already at Malines. We believed, we trusted that these reports of evil were greatly exaggerated; we did not credit their dreadful extent, but that some terrible reverse had befallen the British army it was no longer possible to doubt. During the whole of this dreadful night, the consternation, the alarm, the tumult, the combination of horrid noises that filled the streets, I shall never forget. The rapid rolling of the carriages, the rattle of artillery, and the slow, heavy motion of the large waggons filled with wounded soldiers, which incessantly entered the town, were the most dismal of all.

Of the bitter agony, the deep-seated affliction that now overwhelmed us, it would be in vain to speak. There are feelings in the human heart that can find no utterance in words, and which "lie too deep for tears:" and the conviction that the British army had been defeated--the dreadful uncertainty of its fate--and the heart-piercing sight of my brave, my unfortunate wounded countrymen returning from the lost battle in which their valour had been exerted, and their blood been shed in vain, awakened sensations which no visible emotion, no power of language could express; but which have left an impression on my mind that no lapse of time can efface. No private calamity, however great, that had befallen myself individually, could have afflicted me with such bitter anguish as I now suffered. The image of the British troops retreating before a conquering, an insulting, a merciless enemy--defeated, perhaps cut to pieces: the idea of their misfortunes and their sufferings--of the wounded abandoned to perish on the fatal field; the misery of thousands; the distress in which it would plunge my country; the years of war and bloodshed, and all the dreadful consequences it would bring upon the world, incessantly haunted my mind during this long night of misery. Overpowered by three days and nights of extreme fatigue, anxiety, and agitation, I fell at times into a sort of unquiet slumber; but my busy fancy still presented the horrid images of terror and distress, and repeatedly I started up from uneasy sleep to the dreadful consciousness of waking misery. Oh! it was a night of unspeakable horror--

"Nor when morning came
Did the realities of light and day
Bring aught of comfort: wheresoe'er we went
The tidings of defeat had gone before;
And leaving their defenceless homes, to seek
What shelter walls and battlements might yield,

Old men with feeble feet, and tottering babes,
And widows with their infants in their arms
Hurried along: nor royal festival,
Nor sacred pageant--with like multitude
E'er fill'd the public way:--all whom the sword
Had spared--fled here!"--_Southey's Roderick._

With a heavy heart, I rose and dressed myself, and went out before eight o'clock, attended only by our old valet de place, who with a sorrowful countenance awaited me at the foot of the stairs. From him, and from the master of the hotel, who were both on the watch for news, I learned that no official intelligence had been received, no courier had arrived: but no doubt was entertained of the truth of the dreadful reports of the night, and the events of every hour seemed to give full confirmation of the worst. I traversed the gloomy streets, anxiously gazing at every melancholy careworn countenance I met, as if there I could read the truth. I was struck to the heart with horror by the sight of the heavy loaded waggons of wounded soldiers which incessantly passed by me; while litters borne silently along on men's shoulders gave dreadful indications of sufferings more severe, or nearer their final termination; nor were they less painful to the thoughts from being unseen. Imagination perhaps conjured up sufferings more dreadful than the reality--sufferings at which my blood ran cold.

Wholly forgetful of some business I had to transact, which I had undertaken for a friend before leaving England, I hurried through the streets with the vague hope of hearing some decisive intelligence; certain that anything, even the knowledge of the worst, would be preferable to this state of wretchedness and torturing suspense. At last, without intending it, I found myself near the Malines gate. Conducted by the old valet, I turned into a narrow street on my right, where, to my inexpressible astonishment, I saw five wounded Highland soldiers who, in spite of the bandages which enveloped their heads, arms, and legs, were shouting and huzzaing with the vociferous demonstrations of joy. In answer to my eager questions, they told me that a courier had that moment entered the town from the Duke of Wellington, bringing an account that the English had gained a complete victory, that the remains of the French army were in full retreat, and the English in pursuit of them.

To the last hour of my life, never shall I forget the sensations of that moment. Scarcely daring to credit the extent of this wonderful, this transporting news, I did, however, believe that the English had gained the victory; believed it with feelings to which no language can do justice, and which found relief in tears of joy that I could not repress. For some minutes I was unable to speak. The overpowering emotions which filled my heart were far too powerful for expression; but the boon of life to the wretch whose head is laid upon the block could scarcely be received with more transport and gratitude. The sudden transition from the depth of despair to joy unutterable, was almost too great to be borne.

In the mean time the Highlanders, regardless of their wounds, their fatigues, their dangers, and their sufferings, kept throwing up their Highland bonnets into the air, and continually vociferating,--"Boney's beat! Boney's beat! hurrah! hurrah! Boney's beat!" Their tumultuous joy attracted round them a number of old Flemish women, who were extremely curious to know the cause of this uproar, and kept gabbling to the soldiers in their own tongue. One of them, more eager than the rest, seized one of the men by his coat, pulling at it, and making the most ludicrous gestures imaginable to induce him to attend to her; while the Highlander, quite forgetting in his transport that the old woman did not understand Scotch, kept vociferating that "Boney was beat, and rinning away till his ain country as fast as he could gang." At any other time, the old Flemish woman, holding the soldier fast, shrugging up her shoulders, and making these absurd grimaces, and the Highlander roaring to her in broad Scotch would have presented a most laughable scene--"Hout, ye auld gowk," cried the good-humoured soldier, "dinna ye ken that Boney's beat--what, are ye deef?--dare say the wife--I say Boney's beat, woman!" When the news was explained to the old women they were in an ecstasy almost as great as that of the Highlanders themselves, and the joy of the old valet was quite unbounded. These poor men were on their way to the hospital, but they did not know which way to go; they were ignorant of the language, and could not inquire. I thought of sending the valet de place with them, who was extremely willing to conduct "ces bons Ecossois," as he called them, but then I could not easily have found my own way home; so the valet de place, the soldiers, and I, all went to the hospital together. Our progress was slow, for one of them was very lame, another had lost three of the fingers of his right hand, and had a ball lodged in his shoulder. Some of them were from the Highlands, and some from the Lowlands, and when they found that I came from Scotland, and lived upon the Tweed, they were quite delighted. One of them was from the Tweed as well as myself, he said, "he cam' oot o' Peeblesshire."

After parting with them close to the hospital, I returned homewards, and by the time I reached the Place de Maire it was thronged with multitudes of people, who seemed at a loss how to give vent to their transport. One loud universal buzz of voices filled the streets; one feeling pervaded every heart; one expression beamed on every face: in short, the people were quite wild with joy, and some of them really seemed by no means in possession of their senses. At the door of our hotel the first sight I beheld among the crowds that encircled it, was an English lady, who had apparently attained the full meridian of life, with a night-cap stuck on the top of her head, discovering her hair in papillotes beneath, attired in a long white flannel dressing-gown, loosely tied about her waist, with the sleeves tucked up above the elbows. She was flying about in a distracted manner, with a paper in her hand, loudly proclaiming the glorious tidings, continually repeating the same thing, and rejoicing, lamenting, wondering, pitying, and exclaiming, all in the same breath. From an English gentleman whom I had met, I had already learned all the particulars that were known; but this lady seized upon me, repeated them all again and again, interrupting herself with mourning over the misfortunes of poor Lady de Lancey, pitying Lady F. Somerset, rejoicing in the victory, wondering at the Duke's escape, lamenting for Sir Thomas Picton, and declaring, which was incontestably true, that she herself was quite distracted.

In vain did her maid pursue her about with a great shawl, which occasionally she succeeded in putting upon her shoulders, but which invariably fell off again the next moment.

In vain did another lady, whose dress and mind were rather more composed, endeavour to entice her away--she could not be brought to pay them the smallest attention, and I left her still talking as fast as ever, and standing in this curious déshabille among gentlemen and footmen, and officers and soldiers, and valets de place, and in full view of the multitudes who thronged the great Place de Maire. An express had arrived, soon after eight o'clock, bringing the Duke of Wellington's bulletin, dated Waterloo, containing a brief account of the glorious battle. But from private letters and accounts we learnt that the triumph of the British arms had indeed been complete. After a most dreadful and sanguinary battle, which lasted from ten in the morning till nine at night, the French at length gave way, and fled in confusion from the field, leaving behind them their artillery, their baggage, their wounded, and their prisoners. The certainty of this great, this glorious victory, won by the heroic valour of our countrymen in circumstances so disadvantageous; the fall of the enemy of Britain and of mankind; the deliverance of Europe; the peace of the world, and, above all, the glory of England, rushed into my mind; and every individual interest, every personal consideration, every other thought and feeling, were swallowed up and forgotten.

The contest had been dreadful--the carnage unexampled in the bloodiest annals of history. The French army had been nearly annihilated, and our loss was tremendous. The greatest part of our gallant army, the best, the bravest of our officers, were among the killed and wounded. Sir Colin Halket, Generals Cooke and Alten, Sir Dennis Pack, the Prince of Orange, Lord Uxbridge,[16] and Lord Fitzroy Somerset, were severely wounded. Sir Thomas Picton, Sir William Ponsonby, Sir Alexander Gordon were killed. Sir William de Lancey had also been killed by a cannon-ball while in absolute contact with the Duke, whose escapes seemed to have been almost miraculous. Unmindful, perhaps even unconscious, of the showers of shot and shell, he had stood undaunted from morning till night in the thickest of the battle, coolly reconnoitring with his glass the motions of the enemy, issuing his orders with the utmost precision, and everywhere present by his promptitude, coolness, and presence of mind. Almost all his staff officers were either killed or wounded.[17] Lady M. showed us the official bulletin; it contained a most brief and modest account of the victory, announcing scarcely any particulars, and mentioning the names only of a very few of the principal officers who were among the sufferers.

In a few hours the town was crowded with the wounded. The regular hospitals were soon filled, and barracks, churches, and convents were converted into temporary hospitals with all possible expedition. Tents were pitched in a large piece of open ground near the citadel, and numbers of these unfortunate sufferers were carried there: but nothing could contain the multitude of wounded who continually entered the town. Numbers were lying on the hard pavement of the streets, and on the steps of the houses; and numbers were wandering about in search of a place of shelter. Nothing affected me more than the quiet fortitude and uncomplaining patience with which these poor men bore their sufferings. Not a word, not a murmur, not a groan escaped their lips. They lay extended on their backs in the long waggons, their clothes stained with blood, blinded by the intolerable rays of the sun, in silent suffering; while every jolt of the waggons seemed to go to one's very heart. Numbers on foot, almost sinking with fatigue and loss of blood, were slowly and painfully making their way along the streets. Officers supported on their horses, and almost insensible, with faces pale as death, and marked with agony, and those dreadful litters, whose very appearance bespoke torture and death, were passing through every street.

Never shall I forget the impression that the sight of my poor wounded countrymen made upon my mind. When I saw their sufferings, and thought of their deeds in arms, of their dauntless intrepidity in the field, and of the immortal glory they had won, tears of pity, admiration, and gratitude burst from my heart, and I looked at the meanest soldier returning, covered with wounds, from fighting the battles of his country, with a respect and admiration which not all the kings and princes of the earth could have extorted from me.

If such were the horrors of the scene here, what must they be on the field of battle, covered with thousands of the dead, the wounded, and the dying! The idea was almost too dreadful for human endurance; and yet there were those of my own country, and even of my own sex, whom I heard express a longing wish to visit this very morning the fatal field of Waterloo! If, by visiting that dreadful scene of glory and of death, I could have saved the life, or assuaged the pangs, of one individual who had fallen for his country, gladly would I have braved its horrors; but for the gratification of an idle, a barbarous curiosity, to gaze upon the mangled corpses of thousands; to hear the deep groans of agony, and witness the last struggles of the departing spirit--No! worlds should not have bribed me to have encountered the sight: the consolation of being useful, alone could have armed one with courage to have witnessed it. Nothing could exceed the humanity and kindness of the Belgic people to those poor sufferers who now crowded the streets. Unsolicited they took them into their own houses; sent bedding to the hospitals; resigned their own rooms to their use; provided them with every comfort, and administered to their wants as if they had been their own sons. One old lady alone, who was the sole inhabitant of a large house, refused to take in two wounded officers; the Commandant, on hearing of this, immediately billetted six private soldiers upon her. But, notwithstanding the praiseworthy activity and exertion which were used to accommodate them, it was long, long indeed, before they could all be taken care of. We grieved that we had no house to shelter them, and no power to give them any essential relief. Money was to them as useless as the lump of gold to Robinson Crusoe in his desert island: we could not act by them the part of the good Samaritan, nor could we, like the heroines of the days of chivalry, bind up and dress their wounds, for in our ignorance we should only have injured them, and the most stupid hospital mate could perform that office a thousand times better than the finest lady.

Numbers of poor wounded Highlanders were patiently sitting in the streets, shaded from the powerful rays of the sun. We had a good deal of conversation with several of the privates of the 42nd and 92nd regiments, and their account of the battle was most simple and interesting. They seemed not to have the smallest pride in what they had done; but to consider it quite as a matter of course; they uttered not the smallest complaint, but rather made light of their sufferings, and there was nothing in their words or manner that looked as if they were sensible of having done anything in the least extraordinary; nothing that laid claim to pity, admiration, or glory. The carnage among the French, both on the 16th and 18th, in their encounter with the Highland regiments, was described to us as most dreadful. The cuirassiers, men and officers, horses and riders, were rolled in death, one upon another, after the British charge with the bayonet. In vain the French returned to the attack with furious valour and reinforced numbers. Their utmost efforts could make no impression on the impenetrable squares of the infantry, and the spiked wall of the British embattled bayonets; and when they retired from the ineffectual attack, the brave Highlanders, with loud cries of "Scotland for ever!" rushed among them, bore down all resistance, and scattered their legions like withered leaves before the blast of autumn.

It is but justice to these gallant men to say, that it was not from themselves we heard this relation of their own deeds. _They_ could not be induced to speak of what they had done, but it was repeated on every side; it was the theme of every tongue. The love and admiration of the whole Belgic people for the Highlanders are most remarkable. Whenever they heard them mentioned, they exclaimed, "Ah! ces braves hommes! ces bons Ecossais! ils sont si doux--et si aimables--et dans la guerre!--ah! mon Dieu! comme ils sont terribles!" They never speak of them without some epithet of affection or admiration. Their merits are the darling topic of their private circles, and their figures the favourite signs of their public-houses; in short, they are the best of soldiers and of men, according to the Belgians--nothing was ever like them, and the idea they have of their valour is quite prodigious.[18]

The sufferings of the wounded, however, did not form the only affecting sight that Antwerp presented. The deep, the distracting grief of the unfortunate people whose friends had perished, and the heart-rending anxiety of those who vainly sought for intelligence of the fate of those most dear to them, were amongst the most distressing parts of the many mournful scenes we witnessed. Of those friends for whose safety we were deeply solicitous, we could gain no information, and the suspense, dreadful as it was, we, as well as thousands, were obliged to endure. But our anxiety, our sorrows, seemed light indeed in comparison with those of others: there were few who had not some near friend or relative to deplore, and Antwerp was filled with heart-broken mourners, whom the victory of yesterday had bereft of all that made life dear to them. In the same hotel with us was poor Lady de Lancey, a young and widowed bride, upon whom, in all the hopes of happiness--in the very flower of youth--unacquainted with sorrow, and far from every friend, the heaviest stroke of affliction had fallen unprepared. But three little days ago, she seemed to be at the summit of felicity, and now she was bereaved of every earthly hope. She bore the intelligence of her irreparable loss with astonishing firmness. I did not wonder that she refused to see every human being, for no earthly power could speak consolation to misery such as hers. In vain I tried to forget her--I could not banish her from my remembrance; and often, during our long wanderings in the distant regions of Holland, when I was far from her, and far from all that might have recalled her to my remembrance, among other sights and other scenes, her early misfortunes wrung my heart with the deepest sorrow.

But whatever might be the grief and anxiety of individuals, the universal joy was unbounded. It is impossible to describe the effects of this victory upon all ranks of people. Every human heart seemed to beat in sympathy; every countenance beamed with joy; every tongue spoke the language of exultation. As the terror and despair of the Belgians had been excessive, their transport was now vehement and overflowing, and their volubility not to be imagined. We went into several shops, and the people, unable to restrain themselves, poured out upon us the fulness of their joy, their astonishment, their gratitude, their admiration, and their praise. Totally forgetful of their interests, they thought not of selling their goods; they thought of nothing--they could do nothing but talk of the battle and the British, and it was with difficulty we could get them to show us what we wanted: nay, more than once we were actually obliged to go away without doing anything, from the impossibility of making them attend to the business of selling and buying.

But sometimes the expression of their feelings was so simple, so natural, and so touching, and there was so much of truth and naïveté, both in their manner and their words, that it was impossible to hear them without emotion. The French they loaded with execrations; and their hatred, their indignation, and their bitter feelings of their wrongs, said more than volumes of eloquence, or even facts could have done, in condemnation of the conduct of their late masters. All the English merchandise, and all colonial produce, imported even before it was decreed to be a crime, were seized, carried from their shops and warehouses, and burnt before their eyes in the Place Verte. No remuneration, no indemnity whatever was given them; and by this single act of wanton tyranny, hundreds of industrious families were reduced to beggary. Heavy exactions and continual contributions were levied, and the weight of these fell upon the most industrious and respectable orders of the people. "All that we had they took," was said again and again to us, "and if we had had thousands more, it would have all gone." They ruined the commerce, the manufactures, the trade of the country, and then they drained the poor inhabitants of their property. They shut up the sources of wealth, and then called on them for money. They blocked up the fountain, and then asked for its waters. Like Egyptian task-masters, they took from them the materials, and then demanded their work. They expected them to make "bricks without straw." The French soldiers lived at free-quarters upon the people, and the Belgic youths were marched away to fight in foreign wars. The oppressed people were subject to the unrestrained rapine and brutal insolence of the French soldiery, of which they durst not complain. It was unsafe even to murmur. Not only the liberty of the press, but the liberty of speech was denied them. Any unfortunate person convicted of holding intercourse with England was imprisoned, and some of them (we were told), by way of example, were shot.

We happened to go into a little stationer's shop, kept by a widow and her three daughters, who received us almost with adoration because we were English. They all began to talk at once, and relieved their minds by pouring out a torrent of invectives against those detested tyrants, "Ces fléaux du genre humain," as they called them. All their goods had been seized; their shop (which was not then a stationer's) completely stripped of its contents, under the pretence of its being filled with British and colonial produce, which they said was not the case; and a considerable quantity of continental manufactures had also been carried away. "But _that_ was nothing," the poor mother said, as she wiped the tears from her eyes, "_that_ she could have borne, for though it seemed heavy at the time, she thought less of it now;--but her five sons (fine handsome young men, they were, as ever a mother bore), her five sons were all taken for soldiers, and perished in the French wars; some in the retreat from Russia, and some in the subsequent campaign in Germany." The tears streamed down the cheeks of one of these young women, as she spoke to me of her "poor brothers." I can give no idea of the bitterness, the rancour, the hatred, and above all, the volubility of the abuse which these poor women poured out against the French.

We got away from them with difficulty; and though the deep sense of their own wrongs rankled in their minds, and aggravated the resentment and detestation which they must naturally feel towards the authors of so much misery, yet we found the same sentiments, in greater or in less degree, among all the Belgians with whom we conversed, or whom we heard conversing. I had always understood that the French (and Napoleon in particular) were highly popular in Antwerp, but from some most respectable old-established merchants, both British and Belgic, we learned that the inhabitants were decidedly hostile to the French, and that they were both feared and hated by all, excepting the very dregs of society, and those individuals who had made fortunes under their administration.

In the course of our rambles we had many conversations with various people whom we never saw before, and I suppose shall never see again. We met a wounded officer who had been taken prisoner by the French. He said, that after repeatedly threatening to kill him, and loading him with abuse, they actually knocked him on the head with the butt-end of a musket, and left him for dead upon the field: he came, however, to himself, and effected his escape. His face was most frightfully swelled, and so bruised, that it was every shade of black, and blue, and green; his head was entirely tied up with white handkerchiefs and bloody bandages, and in my life I never saw a more battered object. He had his arm in a sling; but he was by much too rejoiced at his escape to care about his wounds or bruises. He told us, what _then_ I could scarcely believe, that the French had killed many of our officers whom they had taken prisoners, and that they had _piked_ numbers of the wounded. The truth of these brutal murders, disgraceful to humanity, and even more dishonourable and more barbarous than the worst cruelty of savages, were unhappily, afterwards, too indisputably proved.

In our progress through the streets we could not resist stopping to speak to such of the poor wounded soldiers as seemed able to talk, and who looked as if they would thank us even for a word of kindness, much to the amazement of Mr. D., an Antwerp merchant, who was walking about with us, to "show us the lions," as he said. However, he waited most patiently, while Mrs. H., my sister, and I talked to ensigns, sergeants, corporals, and common soldiers, who were all, more or less, wounded or disabled.

"We have got six of those wounded soldiers billeted upon us," said Mr. D., as we walked on, "but I must get them boarded out somewhere, for they would be very troublesome in the house." "Troublesome!" I exclaimed. "Yes! you know they would be very troublesome in a house, though I suppose the surgeons will look after their _wounds_, and all _that_; they will cost me" (I forget how many guelders he said) "a week, but I would rather _pay_ it" (with a strong and proud emphasis upon the word pay) "than have them in the house, it would be so very disagreeable."