WATERLOO DAYS;
THE NARRATIVE OF AN ENGLISHWOMAN
RESIDENT AT BRUSSELS IN JUNE, 1815.
BY
CHARLOTTE A. EATON,
AUTHOR OF "ROME IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY,"
"AT HOME AND ABROAD,"
ETC.
_NEW EDITION._
WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND APPENDIX
BY EDWARD BELL, M.A.
LONDON: GEORGE BELL & SONS, YORK STREET,
COVENT GARDEN.
1888.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.
INTRODUCTION.[1]
The following little book which was first published within two years
of the events which it describes, was republished in 1852, after some
revision by the author, under the title of "The Days of Battle." It has
now been out of print for a considerable time, but its merits as a very
graphic and interesting description of those few momentous days which
have left their mark on English literature no less than on the history
of Europe, are sufficient, it is believed, to justify its republication
in a popular series.
Though it was first published anonymously as a "Narrative of a few
days' Residence in Belgium with some account of a visit to the field of
Waterloo, by an Englishwoman," it has so much personal interest that
the reader will, doubtless, be glad to know something of its author,
more especially as she is favourably known by other works, and with
other members of her family has claims upon the memory of a younger
generation.
Miss Charlotte Anne Waldie, the lady in question, was born 28
September, 1788, and was the second of three daughters of George
Waldie, Esq., of Hendersyde Park, near Kelso, Roxburghshire, and Forth
House, Newcastle-on-Tyne. There were also two sons, one of whom is
mentioned in the following pages, but they both died without issue.
The eldest daughter, Maria Jane, married in 1812 Mr. Richard Griffith,
the distinguished civil engineer, who was appointed by Government sole
commissioner for the general valuation of Ireland, and was the author
of the famous geological map of that country. After more than forty
years of arduous public service, during a large part of which he was
President of the Board of Works in Ireland, he was created a baronet;
and his son, Sir George R. Waldie-Griffith, inherited Mr. Waldie's
estates.
The youngest of the three sisters, Jane, was an accomplished painter,
and her pictures are to be met with in many institutions in the north
of England. She also had considerable literary talent, and wrote a work
entitled "Sketches descriptive of Italy," which was published in four
volumes in 1820. She married Captain, afterwards Admiral, Watts, of
Langton Grange, near Staindrop, Darlington, but unfortunately died in
early life.
Charlotte, the sister with whom we are chiefly concerned, accompanied
her brother and younger sister, as is hereafter related, on a visit to
Brussels, in June, 1815, when it had temporarily and hastily become the
headquarters of the army under Wellington. The allied forces, as every
one supposed, were to meet and crush Napoleon, who had just returned
from Elba, before he had time to take the offensive. But his movements
were more rapid than had been anticipated, and the Belgian capital,
crowded with non-combatants of both sexes, instead of being merely a
point of departure, suddenly found itself the central point of the seat
of war. The pen of Thackeray has well adapted this dramatic situation
to the purposes of fiction; but in the following pages we have the
circumstances brought before us with all the vividness which actual
experience only can give. A few weeks later the two sisters visited the
field of Waterloo, and a short narrative of the battle written by one,
and illustrated by the pencil of the other, was published anonymously
by Murray, and rapidly went through ten editions.
In the course of the next year the two sisters rejoined their brother
in France, and went on with him to Italy, and it was then, as explained
in the author's preface, that the following account, which incorporated
the previous narrative, made its appearance.
In 1817-18 Miss Charlotte Waldie was again in Italy, and in 1820
published, still anonymously, her best known work, "Rome in the
Nineteenth Century."[2] This work gives the result of her own
experience and observation, and is written in the personal style which,
when it is combined, as in her case it is, with cultivated taste and
sensible criticism, is not to be equalled in interest by any formal
description. Notwithstanding the many changes which recent research
and excavation have wrought in the descriptive topography of Rome the
book is still useful to travellers, and is largely quoted by the latest
popular writer on the subject.[3]
In the same year her sister published her "Sketches in Italy,"
above referred to. Two years later Charlotte Waldie married Stephen
Eaton, Esq., banker, of Stamford, and of Ketton Hall, Rutland. A few
years afterwards she published a story in three volumes, entitled
"Continental Adventures."
Mrs. Eaton's last work, "At Home and Abroad," was published in 1831. In
1851 she prepared a new edition, the fifth, of "Rome in the Nineteenth
Century," in two volumes, with illustrations, for Bohn's Illustrated
Library, and in 1852 she revised the present work for the same
publisher. She died on 28 April, 1859, in the seventy-first year of her
age.
The following reprint differs only from the author's last edition in
respect to the title and the appended notes. It must be remembered
that the few details of the battle of Waterloo are based upon the
reports current at the time, and have since been supplemented or
corrected in various ways. In all that came under the writer's own
observation there is no room for doubt as to her correctness, and
her picture of Brussels during the days of battle is corroborated by
another account, also by a lady and an English writer, namely, the
well-known Fanny Burney, who was then the wife of General D'Arblay, a
French officer in the service of Louis XVIII. Madame D'Arblay, being
unsuccessful in an attempt to leave the city by canal-boat, spent some
weeks in Brussels, but pre-occupied as she was by the absence of her
husband she exercised less observation on what was going on around
her, and her account is far less graphic than that of her younger
fellow-countrywoman. Nor did she visit the field of battle, and realize
in an equal degree the terrible penalty which war exacts from victors
as well as vanquished.[4] Whilst military glories are held to be worthy
of commemoration, it is fitting that such details should not be left
untold. And in truth the campaign of Waterloo has memories which an
Englishman cannot afford to lose. If a righteous and unselfish cause
may hallow the horrors of those days, it is not well to ignore them
altogether. If a cool and confident intrepidity on the part of a
leader, if daring disregard of life in comparison with duty on the
part of his officers, if resolute and patient endurance for hours, of
rank and file, under repeated charge, or still more deadly storm of
lead--if, in short, courage and fortitude, well employed, are virtues
not yet out of date, the tale of Waterloo should still be told, and
this little book, genuine as it is, has still its testimony to add
thereto.
E.B.
AUTHOR'S PREFACE.
This little Narrative is the simple and faithful account of one who was
a spectator of the scenes she describes, and a witness of the events
she relates, during those days of desperate conflict and unparalleled
victory which must be for ever memorable in British history, and
interesting to every British heart. It was written whilst the
impression of those eventful scenes was yet fresh upon the mind: and
the thoughts and feelings which such awful and affecting circumstances
were irresistibly calculated to inspire, were expressed without
restraint, in the full security of the sympathy and approbation of the
partial friends for whose perusal alone this Narrative was intended.
During the absence of the Author in Italy in 1816, the members of her
family in England sent the manuscript to the late Mr. Murray, and it
was already in the press before she received any intimation of its
intended publication.
The Author must be permitted most earnestly to disclaim all idea of
entering into competition with the writers whose talents and genius
have been so well employed in describing the battle and the field of
Waterloo. They were not, however, like the Author, on the spot at the
time; they were pilgrims who afterwards visited the memorable scenes
of these glorious events, and wrote from report: they related the
past--she described the present.
Conscious of her inadequacy to a theme on which all that can be said
falls so far short of what must be felt; impossible as it is to do
justice to the achievements of that gallant army who have been the
champions, the conquerors, and the deliverers of the world, and
to whom, under Heaven, Europe owes her security, and England her
glory--the writer yet ventures to hope, that the generous indulgence
of a British public will be extended to this humble attempt to record
the proofs displayed on those glorious "days of battle," of their
heroic valour in combat, their noble magnanimity in victory, and
their unshaken fortitude in suffering--faintly and feebly as they are
described by
AN ENGLISHWOMAN.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: I have to thank Mr. C.O. Eaton, J.P., of Tolethorpe Hall,
Stamford, for his assistance in preparing this account of his mother's
various writings; and Mr. George Hooper, author of "Waterloo, the
Downfall of the First Napoleon," for kindly revising the notes at the
end of the volume.]
[Footnote 2: The first edition was published by Constable, Edinburgh; a
second edition was brought out by Murray in 1826.]
[Footnote 3: See "Walks in Rome," by Augustus J.C. Hare.]
[Footnote 4: There is another small book published shortly before this,
"A Visit to Flanders in July, 1815," by James Simpson (Edinburgh,
1815), which also gives an account of the field a few weeks after the
battle. Müffling's "Passages from my Life," and Kincaird's "Adventures
in the Rifle Brigade," also give some interesting details of Brussels
on the eve of Waterloo.]
THE DAYS OF BATTLE.
JUNE 1815.
On Saturday, the 10th of June, 1815, my brother, my sister, and myself,
sailed from the pier of Ramsgate at three in the afternoon, in company
with Sir Neil Campbell, the celebrated Knight of Elba, Major Wylie, of
the Royal Fusiliers, extra aide-de-camp to the Duke of Wellington, a
Mr. N., an English merchant; together with an incongruous assemblage
of horses, dogs, and barouches; Irish servants, French valets, and
steerage passengers, too multifarious to mention, all crowded together
into a wretched little packet. On Sunday evening, the 11th of June,
we found ourselves, after a passage of thirty-six hours, many miles
distant from Ostend, lying at anchor in a dead calm, and without a
hope of reaching it till the following morning. To escape remaining
another night amidst the discomforts of this packet, without food,
for we had eaten up all our provisions; and without sleep, for we
had experimentally proved that none was to be got, our three selves,
and our three companions in misfortune, the Knight, the Major, and
the Merchant, embarked in a crazy little boat, about nine o'clock
in a beautiful summer's evening, as the sun was sinking in golden
splendour, and trusted ourselves to the mercy of the waves. The tide
was running strong against the rowers, and night closed in long before
we approached the shore; but though the light of the heavens had
faded, the ocean was illuminated with that beautiful phosphoric fire
so well known in warmer latitudes. The most brilliant magic light
played upon the surface of the waters, and marked the path of our
little vessel through the deep, with the softest, purest radiance;
the oars seemed to be moving through liquid fire, and every drop, as
it dashed from them, sparkled like the blaze of a diamond: the little
rippling waves, as they curled their heads, were covered with the same
transparent ethereal fire, which would mock the powers of the poet's
fancy, "glancing from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven," to
embody or describe. It is more like the pale beam the glow-worm sheds
from his evening lamp than anything on earth, but ten thousand times
more bright and more beautiful. By such a light Oberon and his Queen,
attended by their band of tiny sprites, might have held their midnight
revels, amidst the bowers and halls of fairyland; and by such a light,
enchanted spirits in happier worlds might be supposed to slumber. This
soft, transparent, _unearthly_ light gleaming around us, and kindling
at every touch in living brightness over the waters; the calm and
glassy stillness of the wide extended ocean; the softened glow that
lingered in the western sky; and the mild breath of evening, made our
passage to the shore, slow as it was, most delightful. It was a night
calculated to soothe every unquiet passion into rest, and in which the
imagination loved to indulge in dreams of delight and beauty. The
heart must have been cold that did not feel the harmony of nature, and
the spirit turbulent that did not partake of its repose: everything
seemed to have been touched by the hand of enchantment. But the magic
spell was dissolved, and the visions of fancy faded away in a moment;
for we suddenly struck upon the sands, when we seemed still far from
the shore; waves of apparent fire dashed into the boat; and the sturdy
sailors, abandoning their oars, seized upon us without the smallest
ceremony, and carried us literally through fire and water to the beach.
Thus were we thrown, late at night, and in the dark, upon a foreign
coast, uncertain which way to direct our steps through the deep,
deserted, trackless sands that surrounded us; forewarned of the rapid
approach of the tides upon this coast, and wholly at a loss in what
direction lay the town, or how to get admittance through the sentry
posts, at such an hour, if we did reach it. Yet under these appalling
circumstances, I cannot say that we felt the smallest alarm, or even a
momentary uncomfortable situation: we had no fear of being drowned, nor
the remotest idea that any more serious mischief could befal us than
spending the night upon the sands, of which, however, there seemed to
be much probability. Luckily for us, this Mr. N. proved a most able
pilot; he had frequently been at Ostend before, and led the way with
great sagacity, in spite of the darkness in which we were involved.
We were all loaded with travelling bags, or parcels of some sort, for
it was with difficulty the little nutshell of a boat contained our
six selves, and all the servants were left in the vessel. We were
each, therefore, obliged to carry all that we wanted of our travelling
equipments; and thus burdened, and sinking every step ankle deep
in the heavy sands, we reached at last, with considerable toil, the
fortifications, and were immediately hailed by the soldier on guard. We
declared ourselves to be "friends," but in vain; friends or foes were
all the same to the sentry; we might have lain all night in the ditch,
for anything he cared; for his orders were positive, to admit no person
into the garrison, without the express order of the commandant after
dark. But the cocked hat, aide-de-camp's uniform, and authoritative
tone of Major Wylie carried us all through. He declared "that he and
his party were going to join the army with speed;" and, although some
of us must have struck the sentry as not being likely to prove a very
valuable reinforcement to the troops, he did not venture to make any
further opposition, and we all entered Ostend. Although we came "in
such a questionable shape," we obtained admittance into "La Cour
Impériale," where we got an excellent supper, which was particularly
acceptable to some of us, who had eaten nothing all day, excepting
a bit of bread. We then went to bed, where we enjoyed the sweets of
undisturbed repose, with a zest which none but those who have spent a
suffocating, sick, and sleepless night in a wretched little berth on
board a packet, can understand.
Next day, after viewing the fortifications, which, although they had
been recently repaired by the English, could no longer stand the
long sieges which have made Ostend famous in history, we proceeded
to Bruges, walked about in the rain till late at night, to visit the
beautiful Hôtel de Ville, and other public buildings of that fine
old city; and rose early the next morning to see the churches of San
Sauveur and Notre Dame, and the magnificent tombs of Charles the
Bold and his daughter. Already the churches were crowded with pious
Catholics, whose attention was sadly distracted from their devotion by
our appearance: sometimes they whispered an Ave Maria with the utmost
fervency of prayer; and sometimes an half-uttered exclamation of wonder
burst from their lips; sometimes they resolutely resumed counting their
beads, and sometimes their eyes involuntarily rested on our foreign
figures with the broad stare of curiosity.
We left Bruges in the same bark which had once conveyed Napoleon
Buonaparte to that city, and which is now used as a côche d'eau. It
contained 150 people of every sort and description, from the courtiers
of Louis XVIII. down to Flemish peasants; all of whom, however, were
obliging, talkative, attentive, flattering, and amusing. After dining
on board, and spending a most entertaining day, we arrived in the
evening at Ghent.
The whole of Wednesday we spent in this ancient city, and though its
extent is so great as to have been the subject of a well-known imperial
quibble,[5] I believe we left but little of it unexplored. We visited
its magnificent cathedral, whose walls, pillars, roofs, columns, and
pulpits are formed of the richest polished marble of every varying
hue, and carved with exquisite skill; and whose sculptured ornaments,
the work of ages when the statuary's art was in high perfection,
seemed almost to start to life before our eyes. We explored the deep
sepulchral gloom of its subterranean church; visited the costly shrines
of all the saints; contemplated the ancient and decaying monasteries,
which were formerly its pride; made a most indefatigable research
after cabinets of paintings; and wandered with the utmost perseverance
through its abominable streets. We saw the balcony in which the monster
Vandamme, in the bloody times of the Revolution, used to stand, day
after day, to see victims led out, at his bidding, to the guillotine.
In its altered scenes, we now beheld loyal Bourbon beaux in gold
epaulettes, and smart Flemish belles, in French fashions, laughing and
flirting. We, like them, paraded in its gay promenade, and rambled
through the perfumed walks and exotic bowers of its beautiful Botanic
Garden. The City of Ghent seemed to be restored to some traces of its
ancient grandeur by the temporary residence of the Bourbon princes,
and the little expatriated court of Louis XVIII. I had never been able
to feel any extravagant degree of attachment to this unfortunate royal
family: their restoration had not given me any enthusiastic joy, nor
their fall much sorrow; and even the honour of paying my devoirs to
Louis le Désiré, and exchanging some profound and reverential bows and
courtesies with his most Catholic Majesty, failed to inspire me with
much interest or admiration for this persecuted, princely race. These
bows, by the way, cost the good old king considerable time and labour,
for he is extremely unwieldy and corpulent, and gouty; and he looks
very lethargic and snuffy; and it is really a thousand pities that an
exiled and dethroned monarch should be so remarkably uninteresting a
personage.
Early in the morning of Thursday, the 15th of June, we left the City of
Ghent, passed its ancient walls, and crossed the "lazy Scheldt," which
is here but a small stream, and belies the epithet Goldsmith applies
to its more advanced course; for it runs with considerable rapidity.
We proceeded along the straight, undeviating line of the broad, flat
chaussée, or paved road, that leads to Brussels. It is bordered on each
side with rows of tall trees, which form one long interminable avenue,
as far as the eye can reach. We remembered that it was down this very
road that Napoleon Buonaparte had made his triumphant progress through
the Netherlands, and we most devoutly hoped, that neither by this, nor
any other road, he would ever have it in his power to enter them again.
The country is thickly covered with neat cottages, scattered hamlets,
and small farm-houses: the fields were waving with tall, luxuriant
crops of corn, and far from wearing the appearance of the theatre
of war, it seemed to be the abode of peace and plenty; and hope,
contentment, and hilarity shone in the countenances of the people. The
peasants almost all wore sabots; but the cottage children, bare-footed
and bare-headed, frequently pursued the carriage for miles, keeping
pace with the horses, tumbling as they went along, singing Flemish
patriotic songs, the burden of which was invariably, "Success to the
English, and destruction to the French;" and crying with unwearied
perseverance, "Viv_é_[6] les Anglaises!" "Dat for Napoleon!" expressing
at the same time, by an emphatic gesture, cutting off his head. They
threw bouquets of flowers into the carriage, twisted their little
sun-burnt faces into the most extraordinary grimaces, and kept whirling
round on their hands and feet, in imitation of the rotatory motion of
a wheel. Dr. Clarke, in his Travels, mentions that the children of the
Arabs in Egypt performed the same exploit, and for the same purpose,
that of extorting from the passengers a few sous; nay, even one they
seemed to think a sufficient reward for a laborious chase of more than
a league, and the exhibition of all these fatiguing antics.
At the little town of Alost, half way to Brussels, we stopped to
dine. It was the head-quarters of the Duc de Berri, and the streets,
the promenades, and the caffés looked gay. There is a pleasant walk,
shaded by trees, round the ramparts; for, this little town, like
every other in the Netherlands, was formerly fortified; although its
dismantled walls no longer afford any means of defence. A violent
shower of rain obliged us to take refuge, in rather an unceremonious
manner, in a small house, the mistress of which, who was preparing
to take her afternoon's coffee (though it was only one o'clock),
received us with the utmost courtesy and kindness. Short as our stay
was beneath her roof, it was long enough for her to express with great
energy her detestation of Napoleon and of the French; which she said
was universal throughout Belgium. We had a good deal of conversation
with her upon this subject, and upon the past and present state of
Belgium.--"Ah, madame! before they came among us," she said, "this was
a very different country. Then we were rich, and good, and happy."
She lamented over the trade, the manufactories, the commerce they had
destroyed; the contributions they had exacted; the fine young men they
had seized as conscripts; the convents they had ruined; the priests
and "les bonnes religieuses" they had turned to the door. Wherever we
had gone before, and wherever we afterwards went, we heard the same
sentiments from every tongue, and we saw the most unequivocal signs
of the inveterate hatred of the Belgic people towards their former
rulers. It bursts out spontaneously, as if they could not suppress it;
their whole countenances change; their eyes sparkle with indignation;
their very gestures are eloquent, and they seem at a loss for words
strong enough to express the bitterness of their detestation. This
surprised us not a little, as in England we had been taught to believe
that the French were popular in this country; but we were at length
convinced of our mistake. It is the _English_, not the French, who are
popular in Belgium; and it was far more gratifying than any individual
distinction could have been, to find that we were everywhere received
with marked attention and respect for the sake of our country, and that
the name of England is everywhere beloved and honoured.
At the village of Ashe, half way between Alost and Brussels, while I
was buying in a little shop a basket of "gateaux sucrés," for which the
place is famous, two Belgic ladies, who happened to be there, entered
into conversation with me, with all the ease of foreign manners,
and uttered the same energetic invective against their late French
Government, and animated praise of the English, which we heard from
every tongue during our stay in Belgium. These people evidently speak
from their hearts: and yet in manners, in customs, in ancient ties,
in modern predilections, and even in language, they are French. Their
deep-rooted hatred, therefore, of the people to whom they were so
firmly attached, must have sprung from very flagrant wrongs, and very
galling oppression.
Alost is situated on the little river Dender, and from the road we
caught a glimpse of the spire of Dendermond, so famous for its siege
by the Allies in the last century. We were now in a country which had
repeatedly been, in every age, the seat of war, and in which England
had already gained immortal glory. In retracing the proud history of
her past triumphs, and her recent and not less brilliant conquests,
we felt the firm assurance that in those scenes where the British
under the Duke of Marlborough had, in the eighteenth century, won the
glorious victories of Oudenarde, Ramillies, and Malplaquet, the British
under the Duke of Wellington, in the nineteenth century, would gain
fresh laurels and immortal renown, and raise still higher the glory of
their country's arms.
After leaving Alost, the country became more rich and undulating.
Instead of a dull, dead flat, which we had before traversed, sloping
grounds, and distant hills, and sheltered valleys diversified the
prospect. The woods rose in prouder beauty, and the fields were
dressed in brighter verdure and richer luxuriance; and as we passed
through those smiling scenes, and saw the husbandman pursuing his
peaceful labours, the cottage wife busy with her household cares,
and the merry groups of haymakers spread over the fragrant meadows,
we rejoiced in the hope that the hand of the spoiler would never lay
waste these fruitful fields, nor burn these peaceful hamlets, and
that these contented peasants would never again be torn from their
homes to fight in the cause of unprincipled ambition, and become in
turn the instruments of that oppression of which they had been the
victims. It was with a feeling of pride for our country we indulged
the thought that it was to England they owed their security; that it
was her protecting arm which interposed the impenetrable shield of
her armies between them and the tyranny and usurpation of France. We
could not but rejoice that since the awful struggle must be made, its
horrors--if inevitable--would, at least, be distant;--that since the
awful thunderbolt of war must fall, it would descend, in all human
probability, upon that country which had raised the storm; and that
France herself would at length be visited by some part of the dreadful
calamities which she had so long and so mercilessly inflicted upon
other nations.[7]
Short sighted mortals! while we fondly indulged these hopes, and
exulted in the blessings of security and peace, how little did we
suspect that the most aggravated horrors of war were ready to burst
over our heads; how little did we foresee the rapid changes and
alarming events which even this very day was destined to produce; and
while we watched the sun sinking in glory in the western sky, how
little did we dream of the scenes that were to pass before the dawn of
morning! In all the bliss of ignorance, however, we journeyed along,
admiring from afar the lofty towers and spires of Brussels, and its
crowded roofs clustering round the steep sides of a hill, in the midst
of a rich and cheerful country, and thinking with joyful and impatient
anticipation of the well-known faces of the beloved friends whom we
were to meet within its walls.
Near Brussels we passed a body of Brunswick troops (called Black
Brunswickers). They were dressed in black, and mounted upon black
horses, and their helmets were surmounted with tall nodding plumes of
black horsehair, which gave them a most sombre and funereal appearance.
As they slowly moved along the road before us in a long regular
procession, they looked exactly like an immense moving hearse. I
laughed, and observed to my sister, "that one might take this for a
bad omen, and that it reminded me of the mourning wedding-ring in the
Simple Story." Some of these black, ominous looking men kept before us,
and entered Brussels along with us. At first we passed through some
mean, dirty streets, but the appearance of the town soon improved. The
houses are large, ancient, and highly ornamented. There is an air of
grandeur and of architectural design in the towns of Flanders, which
is peculiarly striking, on first coming from the plain, diminutive,
shopkeeper-looking, red brick rows of houses in England. The streets of
Brussels are narrow, but they have that air of bustle, opulence, and
animation, which characterises a metropolis. To us everything was new
and amusing: the people, the dresses, the houses, the shops, the very
signs diverted us. Every notice was stuck up in the French language,
and quite in the French style: the poorest and most paltry shop called
itself a Magazine. Here were Magasins de Modes, Magasins de Souliers,
Magasins de----everything, in short: it was amusing to see the names
of people and trades, that we had only been accustomed to meet with in
French books and plays, stuck up in gilt letters above every shop-door.
Everything wore a military aspect; and the number of troops of
different nations, descriptions, and dresses, which filled the town,
made it look very gay. Soldiers' faces, or at least their white belts
and red coats, were to be seen at every window; and in our slow
progress through the streets we were delighted to see the British
soldiers, and particularly the Highlanders, laughing and joking, with
much apparent glee, with the inhabitants. On our right we caught a
glimpse of the magnificent spire of the Hôtel de Ville, far exceeding,
in architectural beauty, anything I remember to have seen. We slowly
continued to ascend the windings of the long and steep hill, which
leads from the low to the high town of Brussels, and the upper part of
which is called La Montagne du Parc. Passing on our left the venerable
towers of the Cathedral, we reached at last the summit of this huge
"Montagne;" and the Parc of Brussels, of which we had heard, read, and
talked so much, unexpectedly opened upon us. What a transition from
the dark, narrow, gloomy streets of the low town to the lightness,
gaiety, and beauty of the Parc, crowded with officers in every variety
of military uniform, with elegant women, and with lively parties and
gay groups of British and Belgic people, loitering, walking, talking,
and sitting under the trees! There could not be a more animated, a more
holiday scene; everything looked gay and festive, and everything spoke
of hope, confidence, and busy expectation.
The Parc of Brussels does not bear the smallest resemblance to what
in England we denominate a park. It is more like a garden enclosed
with iron rails, the interior of which is laid out with gravel-walks,
grass-plots, and parterres, shaded with trees, and ornamented with
fountains[8] and statues. It is quite a promenade, and is exclusively
devoted to pedestrians. The walks are formal, but kept with great
exactness, and the tout ensemble looks gay, inviting, and pleasant.
It is surrounded by a wide street, enclosed by a square of magnificent
houses, in which are the palace of the Prince of Orange, and many
beautiful public buildings. Compared to this grand square, the finest
squares of London, Edinburgh, and Dublin, are small and paltry.
Adjoining the Parc is the Place Royale, and so strikingly grand and
imposing is its architecture, that we all uttered an involuntary
exclamation of surprise and admiration as we drove into it. The doors
and windows of the Hôtel Bellevue, and of the Hôtel de Flandre,
adjoining to it, were crowded with British officers. We took possession
of two pleasant rooms in the latter, which had been secured for us by
the kind attention of Sir Neil Campbell. They were in the troisième
étage, and we had a hundred steps to ascend; but we were fortunate in
procuring such good accommodation, as Brussels was extremely crowded.
We had not entered the hotel many minutes, and had not once sat down,
when we recognised our pleasant compagnon de voyage, Major Wylie,
standing in the Place Royale below, encompassed with officers. He saw
us, took off his hat, and, breaking from the people that surrounded
him, darted in at the door of the hotel, and was with us in a minute.
Breathless with haste, he could scarcely articulate that hostilities
had commenced! Our amazement may be conceived: at first we could
scarcely believe him to be in earnest. "Upon my honour," exclaimed
Major Wylie, still panting, and scarcely able to speak, from the haste
with which he had flown up the hundred steps, "it is quite true; and
the troops are ordered to be in readiness to march at a moment's
notice; and we shall probably leave Brussels to-morrow morning." In
answer to our eager inquiries, he then told us that this unexpected
intelligence had only just arrived; that he had that moment left the
Duke of Wellington's table, where he had been dining with a party of
officers; and that, just as the dessert had been set upon the table,
a courier had arrived, bringing dispatches from Marshal Blucher,
announcing that he had been attacked by the French: but although the
fighting was hot, it seemed to be Blucher's opinion that it would most
probably be nothing more than a mere skirmish. While the Duke was
reading the dispatches, the Prince of Orange, General Mufflin, and
some other foreign officers had come in. After a short debate, the
Duke, expecting that the blow would be followed up, and believing that
it was the enemy's plan to crush the English army, and take Brussels,
immediately ordered the troops to be in readiness to take the field
at a moment's notice. "And when did all this happen?--when was this
attack made?" we anxiously inquired. "It took place this afternoon."
"This afternoon!" I exclaimed, in astonishment, and, I suppose, with
looks of consternation, which drew a good-natured smile from Major
Wylie, for we had not been used to hear of battles so near, or fought
the same afternoon. "Yes, it happened this very afternoon," said
Mayor Wylie; "and when the express came away, they were fighting as
hard as ever: but after all, it may prove a mere trifling affair of
outposts--nothing at all." "But are the French in great force? Where
are they? Where are the Prussians? How far off do you suppose all this
fighting is?" were some of the many questions we asked. The fighting
was in the neighbourhood of Charleroi, about half a day's march from
Brussels: nothing certainly was known of the force of the French. In
fact, nothing at all was known, except that the French had this very
day attacked the Prussians, when they were totally unprepared, at a
short distance from us. "However, after all, this may end in nothing,"
said Major Wylie, after a pause; "we _may_ have to march to-morrow
morning, or we may not march these three weeks: but the Duke expects
another dispatch from Blucher, and that will settle the business:" and
so saying, Major Wylie went away to dress for a ball. Yes, a ball! for
the Duke of Wellington, and his aides-de-camp, and half of the British
officers, though they expected to go to a battle to-morrow, were going
to a ball to-night, at the Duchess of Richmond's; and to the ball they
did accordingly go. They seemed to say, or to feel, with the Scottish
Chief in Douglas:
"This night once more
Within these walls we rest: our tents we pitch
To-morrow in the field. Prepare the feast!--
Free is his heart who for his country fights:
He on the eve of battle may resign
Himself to social pleasure: sweetest then,
When danger to a soldier's soul endears
The human joy that never may return."
Late as it was, my brother and sister went to call upon Mrs. H., whom
they were impatient to see. They had not been gone many minutes, when
Sir Neil Campbell sent up to ask if I would admit him. I made no
objection: so in he came, looking magnificent, in a full dress uniform,
covered with crosses, clasps, orders, and medals. Behold me, then,
tête-à-tête with this splendid beau, in my own room, between ten and
eleven o'clock at night! In England it would have been extraordinary
enough, to be sure; but in Brussels it was nothing. It was impossible
to receive him, or anybody else, in any other place than a bed-room,
for the Hôtel de Flandre was entirely composed of bed-rooms, all of
which were occupied. Without discomposing myself about the matter,
therefore, I gave Sir Neil Campbell some tea, and we had a long chat
together. He, too, had been dining with the Duke of Wellington, and
had been present when these important dispatches arrived, and from him
I heard a repetition of all that Major Wylie had told us, with the
alarming addition, that the French were said to be upwards of 100,000
strong, and that Napoleon himself was at the head of the army. It was
generally thought that this attack upon the Prussians was a stratagem
to conceal more effectually his real designs, of surprising Brussels,
and destroying, if possible, at one blow, the English army. It was well
known that the Russians had crossed the Rhine; and Sir Neil Campbell
said _he_ had no doubt that Buonaparte would push forward at all
hazards, and give battle before they could arrive. As Sir Neil Campbell
had certainly reason to know _something_ of Buonaparte, and as these
rapid, unexpected movements were in perfect uniformity with his general
policy, this conjecture seemed but too probable; but we concluded that
the numbers of the French must be prodigiously exaggerated. It seemed
quite incredible that so large an army could have formed, advanced,
and even attacked Marshal Blucher, without his having any knowledge of
their movements; and even if their force was very superior to ours, I
felt confident that they would meet with a very different reception
from that which they expected; and that Napoleon, with every advantage
on his side, would not find the defeat of an English army quite so easy
a thing in practice, as he had always seemed to consider it in theory.
Having settled this point much to our mutual satisfaction, Sir Neil
Campbell went away. My brother and sister returned, and we went to bed.
But we were not destined long to enjoy the sweets of repose. Scarcely
had I laid my weary head on the pillow, when the bugle's loud and
commanding call sounded from the Place Royale. "Is that the call to
arms?" I exclaimed, starting up in the bed. My sister laughed at the
idea; but it was repeated, and we listened with eager and anxious
suspense. For a few moments a pause of doubt ensued. Hark! again!
it sounded through the silence of the night, and from every quarter
of the town it was now repeated, at short and regular intervals.
"It is the call to arms!" I exclaimed. Instantly the drums beat;
the Highland pibroch sounded----It was the call to arms! Oh! never
shall I forget the feelings of that moment! Immediately the utmost
tumult and confusion succeeded to the silence in which the city had
previously been buried. At half-past two we were roused by a loud
knocking at our room door, and my brother's voice calling to us to
get up instantly, not to lose a moment--that the troops were under
arms--were marching out against the French--and that Major Llewellyn
was waiting to see us before he left Brussels. Inexpressibly relieved
to find that this nocturnal alarm was occasioned by the departure of
Major Llewellyn, not by the arrival of the French, which, in the first
startling confusion of my thoughts, and trepidation of my mind, had
actually entered my head; and much better pleased to meet an old and
kind friend, than to run away from a furious enemy, we got up with the
greatest alacrity, and hastily throwing some clothes about us, flew
to see Llewellyn, who was waiting on the stairs. Short and agitated
indeed was our meeting under such circumstances. By the light of a
candle in my brother's room, we sat down for a few minutes on some
boxes, scarcely able to believe our senses, that all this was real,
and almost inclined to doubt whether it was not a dream: but the din
of war which resounded in our ears too painfully convinced us that it
was no illusion of phantasy:--we could scarcely even "snatch a fearful
joy," for not for a single moment could we banish from our minds the
impression, that in a few moments we must part, perhaps for ever, and
that this hurried interview might prove our last. We could only gaze
intently upon each other, as if to retain a lasting remembrance of the
well-known countenance, should we indeed be destined to meet no more:
we could only utter incoherent words or disjointed speeches. While he
still lingered, we heard his charger, which his servant held in the
court-yard below, neighing and pawing the ground, as if impatient of
his master's delay, and eager to bear him to the field. Our greetings
and adieus were equally hurried. We bade him farewell, and saw him go
to battle.
It was nearly two years since we had met; and little did we think, when
we parted in the peaceful valleys of Roxburghshire, that our next,
and perhaps our last, meeting would be in Brussels, in the dead of
the night, and on the very eve of battle. He was the same to us as a
brother. He left us then, as now, to fight the battles of his country;
and we trusted that victory and glory would still follow the British
arms, and that he would once more return in honour and safety.
Just as he left us, the dawn appeared, and, by the faint twilight
of morning, we saw the Place Royale filled with armed men, and with
all the tumult and confusion of martial preparation. All was "hurry
skurry for the field." Officers were looking in vain for their
servants--servants running in pursuit of their masters--baggage
waggons were loading--bât horses preparing--trains of artillery
harnessing.--And amidst the clanking of horses' hoofs, the rolling of
heavy carriages, the clang of arms, the sounding of bugles, and the
neighing of chargers, we distinctly heard, from time to time, the loud,
deep-toned word of command, while the incessant din of hammers nailing
"gave dreadful note of preparation."
A second express had arrived from Blucher, bringing intelligence that
the French were in much more formidable force than he had imagined;
that the attack was become serious; they had taken Charleroi, and
driven back the Prussians. It was, therefore, necessary for the British
to march immediately to support them. The Duke had received the
dispatches containing this important news in the ball-room. We were
afterwards told, that upon perusing them he seemed for a few minutes to
be absolutely absorbed in a profound reverie, and completely abstracted
from every surrounding object; and that he was even heard to utter
indistinctly a few words to himself. After a pause, he folded up the
dispatches, called one of his staff officers to him, gave the necessary
orders with the utmost coolness and promptitude; and having directed
the army to be put in motion immediately, he himself stayed at the ball
till past two in the morning. The cavalry officers, whose regiments,
for the most part, were quartered in villages about the frontier, ten,
fifteen, and even twenty miles off, flew from the ball-room in dismay,
in search of their horses, and galloped off in the dark, without
baggage or attendants, in the utmost perplexity which way to go, or
where to join their regiments, which might have marched before they
could arrive. Numbers of the officers had been out when the first
order to be in readiness to march was issued, and remained in perfect
ignorance of the commencement of hostilities, until the alarm sounded,
and called them from scenes of festivity and mirth to scenes of war
and bloodshed. As the dawn broke, the soldiers were seen assembling
from all parts of the town, in marching order, with their knapsacks
on their backs, loaded with three days' provision. Unconcerned in
the midst of the din of war, many a soldier laid himself down on a
truss of straw, and soundly slept, with his hands still grasping his
firelock; others were sitting contentedly on the pavement, waiting the
arrival of their comrades. Numbers were taking leave of their wives and
children, perhaps for the last time, and many a veteran's rough cheek
was wet with the tears of sorrow. One poor fellow, immediately under
our windows, turned back again and again, to bid his wife farewell, and
take his baby once more in his arms; and I saw him hastily brush away a
tear with the sleeve of his coat, as he gave her back the child for the
last time, wrung her hand, and ran off to join his company, which was
drawn up on the other side of the Place Royale.
Many of the soldiers' wives marched out with their husbands to the
field, and I saw one young English lady mounted on horseback, slowly
riding out of town along with an officer, who, no doubt, was her
husband. But even at this interesting moment, when thousands were
parting with those nearest and dearest to their hearts, my gravity was
suddenly overset, and my sorrow turned into mirth, by the unexpected
appearance of a long train of market carts, loaded with cabbages,
green peas, cauliflowers, early potatoes, old women, and strawberries,
peaceably jogging along, one after another, to market. These good
people, who had never heard of battles, and who were perfectly at a
loss to comprehend what could be the meaning of all this uproar, stared
with astonishment at the spectacle before them, and actually gaped with
wonder, as they slowly made their way in their long carts through the
crowds of soldiers which filled the Place Royale. There was something
so inexpressibly ludicrous in the contrast which the grotesque figures
and rustic dresses of these old women presented to this martial hurry
and confusion, that really "_not_ to laugh surpassed all powers of
face," and that I did laugh I must acknowledge, though it was perhaps
very ill-timed levity. Soon afterwards the 42nd and 92nd Highland
regiments marched through the Place Royale and the Parc, with their
bagpipes playing before them, while the bright beams of the rising sun
shone full on their polished muskets, and on the dark waving plumes of
their tartan bonnets. We admired their fine athletic forms, their firm
erect military demeanour and undaunted mien. We felt proud that they
were our countrymen: in their gallant bearing we recognised the true
hardy sons of Caledon, men who would conquer or die; and we could not
restrain a tear at the reflection, how few of that warlike band who now
marched out so proudly to battle might ever live to return. Alas! we
little thought that even before the fall of night these brave men, whom
we now gazed at with so much interest and admiration, would be laid low!
During the whole night, or rather morning, we stood at the open window,
unable to leave these sights and sounds of war, or to desist for a
moment from contemplating a scene so new, so affecting, and so deeply
interesting to us. Regiment after regiment formed and marched out of
Brussels; we heard the last word of command--March! the heavy measured
uniform tread of the soldiers' feet upon the pavement, and the last
expiring note of the bugles, as they sounded from afar.