AND

CIRCUMSTANTIAL DETAIL

PREFATORY TO THE

OFFICIAL DOCUMENTS,

BRITISH AND FOREIGN,

RELATIVE TO THE

BATTLE OF WATERLOO,

ALSO TO

PREVIOUS AND SUBSEQUENT EVENTS.

ON the evening of Thursday the 15th of June, a Courier arrived at Brussels, from Marshal Blucher to announce, that hostilities had commenced. The Duke of Wellington was sitting after dinner, with a party of officers, over the desert and wine, when he received the dispatches, containing this unexpected news. Marshal Blucher had been attacked that day, by the French; but he seemed to consider it as a mere affair of outposts, which was not likely to proceed much further at present, though it might probably prove the prelude to a more important engagement. It was the opinion of most military men in Brussels, that the enemy intended by this feint, to induce the allies to concentrate their chief military force in that quarter, in order that he might more successfully make a serious attack upon some other point, and that it was against Brussels and the English army, that the blow would be aimed. The troops were ordered to hold themselves in readiness,

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to march at a moment's notice; but no immediate movement was expected, and for some hours all was quiet.

It was past midnight, and profound repose seemed to reign over Brussels, when suddenly the drums beat to arms, and the trumpet's loud call was heard from every part of the city. It is impossible to describe the effect of these sounds, heard in the silence of the night. We were not long left in doubt of the truth. A second courier had arrived from Blucher, the attack had become serious; the enemy were in considerable force; they had taken Charleroi, and had gained some advantage over the Prussians, and our troops were ordered to march immediately to support them; instantly every place resounded with the sound of martial preparations. There was not a house in which military were not quartered, and consequently, the whole town was one universal scene of bustle: the soldiers were seen assembling from all parts in the Place Royale, with their knapsacks upon their backs; some taking leave of their wives and children; others sitting down unconcernedly upon the sharp pavement, waiting for their comrades; others sleeping upon packs of straw, surrounded by all the din of war, baugh horses, and baggage waggons, artillery, and commissariat trains-carts clattering, hammers knocking, chargers neighing, bugles sounding, drums beating, and colours flying.

A most laughable contrast to this martial scene was presented by a long procession of carts coming quietly in, as usual, from the country to market,

filled with old Flemish women, who looked irresistibly comic, seated among their piles of cabbages, baskets of green peas, early potatoes, totally ignorant of what might be the meaning of all these warlike preparations, and moving merrily along, one after another, through the Place Royale, amidst the crowds of soldiers, and the confusion of baggage waggons, gazing at the scene before them, with many a look of gaping wonder.

arms.

Yet there was order amidst all this apparent confusion. Regiment after regiment formed with the utmost regularity, and marched out of Brussels. About four o'clock in the morning, the 42nd and 92nd Highland regiments marched through the Place Royale, and the Plaza. One could not but admire their fine appearance; their firm, collected, steady, military demeanour, as they went rejoicing to battle, with their bagpipes playing before them, and the partial gleams of the rising sun shining upon their glittering Before that sun had set in night, how many of that gallant band were laid low! They fought like heroes, and like heroes they fell-an honour to their country. Ón many a highland hill, and through many a lowland valley, long will the deeds of these brave men be fondly remembered, and their fate deeply deplored. Never did a finer body of men take the field -never did men march to battle, that were destined to perform such services to their country, and to obtain such immortal renown! It was impossible to witness such a scene unmoved. Thousands were parting with their nearest and dearest to them, and to every British heart; it was a moment of the deepest

interest. Our countrymen were marching out to battle-they might return victorious-and we proudly indulged the hope of their triumph; but they were going to meet an Enemy formidable by their numbers, their discipline, and under the command of a leader, whose military talents had made him the terror, and the Tyrant of Europe, whose remorseless crimes and unbounded ambition had so long been its scourge. Not only was the safety of our brave army at stake, but the glory which Britain had so dearly purchased and so nobly won.-Her prosperity-her greatness —her name among other nations--the security and the fate of Europe, depended upon the issue of that eventful contest, which was now on the eve of being decided.

Our troops, however, cheered in the confidence and recollection they were fighting under the command of a General, who had already beaten a victorious army from the shores of the Tagus, over the Mountains of the Pyrenees; who had carried conquest and dismay into the heart of France, and whose brightest victories had ever been graced with humanity. What could not British soldiers do under such a general? What could not such a general do with such soldiers? The Duke of Wellington himself, with a candour and modesty which does him the highest honour, made an observation, which ought never to be forgotten. "When other Generals commit any error, their army is lost by it, and they are sure to be beaten; when I get into a scrape, my army get me out of it."

Before eight in the morning the streets, which had

been filled with busy crowds, were empty and silent; the great square of the Place Royale, which had been filled with armed men, and with all the appurtenances and paraphernalia of war, was now quite ́deserted.

The Flemish drivers were sleeping in the tilted carts that were destined to convey the wounded-the heavy baggage waggons ranged in order, and ready to move when occasion might require, were standing under a guard-a few officers were still to be seen riding out of town to join the army. Sir Thomas Picton mounted upon his charger, in soldier-like style, with his reconnoitring-glass slung across his shoulder, left Brussels in the highest spirits, never to return. The Duke of Wellington also left Brussels in great spirits, observing that Blucher had most likely settled the business himself by this time, and that he should perhaps be back to dinner. It was on this very morning that Napoleon Buonaparte made the boast, that to-morrow night he would sleep at Lacon, a palace now belonging to the King of Holland, about three miles beyond Brussels, in an elevated situation, surrounded by beautiful grounds. It was fitted up with great magnificence by Louis Buonaparte, and Napoleon himself staid there in his progress through the Netherlands.

After the army were gone, Brussels indeed seemed a perfect desert. Every countenance was marked with anxiety or melancholy-every heart was filled with anxious expectations. It was not, however, supposed that any action would take place that day. What was then the general consternation, when about