CHAPTER VII

AFTER WATERLOO

A long Channel passage--Bruges--The battlefield--A posting

journey--Compiègne--Paris--Michael Bruce.

_Mrs. E. Stanley to Lady Maria Stanley._

_Spring, 1816._

...Edward has long talked of a week at Waterloo, and all the rest of the

plan came tumbling after one day in talking it over with Edward

Leycester, as naturally as possible, and I expect almost as much

pleasure in seeing Cambridge and being introduced to the looks and

manners at least of E. L.'s friends, and in seeing him there as in

anything else. We are to pay a visit to Sir George and Lady Scovell at

Cambray, and perhaps to Sheffield Place, on our return....

ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE,

_June, 1816_.

I am very glad to have this opportunity of seeing what a college life

is, as well as seeing Cambridge itself and its contents animate and

inanimate. I like both very much.

We had a very pleasant journey. The road is not only prettier by

Ashbourne and Derby, but better, and, provided your nerves can stand

cantering down hill sometimes, you get on faster than on the other road.

We drank tea at Nottingham on Monday and went up to the Castle.

We arrived at Cambridge by 6 o'clock on Tuesday evening, and found

Edward deep in his studies....

This morning we breakfasted with George,[105] and, after seeing

libraries and people and buildings till I am tired, here I am, snug and

comfortable, in Edward's room....

We are off to-morrow for London.

_Mrs. E. Stanley to Lady Maria Josepha Stanley._

BLENHEIM HOTEL, LONDON,

_Saturday_.

As we were coming yesterday Edward looked at the wind and decided that

if Donald was not in the Thames then, he would have no chance of being

here this week. We had not been here an hour when in he walked in high

feather and gave me more reasons than I can remember for leaving his

sisters and going with us....

I have been to Waterloo[106] and in Buonaparte's carriage. He has given

an alarm by writing to France in spite of all their precautions.... We

have got our passports and arranged our going. Edward came back from the

city with three plans--the steamboat, the packet, or a coach to

ourselves to Ramsgate. We debated the three some time, at last, on the

strength of hearing that the steamboat had been out two nights on its

passage once, we decided on the coach, and the places were just secured

when Mr. Foljambe came in and told us he was going to Ramsgate on

Tuesday with some other friends of Edward's, and that it was the nicest

vessel ever seen and more punctual than any coach, which made us all

very angry as you may guess.... We set out to-morrow morning and get

into the packet at Ramsgate at 7 in the evening. Let me find a nice

folio at Paris, care of Perrigaux, Banquier, and I shall not feel your

handwriting the least interesting thing I have to see there.

_Rev. E. Stanley to his niece, Louisa Dorothea Stanley._

RAMSGATE, _June 11th_.

Rapidly went the coach from Canterbury, 17 miles in an hour and a half.

Fair blows the wind over the azure blue billow. "You will breakfast at

Ostend," says the Captain, "to-morrow." "Oh, that Louisa were here!"

says Donald. "She would die of delight," says Uncle, "and does not Uncle

say true?" Conceive the view from Nottingham Castle on the evening we

left Alderley ... a noble precipice, frowning over a magnificent plain,

from the terraces of which we beheld immediately at our feet almost

numberless--for I counted in a second 54--little pets of gardens, each

adorned with a love of a summerhouse to suit; in the corners of the

rocks many excavations and caverns fancifully cut out and carved, into

which each of the proprietors of the above-mentioned gardens might at

leisure retire and become his own hermit. Then how shall I touch upon

the delights of Cambridge? How shall I speak of Edward's beauty in his

cap, all covered with little bows, and a smart black gown? And how shall

I speak of his dinner and his party? Such merriment! Such hospitality!

Only think, Louisa, of dining, breakfasting and supping day after day

with 14 or 15 most accomplished, beautiful, and entertaining young

gentlemen! But no more, lest you expire at the thought! As for London, I

cannot well tell you what I did or saw, such a confused multiplicity of

sights and succession of business have seldom been experienced. At 6

this morning we started in the stage coach, the interior of which we

took, excluding all intruders, and from hence at 3 o'clock on a lovely

night, with an elegant moon, we embarked for Ostend.

(_Continued by Mrs. Stanley._)

I have persuaded Uncle to carry his letter over the water that you may

not have the anxiety of thinking for 2 days about the passage, which a

gentleman who dined with us to-day informed us was the most precarious,

dangerous, and uncertain known.

But I consoled myself with not believing the gentleman in the first

place, and by thinking with Aunt Clinton that as Mrs. Carleton was

drowned so lately at Ostend, it is not likely another accident should

happen at present.

Here we are, waiting for the awful moment of embarkation, which I

consider something like having a tooth out, but I live in hopes that,

having been up early this morning and had 10 hours' jumbling, I may be

sleepy enough to forget that I am on a shelf instead of a bed; so I have

been just to admire the moon as we sail out of harbour, and then go to

bed and find myself in sight of Ostend when I awake.

(_E. Stanley resumes next day._)

A dead calm succeeded to a gentle breeze, and on the soft, sleepy

billows we have reposed in the Downs, rolling ever since. To comfort us

we have a beautiful Packet and a limited number of passengers.

The discomfort consists in a rapid diminution of all our provisions and

the consequent prospect of no Tea, supper, or breakfast, or dinner

to-morrow. One sailor said to another as he was skinning some miserable

fish, "Aye, aye, they" (meaning the passengers) "will be glad enough of

these in a day or two, and I was eleven days becalmed last year."

Kitty, to fill up an hour of vacuity, said she would draw, and to fill

up my time this testifies that I have been thinking of you and wishing

for your presence, for the Novelty alone would keep you in full

effervesence and banish all Tediosity.

I have, moreover, been playing with a sweet little French dog brought by

one of the sailors from Boulogne. The sailors have daily given him two

glasses of gin to check his growth, and a marvellous dog of Lilliput he

is! Pray, my dear Lou, drink no gin, for you see the consequences.

I had retired to bed, when Edward Leycester called me up to admire a

beautiful display of Neptune's fireworks; wherever the surface of the

waves was agitated, the circles of silver flashed and the drops were

scattered far and wide.

The morning dawned upon us nearly in the same position, not a breath

troubled the surface, smooth and still as Radnor Mere on the sweetest

evening.

Famine began to stare us in the face; our provisions were nearly

exhausted; two or more days might elapse before we reached Ostend.

We breakfasted on tea, fried skate and cheese. Breakfast at an end, it

was proposed to board the nearest vessel and beg or borrow a dinner. In

the tide course appeared a sail, about five miles distant.

The boat was lowered, volunteers stepped forward--Uncle, Edward, Donald,

and a gentleman-like Belgian.

Away we went and by hard rowing we came alongside the strange sail in an

hour. Three leaden figures, motionless as the unwieldly bark they

manned, gazed curiously upon our approaching boat. Our Belgian friend

hailed, but hailed in vain. They looked but spoke not. Again he spoke,

and at length a monotonous "yaw" proclaimed that they were not dumb.

We went on board and found a perfect Dutch family on their way from

Antwerp to Rouen. Out stepped from her cabin the Captain's wife in

appropriate costume, her close little cap, large gold necklace and

ear-rings; and behind the Captain's spouse stepped forth two genuine

descendants of the nautical couple. Large round heads with large round

(what shall I say?) Hottentots to match and keep up the due balance

between head and tail.

Having explained our wants to the Captain, he produced as the chief

restorative an incomparable bottle of Schiedam, _i.e._, gin. To each he

offered a good large glass, and then in answer to our request for beef,

four bottles of excellent claret, two square loaves. For this he asked a

guinea, upon receiving which his features relaxed and he declared we

should have two more bottles of claret. Upon hearing we had a lady in

the packet he begged her acceptance of half a neat's tongue, some

butter, and a bag of rusks. Loaded with them, we took a joyful leave of

these sombre sailors and returned, with the orange cravat of our Belgian

friend for a flag, in triumph to the packet.

But a truce to my pen. Ostend is in sight, and now we are all rubbing

our hands and congratulating each other that wind and tide are in our

favour and that we shall be in in a couple of hours.

_Rev. E. Stanley to his niece, Isabella Stanley._[107]

BRUGES, _June 14, 1816_.

On our return from the Dutch vessel from which we recruited our

exhausted store, we found our poor Captain in sad tribulation, his

patience exhausted, but his temper luckily preserved. Having paced his

deck with a fidgeting velocity a due number of times, peeped thro' his

glass at every distant sail or cloud to observe whether they were in any

degree movable, and invoked Boreas in the most pitiable terms such as

"Oh Borus! Now do, good Borus just give us a blow," we had the

satisfaction at length, the supreme satisfaction, of perceiving a gentle

curl upon the water which soon settled into a steady breeze, before

which we glided away, delightfully enjoying our dinner upon the deck,

during which our party manifested their respective characters in most

charming style. One Farmer Dinmont[108] and Dousterswivel, a Dutchman,

were perfect specimens. A merry Belgian Equerry to the Prince of Orange,

laughed, joked, and amused us with sleight-of-hand tricks. Our Dutch

beef, tho' doubtless salt far beyond due proportion, was relished by

all, Dinmont excepted, who pronounced it, together with the

dark-coloured bread, unfit for English hogs, and shook his head with a

most significant expression of doubt at my assertion that I never

enjoyed a better dinner in my life. At five o'clock the low sand hills

appeared to view in little nodules upon the horizon, and the Steeple of

Ostend with its Lighthouse were visible from deck. At 6 we were close in

upon land, and in half an hour were boarded by a Dutch boat, but alas!

there was nothing in its appearance to excite curiosity, and with the

exception of large earrings you might have fancied yourself in Holyhead

Harbour. Four stout, tall fellows, hard and resolute in feature and

decided in action, proclaimed their near alliance to British Jack Tars.

They remained a little while and tried to cheat the passengers as much

as possible, to take us on shore, but finding us determined to remain

till the Captain could get his own boat ready, they shrugged their

shoulders, abused us in Dutch, and sailed away. We were too many for one

boat, so taking Kitty and the best of our English passengers and honest

Farmer Dinmont, with all the luggage, we pushed off from the vessel.

People of all descriptions, pilots, sailors, customs officers, soldiers,

waiters soliciting customs for their respective turns. Porters regular

and irregular, the latter consisting of a sort of light Infantry corps

of ragged boys. All these people, I say, were crowded together on a

little peninsular jetty against which our boat was shoved, and no sooner

had the oars ceased to play and our keel cleared the sand than all these

people set up their pipes in every dialect of every tongue, French and

English both bad of their sort, Dutch high and low, Flemish and German.

All burst upon us at one and the same moment, and the Cossack corps of

ragged porters all stept forward, arm, leg and foot, to claim the honour

of carrying up (most probably of carrying off) our baggage. By dint of

words fair and foul, a shove here and a push there, I contrived to get

Kitty under my arm and superintend, tho' with no small trouble and

inconceivable watchfulness, the adjustment of our small portmanteaux,

writing case, &c., in a wheelbarrow, which, from its formidable length

of handle, bespoke its foreign manufacturer. On we jogged, but jogged

not long; for before this accumulating procession could disperse we were

arrested by a whiskered soldier, who in unintelligible terms announced

himself a searcher of baggage. So to the custom house we went, when each

trunk was opened and submitted to a slight inspection; the chief

difficulty consisting in putting myself in 2 places at once--one close

to the depôt of our goods in the barrow, the other before the officer

with the keys. Kitty was wedged in a corner with a writing case and, I

think, Donald's sword. My English companion was equally on the alert,

but Farmer Dinmont would have excited all your compassion, or rather

admiration; for here amidst the din of tongues and arms, unable to move

hand or foot, he stood with a smile of mingled resignation and wonder;

at length, the search being concluded to the satisfaction of both

parties, we re-commenced our course, and in a few minutes Kitty found

herself in a new world. Women and children unlike any women and children

you ever saw; close caps with butterfly wings for the former, little

black skull bonnets for the latter, in shape both alike, much resembling

those toys which, if placed on their heads, by their superior specific

gravity and extensive sacrifice of their lower projections instantly

revolve and settle upon their tails.

"Voici, Messieurs et Madame, entrons dans la Cour Impériale," and

another moment hoisted us within the covered gateway of this Hotel of

Imperial appellation. Our arrangements for sleeping and eating being

complete, we sat down on a bench before the door to gaze, but not to be

gazed upon, for the good people never cast an eye upon us. On retiring

to tea, good Farmer Dinmont's countenance relaxed as he flung himself

into a chair; he put his hands upon the table and exclaimed, "Well,

well, here I am sitting down for the first time out of Old England!" ...

A cup of tea, or rather a kettle full, for our salt beef had kindled an

insatiable thirst, put him in good humour again, and, but for a sort of

sigh or a look or a jerk which proved Old England to be uppermost in his

thoughts, he appeared quite satisfied. With some trouble Kitty secured

the fly cap chambermaid and had taken possession of her room; having

seen her safe, I descended to give orders for a warming-pan, leaving her

(after having been 2 nights in her clothes) to the luxury of an entire

change of linen and course of ablutions. On re-crossing the court 10

minutes afterwards I ran against a waiter running off with a

warming-pan, glowing with red-hot embers. "Mais donc" said I, "Madame

wants a warming-pan. Allons, where is the chambermaid to carry it?" "Oh,

n'importe," replied this flying Mercury; "c'est moi qui fera cela pour

la dame!" Only guess Kitty's escape! Another moment and he would have

been in her presence, warming-pan and all. By dint of remonstrating I

checked his course and prevailed upon the Maid to go herself with vast

ill humour, innumerable shrugs, and some few "Mon Dieu's" and other

suitable expressions. Kitty must herself be the interpreter of her own

feelings in these lands of novelty. I am almost glad you were, none of

you, here to witness what she will have such pleasure in describing. Our

morning passed away in strolling over the town. Kitty and I dined at the

table d'hôte with about 20 people. Farmer Dinmont sent for a bottle of

the best wine to try it and offered me a glass. I begged to propose a

toast, "Prosperity to Old England." His features brightened up, he

grasped the bottle, filled a bumper, and replied, "Aye, aye, with all my

heart; that Toast I would drink in ditch water." We left Ostend at 3

o'clock to take passage in the Bruges canal, and I do assure you we all

felt quite sorry to leave our dear, good, honest John Bull.

At Saas we fell in with a specimen of Lord Wellington's operations.

There is a formidable battery erected last year by way of guarding

Ostend from a "coup de main"; it is singular that the English have

placed a Battery for the defence close to the celebrated sluice gates of

this canal, which gates were blown up by Sir Evelyn Coote to prevent the

French from inundating the country, when he invaded it some years

before.

Behold us seated in a spacious room, for it does not deserve the

diminutive name of "Cabin," decorated with hangings of green cloth and

gold border, on board a most commodious barge. Behold us on a lovely

evening starting from the Quay with full sail and 3 horses, a man

mounted on one and cracking a great long whip to drive on the other two,

which trotted away abreast at the rate of 4-1/2 miles an hour. Behold us

seated on this easy chair of Neptune! our ears deafened and our spirits

enlivened by a band of music--trumpet, violin, and bass--admirably

playing Waltzes and other national tunes. When they had amused us on

deck they went below to another class of auditors. Our fellow traveller,

Mr. Trueman, followed them, and perceiving him to be English they struck

up "God save the King." A Frenchman called out "Ba, ba," a very

expressive mode of communicating disapprobation, but seeing Trueman was

of a different opinion, he ceased from his "Ba, ba," and stepping

towards him made him a low bow. About 6 o'clock we arrived at Bruges, or

rather to the wharf from whence passengers betake themselves and

portmanteaux to barrows and sledges. As we approached our Band resumed

their musical exertions. A crowd assembled to welcome our arrival, Gigs,

coaches (such coaches!!), Horsemen (such Horsemen!!), were parading.

Such a light with such a rainbow shone upon such an avenue and such

picturesque gate!! Our baggage filled a car drawn by 3 stout men; and we

all followed in the rear.... Bruges is a town affording five or six

volumes of sketches; towers, roofs, gable ends, bridges--all in

succession called for exclusive admiration. It was decided that we

should rise at 4, breakfast at 6, and see all that was possible before

9, when we were to continue our route to Ghent. At 3 o'clock I was

prepared, but a steady rain forced me reluctantly to bed again, but we

did breakfast at 6, and did pick up two or three sketches.

_Mrs. E. Stanley to Lady Maria J. Stanley._

BRUSSELS, _June 18, 1816_.

[Illustration: FRENCH CABRIOLET.

_To face p. 260._]

On the 18th of June, how can I begin with any other subject than

Waterloo?... At 8 this morning we mounted our Cabriolets for Waterloo.

Donald put on his Waterloo medal for the first time, and a French shirt

he got in the spoils, and a cravat of an officer who was killed, and I

wrapped myself in his Waterloo cloak, and we all felt the additional

sensation which the anniversary of the day produced on everybody. It

brought the comparison of the past and present day more perfectly home.

Donald was ready with his recollections every minute of the day, what

had been his occupation or his feeling. The forest of Soignies is a fine

approach to the field of battle--dark, damp, and melancholy. If you had

heard nothing about it, you could hardly help feeling, in passing

through it, that you would not like to cross it alone. There are no fine

trees, but the extent and depth of wood gives it all the effect of a

fine one, and an effect particularly suited to the associations

connected with it. The road--a narrow pavement in the middle with black

mud on each side--looks as if it had never felt a ray of sun, and from

its state to-day gave me a good idea of what it must have been.

Sometimes the road is raised thro' a deep hollow, and it was not

possible to look down without shuddering at the idea of the horses and

carriages and men which had been overturned one upon another; in some

parts the trees are _à la_ Ralph Leycester, and you see the dark black

of shade of the distant wood through them; but in other parts it is so

choked with brushwood and inequalities of ground, that you could not see

two yards before you, and no gorge was ever so good a cover for foxes as

this for all evil-disposed persons. At Waterloo we stopped to see the

Church, or rather the monuments in it, put up by the different regiments

over their fallen officers. They are all badly designed and executed but

one Latin one--not half so good as the epitaph on Lord Anglesey's leg

which the man had buried with the utmost veneration in his garden and

planted a tree over it; and he shows as a relic almost as precious as a

Catholic bit of bone or blood, the blood upon a chair in the room when

the leg was cut off, which he had promised my lord "_de ne jamais

effacer_".

At Mont St. Jean Donald began to know where he was. Here he found the

well where he had got some water for his horse; here the green pond he

had fixed upon as the last resource for his troop; here the cottage

where he had slept on the 17th; here the breach he had made in the hedge

for his horses to get into the field to bivouac; here the spot where he

had fired the first gun; here the hole in which he sat for the surgeon

to dress his wound. He had never been on the field since the day of the

battle, and his interest in seeing it again and discovering every spot

under its altered circumstances was fully as great as ours.

After all that John Scott[109] or Walter Scott or anybody can describe

or even draw, how much more clear and satisfactory is the conception

which one single glance over the reality gives you in an instant, than

any you can form from the best and most elaborate description that can

be given! To see it in perfection would be to have an officer of every

regiment to give you an account just of everything he saw and did on the

particular spot where he was stationed.

Donald scarcely knew as much as Edward did or as the people about of

what passed anywhere but just at his own station. But at every place it

was sufficient to ask the inhabitants where they were and what they

saw, to obtain interesting information.

[Illustration: Hougoumont ... June 18th

_To face p. 263._]

Every plan I have seen makes it much too irregular, rough ground; it is

all undulating, smooth ups and downs, so gradual that you must look some

time before you discover all the irregularity there is. Hougoumont[110]

is the only interesting point, and that by having an air of peace and

retirement about it most opposite to what took place in it.

It is a respectable, picturesque farmhouse, with pretty trees and sweet

fields all around it; the ravages are not repaired and many of the trees

cut down. We left our carriages in the road and walked all over the

British position, and henceforward I shall have a clearer idea, not only

of Waterloo, but of what a military position and military plan is like.

At La Belle Alliance we sat upon a bench where Lord Wellington and

Blücher perhaps met, and drank to their healths in Vin de Bordeaux. In

spite of the corn, there are still bits of leather caps and bullets and

bones scattered about in the fields, and you are pestered with children

innumerable with relics of all sorts. We had heard magnificent accounts

on our road here of all that was to be done on the field, balls, fêtes,

sham fights, processions, and I do not know what, but they have all

dwindled to a dinner given here to the Belgian soldiers and a Mass to be

said for the souls of the dead to-morrow. However, we saw what we

wished as we wished, and the impression is perhaps clearer than if it

had been disturbed and mixed with other sights.

And now, being near 12, and I having walked about 8 miles, and been up

since 6, must go to bed, though I feel neither sleepy nor tired.

_To Lucy Stanley._

_June 24, 1816._

...Away with me to Waterloo!

We arrived at Brussels on the evening of the 17th, and at seven o'clock

started for the scene of action. From Brussels a paved road, with a

carriage track on each side, passes for nine miles to the village of

Waterloo.

The Forest (of Soignies) is, without exception, one of the most

cut-throat-looking spots I ever beheld, ... and for some days after the

battle deserters and stragglers, chiefly Prussians, took up their abode

in this appropriate place, and sallying forth, robbed, plundered, and

often shot those who were unfortunate enough to travel alone or in small

defenceless parties.

After traversing this gloomy avenue for about four miles, the first

symptoms of war met our eyes in the shape of a dead horse, whose ribs

glared like a cheval-de-frise from a tumulus of mud. If the ghosts of

the dead haunt these sepulchral groves, we must have passed through an

army of spirits, as our driver, who had visited the scene three days

after the battle, described the last four miles as a continued pavement

of men and horses dying and dead.

[Illustration: Interior of Hugomont June 18, 1816.

_To face p. 265._]

At length a dome appears at the termination of the avenue. It is the

church of Waterloo. They were preparing for a mass and procession, and

the houses were most of them adorned with festoons of flowers or

branches of trees....

...We turned to the right down the Nivelle road, for it was there

Donald's gun was placed, and some labourers who were ploughing on the

spot brought us some iron shot and fragments of shell which they had

just turned up. The hedges were still tolerably sprinkled with bits of

cartridge-paper, and remnants of hats, caps, straps, and shoes were

discernible all over the plains. Hougoumont was a heap of ruins, for it

had taken fire during the action, and presented a very perfect idea of

the fracas which had taken place that day year. How different now! A

large flock of sheep, with their shepherd, were browsing at the gate,

and the larks were singing over its ruins on one of the sweetest days we

could have chosen for the visit. As I was taking a sketch in a quiet

corner I heard a vociferation so loud, so vehement, and so varied, that

I really thought two or three people were quarrelling close to me. In a

moment the vociferator (for it was but one) appeared at my elbow with an

explosion of French oaths and gesticulations equal to any discharge of

grape-shot on the day of attack. "Comment, Monsieur," said I, "What is

the matter?" "Oh, les coquins! les sacrés coquins" and away he went,

abusing the coquins in so ambiguous a style that I doubted whether his

wrath was venting against Napoleon or against his opponents. "Oui,"

remarked I, "ils sont coquins; et Buonaparte, que pensez-vous de lui?"

This was a sort of opening which I trusted would bring him to the point

without a previous committal of myself. It certainly did bring him to

the point, for he gave a bounce and a jump and his tongue came out, and

his mouth foamed, and his eyes rolled, as with a jerk he ejaculated,

"Napoleon! qu'est-ce que je pense de lui?" It was well for poor Napoleon

that he was quiet and comfortable in St. Helena, for had he been at

Hougoumont, I am perfectly convinced that my communicant would have sent

him to moulder with his brethren in arms. Having vented his rage, I

asked him if the French had ever got within the walls. "Yes," he said,

"three times; but they were always repulsed"; he assured me he had been

there during the attack and that he saw them within; but added, "How

they came in at that door" (pointing to the gate by which we were

standing and which was drilled with bullets), "or when they came in, or

how or where they got out I cannot tell you, for what with the noise,

and the fire, and the smoke, I scarcely knew where I was myself."

[Illustration: LA BELLE ALLIANCE.

_To face p. 267._]

One of the farm servants begged me to observe the chapel, which he

hinted had been indebted to a miracle for its safety, and certainly as a

good Catholic he had a fair foundation for his belief, as the flames

had merely burnt about a yard of the floor, having been checked, as he

conceived, by the presence of the crucifix suspended over the door,

which had received no other injury than the loss of part of its feet. He

had remained there till morning, when, seeing the French advance and

guessing their drift, he contrived to make good his escape, but returned

the following day. What he then saw you may guess when I tell you that

at the very door I stood upon a mound composed of earth and ashes upon

which 800 bodies had been burnt. Every tree bore marks of death, and

every ditch was one continued grave.

From Hougoumont we walked to La Belle Alliance,[111] crossing the

neutral ground between the armies; a few days ago a couple of gold

watches had been found, and I daresay many a similar treasure yet

remains. At La Belle Alliance, a squalid farm house, we rested to take

some refreshment. For a few biscuits and a bottle of common wine the

woman asked us five francs, which being paid, I followed her into the

house. Not perceiving me at the door, she met her husband, and bursting

into a loud laugh, with a fly-up of arms and legs (for nothing in this

country is done without gesticulation), she exclaimed, "Only think! ces

gens-là m'ont donné cinq francs." In this miserable pot-house did the

possessor find 280 wounded wretches jammed together and weltering in

blood when he returned on Monday morning. If I proceed to more

particulars I foresee I should fill folios.

I must carry you at once to La Haye Sainte.[112] It was along a hedge

that the severest work took place; it made me shudder to think that upon

a space of fifty square yards 4,000 bodies were found dead. The ditches

and the field formed one great grave. The earth told in very visible

terms what occasioned its elasticity; upon forcing a stick down and

turning up a clod, human bodies in an offensive state of decay

immediately presented themselves. I found four Belgian peasants

commenting upon one figure which was scarcely interred, and on walking

under the outer wall of La Haye Sainte a hole was tenanted by myriads of

maggots feasting upon a corpse.

Here stands the Wellington tree,[113] peppered with shot and stripped as

high as a man can jump of its twigs and leaves, for every passenger

jumps up for a relic. We stood upon the road where Buonaparte (defended

by high banks) sent on, but _didn't_ lead, 6,000 of his old Imperial

Guard. They charged along the road up to La Haye Sainte, dwindling as

they went by the incessant fire of 80 pieces of Artillery, many of them

within a few yards, till their number did not exceed 300. Then Napoleon

turned round to Bertrand, lifted his hand, cried out, "C'est tout perdu,

c'est tout fini," and galloped off with La Corte and Bertrand,[114]

quitting most probably for ever a field of battle.

A continued sheet of corn or fallowed fields occupy the whole plain. The

crops are indifferent and the reason assigned is curious. The whole

being trampled down last year, became the food of mice, which in

consequence repaired thither from all quarters and increased and

multiplied to such a degree that the soil is quite infested by them.

Upon the heights where the British squares received the shock of the

French Cavalry, we found an English officer's cocked hat, much injured

apparently by a cannon shot, with its oilskin rotting away, and showing

by its texture, shape, and quality that it had been manufactured by a

fashionable hatter, and most probably graced the wearer's head in Bond

Street and St. James's. Wherever we went we were surrounded by boys and

beggars offering Eagles from Frenchmen's helmets, cockades, pistols,

swords, cuirasses, and other fragments.

At Brussels they gave the Belgian troops a dinner in a long, shady

avenue, which was more than they deserved, and in the evening the Town

was illuminated. In the Newspaper I daresay there will be a splendid

account of it, but it was a wretched display in the proportion of one

tallow candle to 50 windows stuck up to glimmer and go out without the

slightest taste or regularity.

From Brussels we started in a nice open Barouche Landau on Thursday, the

20th. We again crossed the Field of Waterloo and proceeded towards

Genappes, a road along which we jogged merrily and peaceably, but which

had last year on this same day been one continued scene of carnage and

confusion: Prussians cutting off French heads, arms and legs by

hundreds; Englishmen in the rear going in chase, cheering the Prussians

and urging them in pursuit; the French, exhausted with fatigue and

vexation, making off in all directions with the utmost speed.

At Genappes we changed horses in the very courtyard where Napoleon's

carriage was taken ... and were shown the spot where the Brunswick

Hussars cut down the French General as a retaliation for the life of the

Duke. The Postmaster told us what he could, which was not much; the only

curious part was that in his narrative he never called the Highland

Regiments "Les Écossais," but "Les Sans Culottes." The setting sun found

us all covered with dust, rather tired and very hungry, and driving up,

with some misgivings from what we had heard and from what we saw, to our

Inn at Charleroi. "This is an abominable-looking house," said Donald.

"Oh, jump out before we drive in and ask what we can get to eat." "Well,

Donald, what success?" we all cried like young birds upon the return of

the old one to the gaping, craving mouths in their nest. "The Landlady

says she has nothing at all in the house, but if you will come in thinks

something may be killed which will suffice for supper." This was a bad

prospect....

[Illustration: WATERLOO.

_To face p. 270._]

We three went on in quest of better accommodation, and drove first to

enquire at the Post House. The first question the Postmaster asked was,

What could induce us to come to a place from which there was no exit? We

told him we wished to go to Maubeuge. Had you seen his shoulders elevate

themselves above his ears. "To Maubeuge! Why, it is utterly impossible."

"Well, then," we said, "to Mons." "Le chemin est éxecrable." "To

Phillippe ville." "Encore plus mauvais." As a proof of which he told us

that a government courier had two days before insisted upon being

forwarded thither, that they had sent him off at 2 in the morning, to

insure him time before daylight, that at 9 in the morning he was brought

back, having proceeded with the utmost difficulty 2 leagues, and then

being deposited in a rut by the fracture of his carriage. After a great

deal of pro and con it was agreed that with more horses and great

caution and stock of patience the road to Mons should be attempted, and

we were directed to "Le Grand Monarque," a good name for these times,

applicable to Buonaparte or Louis XVIII.

It was worth while to lose our way and encounter these unexpected

difficulties for the amusement the landlady afforded us. We seemed

almost at the end of the world. I am sure we felt so, for the people

were so odd. Dinner she promised, and in half an hour proved by a

procession of half a dozen capital dishes how wonderfully these people

understand the art of cookery, in a place which in England would be

considered upon a par with the "Eagle and Child."[115] We asked her

about the road in hopes of hearing a more satisfactory account. With a

nod and a shrug, and an enlargement of the mouth and projection of lip,

she replied, "Messieurs, je ne voudrais pas être un oiseau de mauvais

augure, mais, pour les chemins il faut avouer qu'ils sont effroyables."

I will venture to say such a "oiseau" as our speaker has never before

been seen or heard of by any naturalist or ornithologist. Her figure and

cloak were both inimitable. She gave such a tragi-comic account of her

sufferings last year, during the time of the retreat, and in 1814 when

the Russians were there, that while she laughed with one eye and cried

with the other, we were almost inclined to do the same. She had been

pillaged by a French officer in a manner which surpassed any idea we

could have formed of French oppression and barbarity. At one time the

Cossacks caught her, and on some dispute about a horse, 4 of them took

her each by an arm and leg and laying her upon her "Ventre" flat as a

pancake, a fifth cracked his knout (whip) most fearfully over her head,

and prepared himself to apply the said whip upon our poor landlady. By

good fortune an officer rescued her from their clutches, but she

shivered like a jelly when she described her feelings in her awkward

position, like a boat upon the shore bottom upwards. Then she told us

how her husband died of fright, or something very near it. Her account

of him was capital, "Il étoit," said she, "un bon papa du temps passé,"

by which perhaps you may imagine she was young and handsome. She was

very old and as ugly as Hecate.

Well, my sheet is at an end, and my hand quite knocked up. We did get to

Mons, but the roads were "effroyable." At one moment (luckily we were

not in it) the carriage stuck in the mud and paused. "Shall I go? or

shall I not go?" Luckily it preferred the latter, and returned to its

position on 4 wheels instead of 2.

E. STANLEY.

_Mrs. E. Stanley to Lady Maria Stanley._

And now to return to what pleased me first: Bruges--where I first felt

myself completely out of England. The buildings were so entirely unlike

any I have seen before that I could have fancied myself rather walking

amongst pictures than houses. The winding streets are so interesting

when you do not know what new sight a new turn will present; especially

when, as in this case, the new sight was so satisfactory every time.

Ghent is a much finer town but not near so picturesque; but we were

fortunate in falling in here with a fine Catholic procession. We went to

the top of the Cathedral, and as we were coming down the great bell

tolled and announced the procession had begun. We almost broke our necks

in our hurry to get a peep, and we did arrive at a loop-hole in time to

see the whole mass of priests and procession in slow motion down the

great aisle and to hear their chant. It was very fine indeed, tho' to

our heretical feelings the interest lies as much in the romantic

associations connected with all the Roman Catholic ceremonies as in

anything better. It is not in human nature not to feel more devotion in

the imposing solemnity of such a church. The "Descents from the Cross"

were just put up, and with the organ playing and mass going on, and the

number of female figures with their black scarfs over their heads

kneeling on chairs in different parts of the Cathedral, we saw them to

greater advantage than surrounded by French bonnets and other pictures

in the Louvre. They are quite different to any Rubens I ever saw before;

the colouring so much deeper and the figures so superior.

But no one should be allowed to enter that Cathedral without the black

scarf, which makes a young face look pretty and an old one picturesque;

and there were several common people gazing at the picture with as much

admiration and adoration painted on their faces as there probably was

on ours.

[Illustration: _Church of St. Nicholas, Ghent June 16, 1816._

_To face p. 274._]

At Brussels there were more pictures from the Louvre, but the Brutes had

packed up the Rubens without any covering or precaution whatever, and

there they are with a hole thro' one, and the other covered with mildew

and stains from rain and dirt. From Ghent we travelled in two cabriolets

to Brussels, which were not quite so easy or pleasant as the Canal

boats; but the accommodations as far as Brussels have been really

_superbe_. I have longed for the papers or the carpets or the marble

tables in every room we have been in; and I have learned to consider

dinner as a matter of great curiosity and importance, and I cannot

wonder that Englishmen are not proof against the temptations of living

well and so cheap. Brussels is a nice place; there appear to be so many

pleasant walks and rides in all directions. The country about is so

pretty, and the town (with the exception of the steep hill which you

must ascend to get to the best part of it) very cheerful and agreeable

looking.... Every place swarms with English; we have met four times as

many English carriages and travellers as we did on our road to London.

Our weather has been very favourable. We had a cool day for walking

about at Waterloo, and the next day a delightful bright sunshine to show

off the Palace of Laeken to advantage. It is the place where Bonaparte

intended to sleep on the 18th, and he fitted it up. It is three miles

from Brussels, commanding a view of the whole country and surrounded by

trees and pleasure-grounds in the English style. After looking at

buildings and towns so much, it was an agreeable relief to admire shady

walks and fine trees. We went to the Theatre, which was execrable, but

at Ghent we were very much amused with some incomparable acting.

We left Brussels yesterday morning in a Barouche and _three_, which is

to take us to Paris. It holds us four in the inside and John on the box

as nicely as we could wish and is perfectly easy. We suit each other as

well in other respects as in the carriage. Donald is an excellent

_compagnon de voyage_--full of liveliness, good humour, and curiosity,

enjoying everything in the right way. He and Edward Leycester are my

beaux, while E.S. does the business; which makes it much pleasanter to

me than if I had only one gentleman with me. In short, we had not a

difficulty till yesterday. We came by Waterloo again and picked up

Lacoite to get what we could from him, and then to Charleroi, being told

the road by Nivelles was impassable. The road to Charleroi was bad, and

we did not arrive till 9, having had no eatable but biscuit and wine.

Donald entered the hotel to enquire what we could have for dinner, and

returned with the melancholy report that the woman had literally

nothing, and did not know where any were to be procured, but that she

would kill a hen and dress it if we liked! We sent Donald and Edward, as

a forlorn hope, to see if there was another inn, and after a long

search they found one, whereupon the postillion found out that he had

no drag-chain and could not properly descend the _montagne._ However,

after some arguments, and my descent from the carriage, and Donald and

John walking on each side the wheels with large stones ready to place

before them in case they were disposed to run too fast, we arrived at

the Inn at the foot of the Hill, from which issued an old woman who

might have sat for Gil Blas' or Caleb Williams' old woman. When she

heard where we were going, she shook her head and said she did not like

to be _un oiseau de mauvais augure_ but that the only road we could go

was very nearly impassable. The people and the children in the street

crowded round the carriage as if they had never seen one before, and, in

short, we found that we had got into a _cul-de-sac._

[Illustration: PORTE DE HALLE, BRUSSELS, LEADING TO WATERLOO.

_To face page 278._]

However, our adventures for the night finished by the old woman giving

us so good a dinner and so many good stories of herself and the

Cossacks, that we did not regret having been round, especially now when

we are safely landed at Valenciennes without either carriage or bones

broke--over certainly the very worst road I ever saw.

We shall be at Paris on Monday or Tuesday, I think. Adieu.

_Rev. E. Stanley to his niece, Rianette Stanley._

...Before leaving Brussels for ever, it is impossible not to speak about

the dogs. What would you say, what would you think, and how would you

laugh at some of these wondrous equipages. You meet them in all

directions carrying every species of load. They were only surpassed by

one vehicle we met on the road drawn by nine, and as luck would have it,

just as we passed, the five leaders fell to fighting and ran their

carriage over some high stones. Then the women within began to scream

and the driver without began to whip, which caused an inevitable scene

of bustle and perplexity....

At Quiverain we passed the line of separation between France and Belgium

and were subjected to a close inspection by the Custom House Officers,

during which some Bandana handkerchiefs of Edward's were for a time in

great jeopardy, but they were finally returned and "nous voilà" in "la

belle France." The change was perceptible in more ways than one. Before

we had travelled a mile we beheld a proof of this subjugated state in

the person of a Cossack "en plein costume," with two narrow, horizontal

eyes placed at the top of his forehead, bespeaking his Tartar origin.

Upon a log of timber twenty more were sitting smoking. The Russian

headquarters are at Maubeuge, but the Cossacks are scattered all over

the frontier villages and are seen everywhere. We fell in with at least

a hundred. They are very quiet and much liked by the people. The Duke of

Wellington, when returning to Valenciennes a few days ago from Maubeuge,

was escorted by a party of these gipsy guards.

On approaching Valenciennes other tokens of conquest appeared. A

clean-looking inn, with a smart garden in Islington style, presented

itself, bearing a sign with an English name containing the additional

intelligence that London Porter and Rum, Gin, and Brandy were all there,

and to be had.

Over many a window we saw a good John Bull board with "Spirituous

Liquors Sold Here" inscribed thereon in broad British characters, unlike

the "Spiritual Lickers" in the miserable letters upon the signboards at

Ostend. As to Valenciennes, nothing was French but the houses and Inns.

The visible population were red-coated soldiers, and it was impossible

not to fancy that our journey was a dream, and that we had in fact

re-opened our eyes in England.

Of hornworks, demi-lunes, and ravelines I shall speak to your Papa when

I fight my battle once again in the Armchair at the Park or at

Winnington; enough for you to know that we all breakfasted with Sir

Thomas Brisbane, a very superior man and a great astronomer, and tho'

brave as a lion, seems to prefer looking at la Pleine lune in the

heavens than the host of demi-lunes with which he is surrounded in his

present quarters. At Cambray Sir George Scovell[116] had most kindly

secured us lodgings at Sir Lowry Cole's[117] house, which we had all to

ourselves, as the General was in England. Where the French people live

it is not easy to guess, for all the best houses are taken by British

Officers. They receive a billet which entitles them to certain rooms,

and generally they induce the possessor to decamp altogether by giving

him a small rent for the remainder. We found Colonel Egerton, who

married a Miss Tomkinson, in the garrison. We dined with them and the

Scovell, and were received with the utmost kindness and attention by

all. Colonel Prince and Colonel Abercromby (you know both, I believe)

also dined there two days we remained.

On Sunday there was a Procession. The most curious circumstance was that

a troop of British cavalry attended to clear the way and do the honours,

for the National Guard had been disarmed three days before in

consequence of an order from the Duke of Wellington (nobody knows why).

They gave up their arms without a murmur; some few, I believe, expressed

by a "Bah!" and a shrug of the shoulders that it was not quite agreeable

to their feelings, but "voilà tout." "I say, Jack," said a Grenadier of

the Guards to his Companion, by whom I was standing as the procession

came out of the Church, "who is that fellow with a gold coat and

gridiron?" "Why, that's St. Lawrence," and so it was.

St. Lawrence led the way, followed by a brass St. Andrew as stiff as a

poker and as much resembling St. Andrew as I conceive; but my companion

the Grenadier thought differently, for he pronounced him to be a Chef

d'oeuvre. "Well now, Jack, that's quite natural." ...

I must hurry you on to Compiègne, merely saying that we traversed a

country fringed with immense forests in which wolves are born and live

and die without much interruption, tho' we were told at one of the Inns

that a peasant had, a day or two before, captured seven juvenile

individuals of the species and carried them off uneaten by their

disconsolate parents.

Our chief reason for visiting Compiègne was that we might see a Palace

fitted up for Marie Louise by Bonaparte in a style of splendour

surpassing, in my opinion, any Palace I have seen in France.

_Mrs. E. Stanley to Lady Maria J. Stanley._

PARIS, _June 28, 1816_.

And here I am--and what shall I tell you first? And how shall I find

time to tell you anything in the wandering Arab kind of life we are

leading? It is very new and very amusing and I enjoy it very much, but I

enjoy still more the thoughts of how much I shall enjoy my own quiet

home and children again when I get to them.

We arrived on Tuesday evening, and in half an hour I was in the Palais

Royal in the Café de Mille Colonnes, and at night the brilliancy of the

Lamps and Mirrors, glittering in every direction in every alley,

displayed this new scene to me in the newest colours; and it was very

like walking in a new world....

The Fêtes for the marriage of the Due de Berri are unfortunately all

over. Except the entertainments at the Court itself, a French party is a

thing unheard of, and the only gaieties have been English parties to

which some few French come when they are invited. The only gentlemen's

carriages I have seen in the streets are English, and as to French

gentlemen or ladies, according to the most diligent enquiries by eyes

and tongue, the race has almost disappeared....

If you admire Buonaparte and despise the Bourbons in Cheshire, what

would you in Paris? where the regular answer to everything you admire is

that it was done by Buonaparte--to everything that you object to, that

it is by order of the Bourbons. In the Library of the Hôpital des

Invalides to-day, collected by order of Buonaparte for the use of the

soldiers, there was a man pulling down all the books and stamping over

the N's and eagles on the title-page with blue ink, which, if it did not

make a plain L, at least blotted out the N; but I should apprehend that

every one who saw the blot would think more of the vain endeavour of

Louis to take his place than if the N had been left.

...I have told you nothing about Valenciennes and how we breakfasted

with two odd characters to come together in one, an Astronomer and a

Soldier, viz., Sir Thomas Brisbane, who enlivens his quarters wherever

he goes by erecting an observatory immediately, and studying hard as any

Cambridge mathematician every hour that he is not on military duty. His

officers seem to have partaken in some degree of the spirit of their

General, and to have made use of their position at Valenciennes to make

themselves perfectly acquainted with all Marlborough's campaign, and

they appeared to have as much interest in tracing all his sieges and

breaches and batteries as their General in making his observations on

the sun and the stars.... The Scovells were delighted to see us at

Cambray; put us into Sir Lowry Cole's quarters, where we had a house and

gardens all to ourselves. Lord Wellington had been at Cambray a

fortnight before, and was all affability, good humour, and gaiety....

Sir Geo. Scovell gave many interesting details of his coolness,

quickness, decision, and undaunted spirit.

_Edward Stanley to Bella Stanley._

PARIS, _July 9, 1816_.

It is absolutely necessary that a word or two should be said upon the

palace at Compiègne, which was fitted up about seven years ago by

Napoleon for Marie Louise. Having seen most of his Imperial abodes, I am

inclined to give the preference, as far as internal decoration extends,

to Compiègne. Gold, silver, mirrors, tapestry all hold their court

here. The bath is a perfect specimen of French luxury and magnificence.

It fills a recess in a moderately-sized room almost entirely panelled

with the finest sheets of plate glass; and the ball room is so

exquisitely beautiful that to see its golden walls and ceilings lighted

up with splendid chandeliers, and its floors graced with dancers, plumed

and jewelled, I would take the trouble of attending as your Chaperon

from Alderley whenever the Bourbons send you an invitation.

The gardens are like all other French pleasure grounds, formal and

comfortless, but there is one part you would all enjoy. When Buonaparte

first carried Marie Louise to Compiègne she expressed much satisfaction,

but remarked that it was deficient in a Berceau; it could not stand in

competition with her favourite palace of Schönbrunn. Now, a berceau is a

wide walk covered with trellis work and flowers. She left Compiègne. In

six weeks Napoleon begged her to pay another visit. She did so, and

found a berceau wide enough for two carriages to go abreast and above

two miles in length, extending from the gardens to the forest of

Compiègne, completely finished. May you all be espoused to husbands who

will execute all your whims and fancies with equal rapidity and good

taste! In your berceau I will walk; but if you are destined to reside in

golden palaces, you must expect little of Uncle's company.

Having travelled thus far, attend us to Paris and imagine yourself

seated in a velvet chair in the Hotel de Bretagne, Rue de Richelieu,

that is to say, when translated into London terms, conceive yourself

seated in one of the Hotels in or near Covent Gardens, close to Theatre

and shops and all that a stranger wishes to be near for a week when the

sole purpose of his visit is seeing and hearing. We are within 20 yards

(but if measured by the mud and filth to be traversed in the march I

should call it a mile) of the Palais Royal, the fairy land of Paris, and

Paradise of vice, and the centre of attraction to every stranger. Here

we breakfast in Coffee-houses, of which no idea can be formed by those

who only associate the name of Coffee-house with certain subdivided,

gloomy apartments in England, where steaks and _Morning Chronicles_

reign with divided sway, and where the silence is seldom interrupted but

by queries as to the price of stocks or "Here, Waiter, another bottle of

Port."

We dine at Restaurateurs, choosing unknown dishes out of five

closely-printed columns of _fricandeaus_ and _à la financières_.

Before I proceed let me inform you of some simple matters of fact which

I may forget if delayed. Such as that we found the Sothebys and Murrays,

and Leghs of High Legh, and Wilbraham of Delamere Lodge. With the former

we have made several joint excursions and contrived to meet at dinner.

Mr. Sotheby is in his element, bustles everywhere, looks the vignette of

happiness, exclaims "Good!" upon all occasions, from the arrangement of

the Skulls in the Catacombs to the dressing of a _vol au vent_. In

short, they are all as delighted as myself, and that is saying a good

deal.

Pardon this digression. Again to the point--to Paris. Where shall I

begin? Let us take the theatres. We saw Talma last night, and the

impression is strong, therefore he shall appear first on the list.

The play was "Manlius," a tragedy in many respects like our "Venice

Preserved." The House was crowded to excess, especially the pit, which,

as in England, is the focus of criticisms and vent for public opinion.

When a Tragedy is acted no Music whatever is allowed, not a fiddle

prefaced the performance; but at seven o'clock the curtain slowly rose,

and amidst the thunder of applause, succeeded by a breathless silence,

Talma stepped forth in the Roman toga of Manlius. His figure is bad,

short, and rather clumsy, his countenance deficient in dignity and

natural expression, but with all these deductions he shines like a

meteor when compared with Kemble. He is body and soul, finger and thumb,

head and foot, involved in his character; and so, say you, is Miss

O'Neil, but Talma and Miss O'Neil are different and distant as the

poles. She is nature, he is art, but it is the perfection of art, and so

splendid a specimen well deserves the approbation he so profusely

receives.

The curtain is not let down between the acts, and the interval does not

exceed two or three minutes, so that your attention is never

interrupted. The scene closed as it commenced--with that peculiar hurra

of the French, expressive of their highest excitement. It is the same

with which they make their charge in battle, and proportioned to numbers

it could not have been more vehement at the victories of Austerlitz and

Jena than it was on the reappearance of Talma; and not satisfied with

this, they insisted on his coming forth again. At length, amidst hurras

and cries of "Talma! Talma!" the curtain was closed up, and my last

impression rendered unfavourable by a vulgar, graceless figure in

nankeen breeches and top-boots hurrying in from a side scene, dropping a

swing bow in the centre of the stage, and then hurrying out again.

Theatres are to Frenchmen what flowers are to bees: they live _in_ them

and _upon_ them, and the sacrifice of liberty appears to be a tribute

most willingly paid for the gratification they receive; for, to be sure,

never can there exist a more despotic, arbitrary government than that of

a French theatre. A soldier stands by from the moment you quit your

carriage till you get into it; you are allowed no will of your own; if

you wish to give directions to your servant, "Vite! Vite!" cries a

whiskered sentry. Are you looking through the windows of the lobbies

into the boxes for your party, you are ordered off by a gendarme. I saw

one gentleman-like-looking man remonstrating; in a trice he was in

durance vile. A Frenchman at his play must sit, stand, move, think, and

speak as if he were on drill, and yet he endures the intolerance for

doubtful benefits derived from this rigid regularity.

In this play of "Manlius" were many passages highly applicable to

Buonaparte, and Talma, who is supposed to be (_avec raison_) a secret

partisan, gave them their full effect, but the listening vassals struck

no octaves to his vibration. A few nights before we were at the Play in

which were allusions to the Bourbons, and couplets without end of the

most fulsome, disgusting compliments to the Duc de Berri, &c. These

(shame upon the trifling, vacillating, mutable crew!) were received with

loud applause by the majority of the pit. I did observe, however, that

in that pit did sit a frowning, solemn, silent nucleus, but a nucleus of

this description can never be large; a few Messieurs at 3 francs _par

jour_ would soon, when dispersed amongst them, like grains of pepper in

tasteless soup, diffuse a tone of palatibility over the whole and render

it more agreeable to the taste of a Bourbon.

_À propos_, we have seen the Bourbons. The King is a round, fat man, so

fat that in their pictures they dare not give him the proper "_contour_"

lest the police should suspect them of wishing to ridicule; but his face

is mild and benevolent, and I verily believe his face to be a just

reflection of his heart. Then comes Monsieur,[118] a man with more

expression, but I did not see enough to form any opinion of my own, and

I never heard any very decisive account from any one else. Then comes

the Duchesse d'Angoulême.[119] There is no milk and water there. What

she really is I may not be able to detect, but I will forfeit my little

finger if there is not something passing strange within her. She is

called a Bigot and a Devotee; she has seen and felt enough, and more

than enough, to make a stronger mind than hers either the one or the

other, and I will excuse her if she is both. She is thin and genteel,

grave and dignified; she puts her fan to her underlip as Napoleon would

put his finger to his forehead, or his hand into his bosom. She stood

up, she sat down, she knelt, when others stood or sat or knelt, but I

question whether if she had been alone she would have done all according

to bell and candle, rule or regulation.

Then comes the Duchesse de Berri,[120] a young, pretty thing, a sort of

royal kitten; and then comes her husband, the Duc de Berri, a short,

vulgar-looking, anything but a kitten he is--but _arrête toi_. I am in

the land of vigilance, and already my pen trembles, for there are

gendarmes in abundance in the streets, and Messieurs Bruce and Co. in La

Force, and I do not wish to join their party. In England I may abuse our

Prince Regent and call him fat, dissipated, and extravagant, but in

France I dare not say "BO to a goose!" So, Je vous salue, M. le Duc de

Berri.

_À propos_ of the police. At the marriage of the above much honoured and

respected Duc the illumiations were general. Murray's landlord was

setting out his tallow candles, when Murray, guessing from certain

innuendoes and shrugs (for before us English they are not much afraid of

shrugging the shoulders or inventing an occasional "Bah!") that he would

have been to the full as pleased if he had been lighting his candles

upon the return of Napoleon, asked him, "Mais pourquoi faites vous cela?

I suppose you may do as you like?" "Comment donc!" replied the

astonished Frenchman; "do as I like! If I did not light my candles with

all diligence, I should be called upon to-morrow by the police to pay a

forfeit for not rejoicing."

With all this I think on the whole the Bourbons are popular; people are

accustomed to being bullied out of their opinions and use of their

tongues, and they are so sick of war, with all its inconveniences and

privations, that they begin to prefer inglorious repose. English money

is very much approved of here, but if it could be procured without the

personal attendance of the owners, I feel quite confident the French

would prefer it.

We are not popular. I suppose the sight of us must be grating to the

feelings. We are like a blight on an apple-tree; we curl up their

leaves, and they writhe under our pressure.

The constant song of our drunken soldiers on the Boulevards commenced

with--

"Louis Dixhuite, Louis dixhuite,

We have licked all your armies and sunk all your fleet."

Luckily the words are not intelligible to the gaping Parisians, who

generally, upon hearing the "Louis Dixhuite," took for granted the song

was an ode in honour of the Bourbons, and grinned approbation. It is

quite ridiculous, Paris cannot know itself. Where are the French?

Nowhere. All is English; English carriages fill the streets, no other

genteel Equipages are to be seen. At the Play Boxes are all English. At

the Hotels, Restaurations--in short, everywhere--John Bull stalks

incorporate. I see an Englishman with his little red book, the Paris

guide, in one hand and map in the other, with a parcel of ragged boys at

his heels pestering him for money. "Monsieur, c'est moi," who am ready

to hold your stick. "Monsieur, c'est moi," who will call your coach.

About the Thuilleries, indeed, and here and there, a few "bien poudréd"

little old men, "des bons Papas du Temps passé," may be seen dry as

Mummies and as shrivelled, with their ribbons and Croix St. Louis,

tottering about. They are good, staunch Bourbons, ready, I daresay, to

take the field "en voiture" for once, when taunted by the Imperial

officers for being too old and decrepid to lead troops; an honest

emigrant Marquis replied that he did not see why he should not command a

regiment and lead it on "dans son Cabriolet."

We have been unfortunate in not arriving soon enough to be present at

the Duke of Wellington's Balls. At the last a curious circumstance took

place. (You may rely upon it's being true.) Word was brought to him

that the house was in danger from fire. He went down, and in a sort of

subterranean room some cartridges were discovered close to a lamp

containing a great quantity of oil, and it was evident they had been

placed there with design. The first report was that barrels of gunpowder

had been found, and strange associations were whispered as to Guy Fawkes

and Louis XVIII. being one and the same; but the powder was not

sufficient to do any great mischief, and the general idea is that had it

exploded, confusion would have ensued, the company would have been

alarmed, the ladies would have screamed and fled to the door and street,

where parties were in full readiness and expectations of Diamonds,

&c....

We stay over Monday, for there is a grand Review on the Boulevards. We

have seen Cuirassiers and Lancers shining in the sun and fluttering

their little banner in the air. The Bourbons, who are determined to root

out every vestige of the past, are now stripping the Troops of the

Uniform which remind the wearers of battles fought and cities won, and

re-clothing them in the white dress of the "ancien Régime," which is

wretchedly ugly. They know best what they are about, and they certainly

have a people to deal with unlike the rest of the world, but were I a

Bourbon, I should be cautious how I proceeded in demolishing everything

which reminded the people of their recent glory. Luckily the column on

the Place Vendôme has as yet escaped the Goths, and its bronze basso

reliefs are still the pride of Paris.

_Edward Stanley to Louisa Stanley._

_July 13, 1816._

Days in Paris are like lumps of barley sugar, sweet to the taste and

melting rapidly away.... We have now seen theatres, shows, gardens,

museums, palaces, and prisons. Aye, Louisa, we have been immured within

the walls of La Force, and that from inclination! not necessity.

We procured an order to see Bruce,[121] and after some shuttlecock sort

of work, sending and being sent from office to office and Préfet to

Préfet, at length we received our order of admission.

In this order our persons are described; the man put me down "sourcils

gris." "Mais, Monsieur," said I, "they will never admit me with that

account." He looked at me again, "Ah! vos cheveux sont gris, mais pour

les sourcils, non pas, vous avez raison," and altering them to "noirs,"

he sent me about my business.

Bar and bolt were opened, and at length we found ourselves in the

presence of these popular prisoners--Popular, at least, amongst the

female part of the world. I have reason to believe that a few of the

Miss Stanleys had formed a romantic attachment for Michael Bruce, and

there are few of our adventures which would, I think, have given you

more pleasure than this visit. Your heart would have been torn from its

little resting-place and been imprisoned for ever. Michael Bruce! such

an eye! such a figure! such a countenance! such a voice! and so much

sense and elegance of manner, and then so interesting! There he sat in a

small, wretched room, dirty and felonious, with two little windows, one

looking into a court where a parcel of ragged prisoners were playing at

fives, the other into a sort of garden where others were loitering away

their listless vacuity of time.

I will not tell you what he said, for it would but inflame a wound which

I cannot heal, and because part of his conversation was secret, _i.e._,

of a very interesting and curious nature which I cannot write and must

not speak of. "Oh! dear Uncle, why won't you tell? a secret from Michael

Bruce in the prison of La Force!"

No, Louisa, I dare not speak of it to the winds. Captain Hutchinson was

his companion, Sir Robert Wilson is in another room. The Captain has

nothing very interesting in his manner or appearance. He is very plain,

very positive, and very angry. Well he may be. So would you if, like

him, you had been immured in a room about eight feet by twelve, in which

you were forced to eat, sleep, and reside for three months. Their

penance closes on the 24th, when Michael Bruce returns to London. I

hope you are not going there this year.

From such a subject as Michael Bruce it will not do to descend to any of

the trifling fopperies of Paris.

Let me, then, give you a short account of our visit to Fountain

Elephant, which if ever finished, with its concomitant streets, &c.,

will be an 8th wonder of the world. Its History is this: On the Site of

the Bastille (of which not a vestige remains) Buonaparte thought he

would erect a fountain, and looking at the Plans of Paris, he conceived

the splendid idea of knocking down all the houses between the

Thuilleries and this Fountain and forming one wide, straight street, so

that from the Palace of the Thuilleries he might see whatever object he

might be pleased to place at the extremity. This street is actually

begun; when executed, which it never will be, there will be an avenue,

partly houses, partly trees, from Barrière d'Étoile to the Fountain, at

least six miles. Having got this Fountain in his head, he sent for De

Non,[122] who superintended all his works, and said, "De Non, I must

have a fountain, and the fountain shall be a beast." So De Non set his

wits to work, and talked of Lions and Tigers, &c., when Buonaparte

fixed upon an Elephant, with a Castle upon his back, and an Elephant

there is. At present they have merely a model of plaister upon which the

bronze coating is to be wrought, for the whole is to be in bronze with

gilt trappings. He is to stand upon an elevated pedestal, which is

already completed. The height will be about 60 feet, nearly as high as

Alderley Steeple. The castle will hold water; the inside is to be a

room, and the staircase is to be in one of the legs. The porter who

showed it was exceedingly proud of the performance, and when I expressed

my astonishment at Buonaparte's numerous plans and the difficulty he

must have been at to procure money, looking cautiously about him, he

said, "Oh, mais il avoit le don d'un Dieu," and then grasping my arm

with one hand and tapping me on the shoulder with the other, and again

looking round to see if then the coast was clear, he added, "Mais il n'y

est plus, ah, vous comprenez cela n'est-ce pas," and then casting a look

at his Elephant he concluded with a sigh and a mutter, "Superbe, ah,

pardi, que c'est superbe!"

Kitty has been dressing herself _à la Française_, and we have been

purchasing a large box of flowers, which we hope to show you in England,

if the Custom House officers will allow us to pay the duties, but we

hear most alarming accounts of their ferocity and rapacity. They will

soon, it is said, seize the very clothes you have on, if of French

manufacture; if so, adieu to three pairs of black silk stockings and as

many pocket handkerchiefs, to say nothing of a perfect pet of an ivory

dog which I intend to present to your Mama, and to say nothing of five

perfect pets for Maria and you four eldest girls of the family of

Harlequin and Punch, to be worn on your necklaces during the happy

weeks. They are of mother of pearl about an inch high, the most comical

fellows I ever beheld. It is necessary that I should tell you of the

presents, because if they are seized, you know I shall still be entitled

to the merit of selecting them. We have bought a few books. A thick

octavo is here worth about four or five shillings, and the duty is, we

understand, about one shilling more. One is a life of the Duke of

Marlborough. Buonaparte said it was a reflection upon England not to

have a life of her greatest Hero, and therefore he would be his

biographer; accordingly he set his men to work and collected the

materials. Report speaks favourably of it, but I have been so busied in

looking and walking about that I shall not be surprised if I find that I

have almost forgotten to read upon my return!

_Edward Stanley to Louisa Stanley._

TUESDAY MORNING, _July 13th_.

We are in Paris still, and do not depart till to-morrow, dedicating this

day in company with the Murrays to St. Denis and Malmaison, and then I

think we shall have seen everything worth seeing in or near this queer

metropolis. One day last week we went to our old friend, L'abbé

Sicard,[123] and attended a lecture in which about 20 of his young

scholars exhibited their powers. The poor Abbé was, as usual, dreadfully

prolix, and occupied an hour in words which might have been condensed

within the compass of a Minute, and poor Massuer yawned and shut his

eyes ever and anon. Clair was not there, and as we were under the

necessity of going away before the Lecture was closed, we could not

renew our acquaintance. Since last year he has taught his pupils to

speak, and two dumb boys talked to each other with great success. I will

show you the mode when we meet, but as you are not dumb it will be a

mere gratification of Curiosity. Our Assignation which called us from

the Lecture was to meet the Sothebys and Murrays and many others at the

Buvin d'Enfer, near which is the descent to the Catacombs, where upwards

of 3 million of Skulls are arranged in tasty grimaces thro' Streets of

Bones, but my Sketch Book has long given an idea of these ossifatory

Exhibitions. Only think, a cousin of Donald's and a very great friend of

mine, a Capt. McDonald, whom you would all be in love with, he is so

handsome and interesting, was shut up there a short time ago by

accident, and if the Keeper had not luckily recollected the number of

persons who descended and discovered one was missing, he would very soon

have joined the bone party. There is another Cimetière called that of

Père la Chaise, of a very different description, and infinitely more

interesting. It is the grand burial-place of Paris; all who choose may

purchase little plots of ground, from a square foot to an acre, for the

deposition of themselves and their families. Its extent is about 84

French acres, and upon no spot in the world is the French character so

perfectly portrayed. Each individual encloses his plot and ornaments it

as he chooses, and the variety is quite astonishing. It appears like a

large Shop full of toys, work-baskets, Columns, little Cottages,

pyramids, mounts--in short, what is there in the form of a Monument

which may not there be found? A pert little Column with a fanciful top,

crowned by a smart wire basket filled with roses, marked the grave, I

concluded, of some beautiful young girl of 15 or 16. Lo and behold! it

was placed there to commemorate "un ancien Magistrat de France," aged

62. The most interesting are Ney's and Labédoyère's,[124] the former, a

solid tomb of marble, simply tells that Marshal Ney, Prince of La

Moskowa, is below. Both were rather profusely decorated with wreaths of

flowers, it being the custom for the friends of the deceased to strew

from time to time the graves with flowers, or decorate them with

garlands. Soldiers have been often seen weeping over these graves, and

it is by them these wreaths were placed. Ney's had just received its

tribute of a beautiful garland of blue cornflowers: and the other a

Chaplet of Honeysuckle. By both graves were weeping willows. Mr.

Sotheby's friend, the poet Delille,[125] sleeps beneath a cumbrous mass

of marble, within which his wife immerses herself once a week, to

manifest sorrow for one whose incessant tormentor I am told she was

during his life. The inscriptions were for the most part commonplace. I

copied out a few of the best. I was sorry to observe not one in 20 had

the slightest allusion to Religion. There was one offering which

particularly attracted my attention and admiration. Over a simple mound,

the resting-place of a little child, were scattered white flowers, and

amongst them a bunch of cherries, evidently the tribute from some other

little child who had thus offered up that which to him appeared most

valuable. The exclusion of the selfish principle in this display of

sentiment and feeling quite delighted me.

[Illustration: PARISIAN RAT-CATCHER AND ITINERANT VENDORS.

_To face page 300._]

The day after we visited the Louvre it was closed, and none have been

admitted since. I believe they are scratching out some N's or Eagles. I

should conceive these to be the last of their species, for the activity

and extent of this effacement of emblems related to Napoleon is past all

belief. In a picture of Boulogne in the Luxembourg, amongst the figures

in the foreground was a little Buonaparte, about two inches high,

reviewing some troops. They have actually changed his features and

figure, and, if I recollect rightly, altered his cockade and Uniform....

In the Musée des Arts and Métiers are some models of ships; even these

were obliged to strike their Lilliputian tri-colours and hoist the white

Ensign. And now Paris, fare thee well.... Thou art a mixture of strange

ingredients. "Oh," said the Hairdresser who was cutting Kitty's hair

yesterday, "had we your National spirit we should be a great people,

mais c'est l'Égoisme qui regne à Paris." Their manner is quite

fascinating, so civil, so polished. The people are like the Town, and

the Town is like a Frenchman's Chemise, a magnificent frill with fine

lace and Embroidery, but the rest ragged. The frill of the Thuilleries

and Champs Elysées are perfect fairylands, the streets all that is

execrable. No wonder the cleaners of boots and shoes are in a state of

perpetual requisition. In one shop I saw elevated benches, on which sat

many gentry with their feet upon a level with the cleaners' noses, where

they sat like Statues, and I was actually induced to go back to satisfy

myself that they were real men. English notices are frequent in the

streets, some not over correct in style; for example, over a

Hairdresser's in the Palais Royal--"The Cabinet for the cut of the

hairs."

_Mrs. E. Stanley to Lady Maria J. Stanley._

ST. GERMAIN, _July 16, 1816_.

Surely you must have forgot what it is to be divided by land and sea

from what you love, or when you were abroad you left nobody behind whom

you cared about, or you would not fancy that I should not find time or

inclination to read as many trifles as you can find to send, or that

they should not give me almost as much pleasure, and be read with as

much interest, as if I were shut up in the next dungeon to Mr. Bruce at

La Force.... While you were enjoying the view of Beeston Castle, we were

eating strawberries and cream under the trees in the Jardin des Plantes

on the only hot day we have had.... I am in no danger of forgetting you,

and if I have not written oftener, it has only been because Edward got

the start of me in beginning to write in detail, and he is so inimitable

in description that I could not go over the same ground with him.... I

do wish I could give you one of our day's amusement, and jump you over

here in mind and body to leave all your cares behind you....

At last we have bid goodbye to Paris, but every day seemed to bring

something fresh to see, and we stayed two or three days longer than we

intended yesterday to see St. Denis. It is not so fine as most of the

churches we saw in Holland, but the historical interest is so great and

so curious that I would not have missed seeing it for the world. Over

the door all the guillotined figures of the Revolution; in the church

the repairs which were begun by Buonaparte, now finishing by Louis;

every stone and step you go marked by some association of one or other

of these periods. As Buonaparte's own power increased, his respect for

crowned heads and authorities increased, I suppose, and so he had put up

_Fleurs de Lys_ himself for the Bourbons in one part of the church, and

he had prepared a vault for himself, decorated above with bees and

statues of the six Kings of France who had the title of Emperor. To this

vault he had made two bronze doors with gold ornaments and gold lions'

heads, one of which flew back with a spring, and discovered three

keyholes, to which there were three golden keys. The Sacristy he filled

with chef d'oeuvres of the best French artists, representing those parts

of the History of France connected with St. Denis and with his own views

of Empire.

The beautiful white marble steps leading to the altar beneath which the

seventh Emperor was to be laid were just finished when Louis XVIII. came

to fill the tomb, which was just prepared, with the bones of Louis XVI.,

to depose the Emperor, to complete the marble pavement, and to extend

the _fleurs de lys_ over the whole church.

And upon the stone which now conceals the entrance to the vault the

Duchesse d'Angoulême always kneels at the grave of her father, for the

fine bronze doors are deposed also, only, I believe, because they were

placed there by Buonaparte, and now they have to get into the Vault by

taking up the stone. We got into the carriage full of Buonaparte,

returned to Paris, and then got out again with the Murrays at Malmaison.

It is the only enviable French house I have seen, and deserves

everything Edward said about it, even without the statues and half the

pictures which are taken away.

We spent three or four hours in the Thuilleries Gardens on Sunday.

Buonaparte must have thought of gilding the dome of the Invalides when

he was walking in the Jardin des Thuilleries, it suits the whole thing

so exactly. A French crowd is so gay with the women's shawls and flowers

that they assimilate well with the real flowers, and are almost as great

an ornament to the Garden. A shower came on just as we were standing

near the Palace, and at that moment the guards took their posts as a

signal the King was going to Mass, so Edward and I followed the crowd to

the Salle des Maréchaux (they would not admit Donald because he had

gaiters, and Edward had luckily trowsers), and there we saw Louis XVIII.

and the Duchesse d'Angoulême and Monsieur much better than we had done

the Sunday before, with all the trouble of getting a ticket for

admission into the Chapel, and being squeezed to death into the bargain.

His Majesty is more like a Turtle than anything else, and shows external

evidence of his great affection for Turtle soup. His walk is quite

curious. One of his most intimate friends says that in spite of his

devotion _Le Roi est un peu philosophe_. We staid on Monday to see a

review. Donald introduced us to a Mr. and Mrs. Boyd, who have lived in

France the last 14 years, and have a terrace that overlooks the

Boulevards, so there we sat very commodiously and saw the King and the

Duchesses de Berri and Angoulême, in an open Calèche, pass through the

double row of troops which lined the Boulevards from one end to the

other, and a beautiful sight it was. Mr. Boyd invited me to a party at

his house in the country, and in the hopes of seeing that _rara avis_, a

French lady or gentleman, I said yes. So I sent for a hairdresser, who

came post haste, and amused me with his _politesse_, and Edward with his

_politique_. I was quite sorry I could not have him again.

We dined with the Murrays, and then went on to Mr. Boyd, where I found

myself the only lady there dressed amongst about forty. That is to say,

their heads and tails were all in morning costume and mine in

evening....

I must go back one more day, and tell you how I went to be described for

a passport to La Force on Saturday, and how I thought Mr. Bruce more of

a hero young man than any I have ever seen. I recollect seeing him

before, and thinking him a coxcomb, but a few years have mellowed all

that into a very fine young man.

Making every allowance for seeing him in his dungeon in La Force, I

think you would be delighted with his countenance. He spoke his

sentiments with manly freedom, and yet with the liberality of one who

thinks it possible a man may differ from him without being a fool, or a

rascal. Lucy and Louisa would certainly have fallen in love with his

fine Roman head, which his prison costume of a great coat and no

neckcloth showed to great advantage.

And now, adieu Paris! At 2 o'clock on Wednesday a green coach, which

none of you could see without ten minutes' laughing at least--three

horses and a postillion! (what would I give just to drive up to

Winnington with the whole equipage!)--carried us to Versailles, and

there I longed for Louis XIV. as much as for Buonaparte at St. Cloud;

for one cannot fancy any one living in those rooms or walking in those

gardens without hoops and Henri quatre plumes. If one could but people

them properly for a couple of hours, what a delightful recollection it

would be! Versailles ought to be seen last. It is so magnificent that

every other thing of the sort is quite lost in the comparison. I am glad

I saw Paris and the Tuilleries and St. Cloud first. We saw the Palace,

and then we dined, and then we set out for the Trianon, and then we met

with a guide who entertained us so much as to put Louis XIV. and all his

court out of my head. Buonaparte never went to Versailles but once to

look at it, but at the Trianon he and Joséphine lived, and it is

impossible, in seeing those places, not to feel the principal interest

to be in the inquiry--where he lived? where he sat? where he walked?

where he slept?--so accordingly we asked our guide. "Monsieur, je ne

connais point ce coquin là" soon told us what we were to expect from

him, but his silence and his loyalty, and the combat between his hatred

of the English and his hatred of Buonaparte was so amusing that we

soon forgave him for not telling us anything about him. He said "Bony"

was only "fit to be hanged." "Why did you not hang him, then?" He could

only shrug his shoulders. "We should have hung him for you if he had

come to England." "Ma foi! Monsieur, je crois que non." He told us the

stories of the rooms and the pictures with all the vivacity and rapidity

of a Frenchman, and with pretty little turns of wit.... Donald asked him

if a cabinet in one of the rooms had not been given by the Empress of

Russia to Buonaparte? He instantly seized him by the button with an air

of triumph. "Tenez, Monsieur, quand l'Empereur de Russie était ici, il a

vu ce Cabinet et a dit; otez cette Volaille là" (pointing to the

compartment in which the Imperial Eagles had been changed into Angels).

"Je l'ai donné aux Français, et lui--il n'était pas Français."

[Illustration: The Great Green Coach.

_To face p. 306._]

In all the royal house the servants are equally impenetrable on the

subject of Buonaparte. But sometimes it seems put on, sometimes they

really do not know from having been only lately put there, but this man

was a genuine Bourbonist and a genuine Frenchman.

We just got to St. Germain in time to walk on the Terrace before evening

closed in over the beautiful view. The Palace and the Town put me quite

in mind of the deserted court in the "Arabian Nights." ...

_Edward Stanley to his Nieces. Tuesday morning._

I could fill another letter with the interesting things we saw yesterday

at St. Denis and Malmaison, but we are off in an hour, and it is

possible you may hear no more from these

HAPPY TRAVELLERS.

[Illustration: ALDERLEY RECTORY.]

Index

Abbeville, Louis XVIII. at, 244

Abercromby, Colonel, 280

Aisne, river, 145-161

Aix la Chapelle, 146, 183, 191, 194, 205

_Albania_, ship at Antwerp, 203

Albinus, German anatomist, 232

Alderley, 10, 12, 15, 16, 17-21, 24, 68, 74, 75, 96, 120, 236, 249, 283,

296

Alderley Church, 102

Alderley Edge, 16

Alderley Park, 14

Alderley Rectory, 15-17

Alessandria, Plain of Marengo, 49

Alexander I., Emperor of Russia, 76, 82-85, 93, 133, 177, 178, 222, 229,

237, 244, 245

Algeciras Bay, 53

Alhama, Spain, 58, 63

Alhambra, The, 59, 61, 63, 64

Alien Office, The, 82

Alkmaar, 205

"Allemagne," By Madame de Staël, 128

Allied Sovereigns, 82, 95, 152

Allies, 105, 115, 116, 126, 156, 160-162, 168, 196, 197, 236, 237, 242

Alps, 57

Ambassador, English, Sir Charles Stuart, 112

Ambassador, Swedish, M. de Staël, 132

Ambolle, Baron d', at Fontainebleau, 153

_Ambuscade_, picture of capture of the frigate, 136

Amiens, Peace of, 25, 73

Amsterdam, 211, 222-224, 226

Andernach on the Rhine, 187

Angerstein Collection, 113

Anglesey Society, 10

Anglesey, Lord, his leg buried at Waterloo, 261

Angoulême, Duchesse d', 289

Antiquiera, Spain, 60, 64

Antwerp, 199, 204, 206, 208, 209, 210, 233, 253

Antwerp Gate, Bergen op Zoom, 214, 217

Apreece, Mrs., afterwards Lady Davey, 81

_Argonauta_, Spanish vessel, 51, 53, 56

Ashbourne, 248

Augereau, General, 238

Austerlitz, 138, 269, 287

Austria, 179, 181

Austria, Emperor of, 135, 237

Bacharach on the Rhine, 172, 184, 185

Banks, Sir Joseph, 93

Barcelona, 50, 52, 54, 55, 60, 69, 70

Barclay de Tolly, 116

Baring, Major, 268

Barthélemy, 237

Bastille, 295

Batavia, 193

Beauharnais, Eugène, Viceroy of Italy, 132, 134

Bees, Napoleon's, 150

Beeston Castle, 301

Belleville, 115, 116, 117

Belluno, Duc du, _see_ Victor

Benedictines, head cook to convent of, 41

Beresford, Viscount, Marshal, 74

Bergen op Zoom, 199, 208-212

Berghem, Dutch painter (1624-1683), 201

Berri, Duc de, 139, 140, 152, 282, 289

Berri, Duchesse de, 289, 305

Berry au Bac, 145, 163, 164

Berthier, Marshal, Prince de Wagram, 138, 149

Bertrand, General, 269

Bessborough, Earl of, 86

Bessières, Marshal, Duc d'Istria, 137

Beveland, South, 210

Bidwell, 122

Bingen on the Rhine, 183

"Birds, Familiar History of," by Bishop Stanley, 17

_Bittern_, H.M.S., 67

Blücher, 85, 86, 88, 89, 93, 145, 263

Boher, French sculptor (d. 1825), 132

Bois de Boulogne, 177

Bolero, Spanish dance, 60

Bonn, music on the Rhine, 188

Boodle's Club, 33

Borneo Mission, 23

Borodino, 177

Boulogne, 107-252

Bourbons, The, 78, 107, 237, 284, 288-292

Boyd, Mr. and Mrs., 304

Brabant, 181

Breda, 209, 217, 218, 226

Brisbane, Sir Thomas, at Valenciennes, 279, 283

Brise-Maison, General, _see_ Maison

British character, 195

British soldiers, 166

_Britomart_, H.M.S., 18

Brock, Holland, 227

Brooke, Sir James, English traveller, Rajah of Sarawack (1803-1868), 23

Bruce, Michael, the Englishman who helped Lavalette to escape, 293, 294

Bruges, 247, 258, 260, 273

Brussels, 193, 195, 197, 199, 200, 208, 209, 233, 264, 269, 274, 277

Buiksloot, North Holland, 226

Bülow, Marshal, 145

Buonaparte, Napoleon, Emperor, 34, 35, 37, 40, 46, 47, 50, 74, 90, 99,

100, 118, 120, 121, 130, 138-140, 148, 152-154, 162, 175, 180, 238, 241,

244, 266, 271, 275, 281, 282, 288, 295, 296, 300, 302, 303, 304, 306-307