ON! ON! TO WATERLOO.

Without noting Rotterdam, Holland’s lowest town, and Antwerp, an old Flemish town, I am at the carpet city of Belgium, Brussels, on my way to Waterloo. I have a little old lacquey I just hired and he is as cute as a mink. “All ready, sir,” said he, “shall I drive you to the Palace or the Museum?” “No sir, on to Waterloo!” Here the hackman remonstrated—he was not engaged for twelve miles and only engaged inside the city walls, and would not go to Waterloo this cold wet day for less than twenty francs. “Go on, sir,” said I, and he traversed the whole of the Brussels Boulevard before he passed the gates. Here we are at the battle-field where Wellington rose and Napoleon fell. Wellington conquered the master of the world. Byron says, in his Ode on Napoleon,—
“’Tis done! but yesterday a king,
And armed with kings to strive;
And now thou art a nameless thing—
So abject, yet alive”

He continues:—
“Is this the man with thousand thrones
Who strewed our earth with hostile bones,
And can he yet survive?
Since he miscalled the morning star,
Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far.”

My guide was an old revolutionary soldier who was opposed to the Bourbons before the days of Charles the 10th. He fought in this bloody fray, and pleads up fool play on the part of Grouchy.

Mr. Cotton’s clerk sold me a copy of a book giving the details of this battle, which it took ten years to accumulate the matter for. Mr. Cotton was in the battle or close to it. In the centre of this field is now an immense mound, made with the bones of slain warriors. Small steps run up to its top, and Wellington is a monumental emblem seated on a horse moving over the field, apparently as natural as life, pinnacling this mound.

Having rested my body by leaning on the leg of the horse, I listened to the harangue of this old man, whose jaws had crept into his mouth, which was void of teeth. He first pointed out the position of Grouchy, who was not in the battle, but was Napoleon’s climaxing reserve, off miles in the distance. He now evidently felt some of the animating spirit of that great day, as, pointing in the same direction, he showed me the hill over which Blucher came, and made Napoleon believe that it was his own Grouchy. The old man quieted his feelings before proceeding farther. He assured me that Napoleon’s heartstrings must have burst at this perfidious conduct of Grouchy. He believed that Grouchy was so angry with Napoleon for refusing to let him lead on the battle in the morning instead of French Generals and Marshals, that he sold himself to the allies. Grouchy was one of Napoleon’s German Generals, and wanted the glory of a battle which, if lost, would bankrupt the French nation, as they had drained their coffers to support the ambition of its chief, which, no doubt, was the greatest general of modern times. The old soldier pointed off to the right of Blucher’s march over the hill, to the French position of Belle Alliance, and referred to those hours of anxiety from the first evening Napoleon arrived there and saw the English in the distance, when he craved the power of Joshua to stop the sun that he might attack them that day, to the close of the battle, when he mounted his white steed and started to the carnage, that he might fall among the slain, and how he was checked by Marshal Soult, which Marshal is yet living, who said to Napoleon, “They will not slay you but take you prisoner,” upon which he fled from the scene of desolation and mourning.

The old soldier now turned languidly round to Hougomont, and there depicted some of the most daring fighting that ever a juvenile ear listened to. He said that Napoleon ordered Hougomont to be taken, and gave so many soldiers for that purpose. Hougomont is a long brick building, like an old fashioned barracks. It has a hedge of tall shrubbery in front, looking towards the battle plain. Thousands of English were stationed there with loop holes only a foot apart, so as to shoot down all attacks. When the French soldiers went towards the house to take it, they were shot down one upon another so fast that the few thousands sent against it were slain before they reached the hedge, where the French thought the fire came from. Word was sent to Napoleon that Hougomont could not be taken, and asking for an answer to the leader. Napoleon glanced once round the field, and said, “Tell him to take Hougomont,” but he reinforced the leader, who said to his true soldiers, “Let us march up to die, the emperor says, take Hougomont.” When these soldiers heard the orders of their emperor, they scuffled over the hedge to find the fire of their enemy, but to their great disappointment it came from the loopholes! but these daring veterans were not inclined to disobey the great emperor, who was no more a “little corporal.” “They,” says history, “marched up to the muzzles of the English muskets, and grappled with them till they sank beneath their wrath.” Afterwards they took it, but could not keep it. They took it again and kept it some time, but finally left it in the hands of the enemy.

The old man says there were all sorts of reports on the field the night after the battle concerning the emperor. One was, that he rode into the fight and fell with the old guard, who made a pyramid over his body trying to screen him from the blows which fell on him; others were, that Wellington had him in close confinement, and when this was told, thousands of mangled men that seemed to be living only to hear his fate, fell back and died the death that none can die but a soldier. Next day the news came to the living wounded, that Napoleon was on his way, if not at Fontainbleau, and the old soldiers sprang up on their broken limbs, and filled the air with vive l’empereur, vive toujours.

Blucher and Wellington then commenced preparing to march on Paris and did. Blucher wanted to burn it but Wellington knew the revengeful spirit of the nation. He might have burned Paris as his allies wished, and, like Nero, fiddled while it burned, but all France would have been annihilated, or London razed to the earth.

Napoleon sent to Paris to know the Cabinet’s opinion of this awful disaster to her Treasury and dignity. Tallyrand who was at the head of affairs, advised him to stay away from Paris, for he bankrupted France, and therefore, must abdicate. Napoleon sent a faithful man to plead in favor of his son, but Tallyrand said he had cost France millions of souls, besides bankrupting her, and must leave unconditionally.

Next morning this king of a hundred thrones rode out of Fontainbleau towards Dieppe. He went aboard an English vessel and said, “I am Napoleon.” The old captain trembled as he saw the resemblance of that cold countenance, whose pictures filled even the hamlets of England. Struck with this importance, he untied his vessel, drew up his sail and steered to the admiral. Thus ends this Chapter as it did Napoleon, whose orders some days ago were, “On to Waterloo.”