Sir Walter Scott visited Brussels about the middle of August, 1816,
when I had the good fortune to meet him at the house of Sir Frederick
Adam, who was prevented by a wound from joining his brigade, though he
was able to do the duties of the small garrison there.
Mr. Scott accepted my services to conduct him to Waterloo. The
general's aid-de-camp was also of the party, Mr. Scott being
accompanied by two friends, his fellow travellers. He made no secret
of his having undertaken to write something on the battle; and he
took the greater interest on this account in every thing that he saw.
Besides, he had never seen a field of such a conflict; and never
having been before on the Continent, it was all new to his
comprehensive mind. The day was beautiful; and I had the precaution to
send out a couple of saddle-horses, that he might not be fatigued
in walking over the fields which had been recently ploughed up. The
animal he rode was so quiet that he was much gratified, and had an
opportunity of examining every spot of the positions of both armies;
and seemed greatly delighted, especially with the Farm of Goumont,
where he loitered a couple of hours. In our rounds we fell in with
Monsieur Da Costar, with whom he got into conversation, though I had
told him he was an impostor. But he had attracted so much notice by
his pretended story of being about the person of Napoleon, that he was
of too much importance to be passed by: I did not, indeed, know as
much of this fellow's Charlatanism at that time as afterwards, when
I saw him confronted with a blacksmith of La Belle Alliance, who had
been his companion in a hiding-place, ten miles from the field, during
the whole day; a fact which he could not deny. But he had got up a
tale so plausible, and so profitable, that he could afford to bestow
hush-money on the companion of his flight, so that the imposition was
but little known, and strangers continued to be gulled. He had picked
up a good deal of information about the positions and details of the
battle, and being naturally a sagacious Wallon, and speaking French
pretty fluently, he became the favourite _cicerone_, and every lie he
told was taken for gospel. Year after year, until his death, in 1824,
he continued his popularity, and raised the price of his rounds from a
couple of francs to five; besides as much for the hire of a horse, his
own property; for he pretended that the fatigue of walking so many
hours was beyond his powers. It has been said, that in this way he
realized every summer a couple of hundred Napoleons. It is surprising
how any one could believe the story he told; for supposing that he had
been seized upon by Napoleon, what use could such a vagabond be as a
guide? What was he to show? The British army was staring the Emperor
in the face at a mile distant. This _soi-disant_ hero could only be
an incumbrance during the conflict, if his courage could have been
screwed up to remain at Napoleon's side, as he pretended he had done,
and that when he became panicstruck on the approach of the Prussians,
he was rewarded for his services with a twenty-franc coin. He even
pointed out the actual spot where he stood with the Emperor on the
_chaussée_--heard him exclaim "Sauve qui peut!" and saw him mount his
horse, and brush!--_facts_, which are become historical!
When Sir Walter had examined every point of defence and attack we
adjourned to the "Original Duke of Wellington," at Waterloo, to
dinner, after the fatigues of the ride. Here he had a crowded levée of
peasants, and collected a great many trophies, from cuirasses down to
buttons and bullets. He picked up himself many little relics, and was
fortunate in purchasing a grand cross of the legion of honour. But
the most precious relic was presented to him by my wife--a French
soldier's book, well stained with blood, and containing some poetical
effusions, called "Troubadours," which he found so interesting that
he translated them into English, and they were introduced into his
"Paul's Letters;" on the publication of which he did her the honour of
sending her a copy, with a most flattering letter, to say, "that he
considered her gift as the most valuable of all his Waterloo relics."
On our return from the field, he kindly passed the evening with us,
and a few friends whom we invited to meet him. He charmed us with his
delightful conversation, and was in great spirits from the agreeable
day he had passed; and with great good humour promised to write a
stanza in the lady's Album. The following morning he called to achieve
this; and I put him into my little library, the door of which I locked
to prevent interruption, as a great many of my friends had paraded in
the _Parc_ opposite my window to get a peep of the celebrated man,
many having dogged him from his hotel.
Brussels affords but little worthy of the notice of such a traveller
as the author of "Waverley;" but he greatly admired the splendid
tower of the Maison de Ville, and the ancient sculpture and style of
architecture of the buildings which surround the Grand Place.
He told us, with great humour, a laughable incident which had occurred
to him at Antwerp. The morning after his arrival at that city from
Holland, he started at an early hour to visit the tomb of Rubens in
the Church of St. Jacques, before his party were up. Having provided
himself with a map of the city, he had no other guide; but after
wandering about for an hour, without finding the object he had in
view, he determined to make inquiry, and observing a person stalking
about like himself, he addressed him, in his best French; but the
stranger pulling off his hat, very respectfully replied, in the pure
Highland accent, "I'm vary sorry, Sir, but I canna speak ony thing
besides English."--"This is very unlucky indeed, Donald," said Mr.
Scott, "but we must help one another; for, to tell you the truth,
I'm not good at any other tongue but the English, or rather, the
Scotch."--"Oh, Sir, maybe," replied the Highlander, "you are a
countryman, and ken my maister, Captain Cameron, of the 79th, and
could tell me where he lodges. I'm just cum in, Sir, frae a place they
ca' _Machlin_, and ha forgotten the name of the captain's quarters; it
was something like the _Laaborer_."--"I can, I think, help you with
this, my friend," rejoined Mr. Scott. "There is an inn just opposite
to you, (pointing to the _Hotel de Grand Laboreur_,) I dare say that
will be the captain's quarters;" and so it was. I cannot do justice to
the humour in which Mr. Scott recounted this dialogue.
_New Monthly Magazine_.
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