down upon the ground till they were wanted. One officer, who was in this lane, was greatly alarmed and extremely restless. His comrades cried out to him, that if he was afraid, the best thing he could do would be to lie still-but he would lift up his head to see what was going on, and that instant a cannon ball carried it off. To the left of the road, a little beyond Wellington tree, are two other trees, the first about forty or fifty yards from the road, and the second about the same distance from the first. By the first, Gen. Picton fell, and by the second, Lord Uxbridge lost his leg-and still further to the left, in the valley, Col. Ponsonby was killed. Far to the left, in that direction, is the wood from which the Prussians sallied at four, under Bulow, and at seven, under Blucher, when Lord Wellington perceiving their approach, made his final charge, and in ten minutes, as our guide expressed himself, the French were all in flight. Not many yards beyond Wellington tree, on the bank, close by the road side, Colonel Gordon, his aid-de-camp, received his mortal wound. A noble monument of black marble is now erecting on the spot, to perpetuate the memory of the event, by his sister and five brothers. From this monument you look down upon the farm-house of La Haye Sainte. It stands close to the right side of the road. There the Hanoverians of the German legion fought, till all their ammunition was exhausted, and then, to the amount of four hundred, they were put to the bayonet by the French. This seems to have been the only circum

stance of omission with which Lord Wellington charged himself after the engagement. "We ought," said he, "to have made a hole in the wall at the back of the house, and have supplied them by that method with ammunition-but I could not think of every thing." The house and the barn face each other the yard is between them, and they are connected at their gable ends by high walls—within this enclosure were the Hanoverians. Every where in the walls, and roofs, and timbers of the house and barn, are marks of the cannon and musketry, and on the walls of the barn, are still to be seen the stains of the blood that was spilt, when, their ammunition being exhausted, the poor fellows were unable any longer to resist, and the French, forcing their way into the enclosure, mowed them down like corn. We enquired for the old woman who remained uninjured in the cellar of the house during the whole of the action, but were told, that she was not there, as the family who then had the farm had since removed. At the top of the hill, about a quarter of a mile from the farm-house of La Haye Sainte, on the left hand side of the road, is the pot-house, called La Belle Alliance, and about half way between the farm-house and the Belle Alliance, where the high banks on either side the road defended him from the enemy's cannon, which passed over his head, was the principal station of Buonaparte, during the greater part of the action, and where, the guide said, he remained five hours at one time. We halted, like exhausted

heroes, for we were weary with wading in the mud, and drenched with rain, at the Belle Alliance. I took a glass of eau de vie, while we warmed ourselves by the fire which blazed on the hearth in the miserable kitchen. The woman of the house told us she was there at the time of the battle, but that she fled to the woods during the heat of the action, and on her return, she found the house filled with the wounded. It was near this place that Wellington and Blucher met after the battle.

La Coste said, that Buonaparte spoke but little during the battle-and when the fate of the day was determined against him, he simply cried, "It is all over," and fled. He was as pale as death. La Coste was with him till four in the morning, when he was dismissed.

What most of all struck me, and must I think strike every body, is the narrow compass of ground in which two such large armies were engaged, and so terrible a slaughter took place. It was not, as La Coste observed, a battle, it was a massacre-and the Duke of Wellington is understood to consider it as by no means so just an exhibition of his skill in military tactics, as many of his former engagements.

The field of Waterloo is now rich in waving corn, ripening for the sickle of the husbandman.

What a scene must it have been, when death was the reaper, and gathered in his thousands of sheaves to the garner of the grave! And what a scene will it be again, when the trump of the archangel shall awake the sleepers that repose beneath its clods, and the mighty armies, that day annihilated, shall start up to life, upon the plain on which they fell! I never heard a sermon so impressive as the silence that reigned around me on the field of Waterloo. I could not but connect their everlasting destinies, with the thousands of the dead upon whose dust I trod. The eternity that seemed to open there upon my view, peopled with the spirits of the slain, was an awful scene. The bitterness of dying on the field of battle-the widow's cries-the orphan's tears-the agonies of surviving friendship—were all forgotten: I only saw the immortal soul, hurried unprepared, and, perhaps, blaspheming, into the presence of its God! I shuddered at the contemplation, and felt how deadly a scourge, how bitter a curse, is war!

I shall not weary you with a description of this city, now as well known to Englishmen as any fashionable watering place on our own coast. The number of English residents here is very considerable; but I find that the great advance in the price of provisions has determined many to leave, and some are already returned to their own country. There is not much splendour in the court, and there is more of elegance, than magnificence in the royal

and public edifices at Brussels. Sir S. was presented, and is to dine with the king. His majesty works hard for the benefit of his people; and, if a sincere desire to promote the interests of his subjects entitle him to popularity, he ought to be popular. But, he is a Dutchman, and the Belgians do not like the Dutch, while the Dutch do not like his residing amongst the Belgians.

I was honoured with a kind note from the Duke of Kent, who is at present in Brussels, and enjoyed half an hour's conversation with his Royal Highness. The name of this prince I have long venerated, associated as it is with a liberal and enlightened mind, and connected with every noble and benevolent institution.

Brussels is, upon the whole, a fine city. We are in the best part of it, the Place Royale. You have soon seen every thing in it, however, and then it becomes insipid. For my part, I am quite tired of it already, and long for the hour when I shall set my face, in earnest, towards England. I wish to be again employed in the delightful, though arduous duties of my office; and look with blissful anticipation to those calm and happy hours, when, in a domestic circle, which I now feel dearer to me than ever, I shall traverse again and again, in narration, the lands I have visited, and the scenes I have explored. Till then, adieu.

Your's, &c,