victory more glorious and decisive, than Lord Wellington's concise and
modest bulletin had led us to imagine. The French had not "retreated,"
they had been completely routed, and put to flight; they had not
merely "been defeated," they were no longer an army. They had fled in
every direction from the field, pursued by the victorious British and
by the Prussians, who had not come up till just at the close of the
battle.[19] The whole of their artillery, ammunition, and baggage,
their caissons, all the matériel of their army had been taken. Of
130,000 Frenchmen who had marched yesterday morning to battle,
flushed with all the hopes and confidence of victory, no trace, no
vestige now remained; they were all swept away; they were scattered
by the whirlwind of war over the face of the earth. Yesterday their
proud hosts had spread terror and dismay through nations, and struck
consternation into every heart, except those of the brave band of
warriors who opposed them. To-day the greater part of them slept
in death, the rest were fugitives or captives. It was an awful and
tremendous lesson. They were gone with all their imperfections on their
heads,--their hopes, their purposes, their plans, their passions, and
their crimes, were at rest for ever! And their leader, who had sported
away the lives of thousands, with feelings untouched by remorse; who
had impiously presumed to defy the powers of God and man; and whose
insatiate ambition the world itself seemed too small to contain--where
was he now?--an outcast and a wanderer, hunted, pursued, beset on all
sides, and at a loss where to lay his head!
It was with a heart pierced with anguish that I wept for the brave who
had fallen; that I felt in the bitterness of sorrow, that not even the
proud triumph of my country's glory could console me for the gallant
hearts that were lost to her for ever!
"How many mothers shall lament their sons;
How many widows weep their husbands slain!--
Ye dames of Albion! ev'n for you I mourn:
Who sadly sitting on the sea-beat shore,
Long look for lords who never shall return!"
It was twelve o'clock before our friends left us, and then, worn out
with fatigue of body and mind, for the first time during four nights,
I enjoyed the blessing of some hours of undisturbed repose, in spite
of the bonfires, the acclamations, the noisy rejoicings, and the
songs, more patriotic than melodious, which resounded in my ears. Last
night the streets were filled with the cries of horror and alarm,
to-night they resounded with the shouts of exultation and joy; and
it was with feelings of deep and fervent thanksgiving to Heaven that
I laid my wearied head upon the pillow, and sank to sleep with the
blessed consciousness that we should not this night be disturbed by the
dreadful alarms of war.
Nothing on retrospection seemed to me so extraordinary as the shortness
of time in which these wonderful events had happened. I could scarcely
convince myself that they had actually been comprised in the short
space of three days--so long did it seem to be! Yet in that brief space
how many gallant spirits had death arrested in their glorious career of
honour and immortality--how many hearts had grief rendered desolate! In
these eventful days the fates of empires and of kings had been decided,
and the trembling nations of Europe freed from the vengeance and the
yoke of the tyranny which menaced them with subjugation.
If the passage of time were to be computed by the succession of events,
rather than by moments, we should indeed have lived a lifetime! an age!
for it was "eternity of thought." Every thing that had happened, even
immediately before these events, seemed like the faintly-remembered
traces of a dream, or the fading and distant images of long past years.
It seemed as if at once
"From the tablet of my memory
Were wiped away all trivial fond records,
All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past,
That youth and observation copied there;
And this remembrance all alone remain'd,
Within the book and volume of my brain,
Unmixed with baser matter."
Yes! the days, the months, the years of my future life may pass away
and be forgotten, and all the changes that mark them fade like a
morning dream; but the minutest circumstance of these eventful days
must be remembered "while Memory holds her seat;" for such moments and
such feelings in life can never return more.
A fortnight elapsed, which we passed in making the tour of Holland; in
gliding along its slow canals, visiting its populous cities, gazing at
its splendid palaces, yawning over its green ditches, wondering at its
great dykes, its prodigious sluices, and its innumerable windmills;
admiring its clean houses, laughing at the humours of its fairs, and
falling fast asleep in its churches.
We found the Dutch a plain, plodding, pains-taking, well-meaning,
money-getting, matter-of-fact people; very dull and drowsy, and slow
and stupid; little addicted to talking, but very much given to smoking;
but withal pious and charitable, and just and equitable; with no wit,
but some humour; with little fancy, genius, or invention--but much
patience, perseverance, and punctuality. They make excellent merchants,
but very bad companions. What Buonaparte once in his ignorance said
of the English, is truly applicable to the Dutch,--"They are a nation
of shopkeepers;" and they used to remind me very much of a whole
people of Quakers. In dress, in manners, in appearance, and in habits
of life, they precisely resemble that worthy sect; and like them, in
all these points they are perfectly stationary. It is singular enough
that in all matters of taste and fashion, in which other nations are
continually varying, the Dutch have stood stock still for at least
two centuries; and in political opinions and institutions, which it
requires years, and even ages, to alter in other countries, the Dutch
have veered about without ceasing. They have literally changed their
form of government much oftener than the cut of their coats. They have
had Stadtholders, and Revolutions, and Republics, and Despotisms, and
Tyrants, and limited Monarchies; and new Dynasties and old; and the
"New Code Napoleon,"--and the newer Code of King William: and they have
changed from the side of England to that of France, and from France
to that of England,--and from the House of Orange to Buonaparte, and
from Buonaparte to the House of Orange, with a rapidity and versatility
which even their volatile neighbours, the French, could not equal.
But while their government, their laws, their sovereigns, and their
institutions, have undergone every possible transformation--the
fashion of their caps and bonnets, their hats and shoebuckles, remains
unchanged; and they have adhered, with the most scrupulous exactitude,
to the same forms of politeness, the same hours, dresses, manners, and
habits of life that were the fashion among the venerable Burgomasters
in the days of good King William. Certainly if Solomon had ever lived
in Holland he never would have said that "the fashion of this world
passeth away," for there it lasts from generation to generation.
I should think that the Dutch are now very like what the English were
in the times of the Puritans. They have a great deal of rigidity and
vulgarity in their appearance, and of coarseness and _grossièreté_ in
their manners; and they are wholly destitute of vivacity, refinement,
and "the grace that charms." I speak of the people at large; not of the
Court nor of the courtly, who in every country are much the same, or at
least fashioned upon one model; but, excepting the Court, there is no
polite circle, no general good society. It is the rarest thing in the
world to meet with a gentleman in Holland. The Dutch are equally devoid
of that acquired good breeding which distinguishes the well educated
English, and that native politeness and winning courtesy which is so
irresistibly engaging among the French, and even the Belgic people.
I did not think anything could have roused the phlegmatic Dutch to such
energy and vehement animation as they showed in their ardent attachment
to the present government, and their detestation of their former
tyrants. They are absolutely enthusiastic in their loyalty to the House
of Orange; and their implacable and virulent hatred to the French
surpasses all conception. They cannot be silent upon this subject; they
cannot forget their past sufferings, and the tyranny and cruelty which
they endured so long. They never utter their names without bitter
execrations, and the very language is become unpopular. But the British
they look upon with the highest respect and admiration, and treat
them with a blunt, coarse, complimentary sort of kindness, which is
flattering to our national pride.
The Dutch, however, allowed that Louis Buonaparte was a very
well-intentioned, good-hearted man; but he was only a tool in the hands
of the "Great Napoleon;" and, though he did not like to crush them, he
had no power to mitigate the tyranny which bowed them to the earth.
For Napoleon himself--his ministers, his soldiers, his edicts, and
the system of plunder, oppression, and slavery which constituted his
government--no words are strong enough to speak their abhorrence. They
are now most completely an unanimous people. From the lowest beggar in
the street to the king upon his throne, one common political feeling
animates and inspires them.
The only people who grew rich during the reign of the French were
the smugglers, and some of these men made astonishing fortunes by
the sale of colonial produce,--chiefly coffee and tobacco; and
English manufactures, which they introduced into the kingdom in great
quantities, notwithstanding all the spies, soldiers, plans, penalties,
and prohibitions of Buonaparte.
In the failure of taxes and contributions to satisfy his rapacity,
he sequestrated a large portion of the funds destined for the annual
repair of the dykes and sluices, which in consequence were fast falling
to decay; so that had the French Government lasted much longer, Holland
might have been no longer a country; it might _physically_, as well as
_politically_, have ceased to exist, and a tide, even more destructive
than the armies of France, have rolled over it and restored it again to
the ocean.
Sometimes the faint reports of distant war roused us during our
slumbering progress through this soporific country; and Dutch men and
Dutch bonnets, and towns and palaces, and universities and museums,
and tulips and hyacinths, and even "Orange Boven" itself, were
entirely forgotten in the animating and overpowering interest of the
triumphant progress of the British arms,--the final fall of the Usurper
of France,--and the entrance of the Allied Army, led by the Duke of
Wellington, into the gates of Paris.
A sight more affecting than any other that Holland contained we
frequently witnessed:--long _treckschuyts_ filled with the wounded
Dutch soldiers of Waterloo, mutilated, disabled, sick and suffering,
passed us upon the canals, slowly returning to their homes. In many
of the towns and villages of Holland, the hospitals were filled with
these poor soldiers, to whom the inhabitants showed the most humane
and praiseworthy kindness and attention. It is but justice to the
Dutch to state, that though their charity began at home it did not end
there. Every town and village made contributions for the wounded Belgic
and British, as well as for the Dutch, both of money and provisions,
including plenty of butter and cheese, together with an enormous supply
of ankers of real Hollands, which amused me extremely. I am sure they
sent it out of pure love and kindness, anxious, I suppose, that the
poor wounded should have plenty of what they liked best themselves; or
perhaps they thought that gin, like spermaceti, was "sovereign for an
inward bruise."
If Ireland be "the country that owes the most to Nature and the least
to Man," Holland is unquestionably the country which owes the most to
Man and the least to Nature. I bade it farewell without one feeling of
regret: with as little emotion as Voltaire, I could have said--"Adieu!
Canaux, Canards, Canaille!"--and after crossing many a tedious and
toilsome ferry, and slowly traversing the trackless and sandy desert
which separates Bergen-op-Zoom from Antwerp, we left Holland,--I hope,
for ever!
Nothing can be imagined more dreary than this journey. One wide
extended desert of barren sand surrounded us as far as the eye could
reach, in which no trace of man, nor beast, nor human habitation,
could be seen. Some bents, thinly scattered upon the hillocks of sand,
and occasional groups of stunted fir, through which the wind sighed
mournfully, were the only signs of vegetation. Slowly and heavily the
horses dragged our cabriolet through these deep sands, choosing their
own path as their own sagacity, or that of their driver, directed.
Quitting at last this solitary waste, we entered the sheltering copse
woods of oak which surround the city of Antwerp, drove swiftly by neat
cottages and smiling gardens, descried with delight its lofty walls,
its frowning fortifications, and the spire of the Cathedral, whose
beauty we could _now_ admire; and with feelings which may be better
conceived than described, we once more entered its gates.--But what
a change had one fortnight produced! It did not seem to be the same
place or the same people; and when I thought of all the quick varying
scenes of horror, consternation, and triumph which we had witnessed
here, and remembered that within these walls we had trembled for the
safety, and mourned the imaginary defeat of that army who were now
victorious in the capital of France; when I recalled all that the
heroes of my country had done and dared and suffered for her honour
and security and peace--and that to them, under Heaven, Europe owed its
salvation--it was difficult, it was nearly impossible to restrain the
strong tide of mingled emotions which at this moment swelled my heart.
Not for worlds, not to have been the first and greatest in another
land, would I have resigned the distinction of calling England my
country; and I blessed Heaven that I was born an Englishwoman, and born
in this, the proudest era of British glory.
As these reflections rapidly passed through my mind, a Highland soldier
obstructed our passage with his musket, signifying to the driver
that he was to go at a foot-pace past a large building, which we now
discovered to be an hospital, and before which the street was thickly
laid with straw. We were affected with this proof of the attention
and care paid to the wounded, still more so when we learnt that this
hospital was full of wounded French. The Highland soldier who now stood
on guard to prevent the smallest noise from disturbing the repose of
his enemies, had himself been wounded--wounded in the action with them.
It was a noble, a divine instance of generosity: it was returning good
for evil. It was worthy of England. The French soldiers had inhumanly
murdered their wounded prisoners. The British not only dressed the
wounds and attended to all the wants of theirs, but they protected and
watched over them, that even their very slumbers might not be disturbed.
At the hotel of Le Grand Laboureur they knew and welcomed us again,
and testified great joy at the success of the Allies since we had seen
them, and a great dread lest Napoleon should make his escape. In the
streets we met numbers of poor wounded British officers, weak, pale,
faint, and emaciated, slowly and painfully moving a few yards to taste
the freshness of the summer and the blessed beams of heaven.
Many fine young men had lost their limbs, many were on crutches, many
were supported by their wives or by their servants. At the open windows
of the houses, propped up by pillows, some poor unfortunate sufferers
were lying, whose looks would have moved a heart of stone to pity. We
passed several hospitals, and looked into some of them. The cleanliness
and neatness of appearance which they exhibited were truly gratifying.
Antwerp was filled with wounded. In every corner we met numbers of
convalescent soldiers and officers, some of whom looked well; but the
sufferings we saw, and heard of, were far too dreadful to relate, and
in many cases death would have been a blessed relief from a state of
hopeless torture. Several vessels had already sailed, filled with
convalescent wounded, for England.
Most of the wounded French, the wretched survivors of Buonaparte's
imperial army, were here. But what consolation had they to support them
on the bed of pain and sickness? What glory awaited them when they
returned to their native country? What was their recompense for their
valour, their sufferings, their services, and their dangers?--Broken
health, and blighted hopes, and ruined fortunes, and blasted fame,
were all they had to look to. They had not fought and bled for their
country, but for a leader who had basely deserted them. Surrounded by
these bleeding victims of a tyrant's ungovernable ambition, I felt the
truth that inspired the poet's lines--
"Unblest is the blood that for tyrants is squandered,
And Fame has no wreath for the brow of the slave."
And what British heart would not exclaim with him--
"But hail to thee, Albion, who meet'st the commotion
Of Europe, as firm as thy cliffs meet the foam,
With no bond but the law, and no slave but the ocean--
Hail, Temple of Liberty! thou art my home!"
The night soon closed in upon us, and we could see the wounded no more.
We went to rest, and enjoyed a night of more calm repose than it had
ever yet been our lot to experience in Antwerp.
With what different feelings, and under what different circumstances,
did I open my eyes on this Sunday morning, to those which we suffered
on the dreadful morning of Sunday, the 18th of June, which we had
spent here before! Then horror and despair filled the minds of the
people--then they were lamenting the imaginary destruction of that
army for whose success they were now offering up thanks--for this was
the _Kennesgevin_, or day of thanksgiving, for the glorious victory
of Waterloo. We attended high mass at the Cathedral, as we had done
before--but with sensations how different! and if at that awful moment
my prayers had ascended to heaven, to crown with victory and glory the
arms of my country, the deep and fervent emotions of gratitude which
filled my heart were now offered up in thanksgiving to the throne of
divine mercy. The anxiety, the misery that I had endured when I was
before within these aisles, was too poignant to be easily forgotten;
but that remembrance made me feel more deeply the blessings which
Heaven had bestowed upon us.
Mass being over, we ascended by 640 steps to the top of the tower, or
rather of the staircase, of the Cathedral, for its utmost pinnacle is
accessible only to the winged inhabitants of air: but as we were not
furnished with wings, we were obliged to content ourselves, instead
of soaring higher, with gazing upon the magnificent prospect that lay
below us. The men and women flocking out of the churches through the
streets, looked exactly like a colony of ants swarming on the gravel
walks of a garden in a sunny day: the streets and houses looked like
the miniature model of a town in pasteboard; and the majestic Scheldt
like a long ribbon streaming through a measureless tract of country.
However, the view was both various and beautiful. Far as the eye
could reach, the rich fields and woods of Flanders, with its populous
villages, its lofty spires, and noble canals lay extended around us,
presenting a striking contrast to the cold, bare, triste, watery flats
of Holland, which were fresh in our remembrance; and Flanders, no
doubt, looked doubly beautiful from the recent comparison.
We distinctly saw the fortifications of Bergen-op-Zoom on one side, and
the steeple of Vilvorde on the other. We traced the Scheldt winding its
course through a rich country down towards the ocean. Upon its broad
bosom lay the vessels waving with the flag of Britain, and destined
to carry home the troops who had so bravely fought and bled in her
service, and for her glory.
When I thought of the dreadful waste of human life and sufferings
which the battle of Waterloo had cost the world, it almost seemed as
if it had been dearly purchased: yet in frequent indecisive battles,
and in long-protracted campaigns, more blood might--must have been
shed, without the same glorious or important results. In one great
day, years of bloodshed and of toil had been saved. In one tremendous
burst of thunder the war had ended, and the lightnings of Heaven in
that vengeful hour had descended upon the head of the guilty. The dark
cloud which menaced Europe had passed away, and the prospect was now
calm, bright, and unclouded. The blood of Britons had indeed flowed,
but it had flowed in a noble cause, and it had not flowed in vain. It
had secured present peace and security to the world, and it had left to
future ages the proudest monument of British fame.
But I forget that I am all this time upon the top of Antwerp Cathedral;
and it is high time to descend from my altitude. When we once more
reached the earth, we went to see a sort of religious puppet-show,
called Mount Calvary. It had been "got up" with great care and cost,
and must have required a world of labour; for there were artificial
rocks and caverns, and heaven and hell into the bargain; and it was
altogether a most edifying spectacle. There were the Crucifixion, and
the Virgin Mary, and St. Paul, and St. Peter,--and I dare say all the
rest of the Apostles, and at least fifty more holy persons, who were
most likely saints, all as large as life, and made of white stone.
There were also red-hot flaming furnaces of purgatory, filled with
figures of the same materials; with this difference, that they were
making horrible grimaces. There were also the Sepulchre and the Angel;
and our friend Mr. D. (the Antwerp merchant), who took us to see this
show, was in an ecstasy with it, and declared that all the paintings
in the world were not to be compared to it--nay, that he did actually
think that it was almost as well worth seeing as St. Paul's or the
Monument;--but this he asserted more cautiously.
We visited the house and the tomb of Rubens with more veneration than
we had paid to the shrines of all the saints. The people of Antwerp
almost adore the memory of this great artist. He was descended from
one of the most ancient families in Flanders; of noble birth and of
splendid fortune. Antwerp was the place of his birth and of his death,
and his spirit still seems to hover over it; for never did I witness
a passion for paintings, and a knowledge of the art, so universally
diffused among all classes as in this town. All the merchants, and even
the petty shopkeepers and tradespeople, have good paintings, both of
the Flemish and Italian school. In every house they may be seen; and
in every street even the lowest of the people may be heard to canvass
their merits. They still lament over the loss of the fine paintings
which were carried from the churches by the French; and they seemed
particularly to grieve for their celebrated Altar-piece, the pride of
their city, which was taken from them. They petitioned and implored
Buonaparte with so much importunity and perseverance to restore to
them this idol of their affections, that he at last promised it should
be sent back. In process of time, and in conformity with his imperial
word, there arrived the celebrated altar-piece of "The Descent from
the Cross,"--correctly copied from the original by a modern French
artist! The immortal touches of Rubens were not there. The fraud was
instantly discovered, and the people were indignant at this mockery of
restitution. They told us they intended immediately to send deputies
to Paris to claim this and the other treasures of which they had been
despoiled, and which now adorn the Louvre.