A FRENCHMAN'S EXCURSION TO THE FIELD OF

WATERLOO, JUNE 18TH 1849.*

A DISTANCE of about twelve miles separates the field of Waterloo from Brussels, a city not very rich, notwithstanding its pretensions to the dignity of a capital, in its vehicular resources. Brussels has not, like Paris, a dense array of hackney coaches and omnibuses, ready at any hour of the day or night to conduct the traveller, with every possible expedition, to the end of a department. It is necessary to pass a whole day at Brussels in the endeavour to procure, at a reasonable charge, a carriage capable of transporting the visitor to Waterloo. Add to this lost day the additional time required for the pilgrimage, and the journey will have cost as much patience as would suffice to proceed twice from Brussels to Cologne. The economical tourist makes this calculation, tells over the contents of his purse, and with a sigh of regret, in which resignation is perhaps mingled, he leaves out Waterloo in his note-book. Englishmen and poets alone know how to rise above considerations of time, money, and space.

At length, though not without great labour, I succeeded in collecting together the necessary objects for the expedition, namely, horses, a carriage, and a driver, the latter even speaking a little French, although very indifferently. I more especially mention this, as it is commonly supposed in France that every Belgian speaks our language fluently. This is, however, a great error, for the Belgians and I do not even except the inhabitants of Brussels-utter just sufficient French to prove they do not understand it. I am far from blaming this ignorance; on the contrary, I would that it took deeper root; my firm opinion being, that their decline in the arts dates from the period when they renounced speaking and writing Flemish, and adopted a language never intended for their use.

On leaving Brussels we proceeded through the Faubourg Louisa, a new quarter of the city, which will one day be worthy of the name it bears, that of the Queen of the Belgians. The buildings of this aristocratic locality display the same fine proportions as the Parisian hotels of the Rue de la Paix, and they would have the like beautiful effect, were it not for the brilliant varnish with which they are covered. The intense white of the stucco also detracts from their appearance, while at the same time, we must admit, it adds to their neatness.

These singular practices of the Belgian architects give to their city the character, cleanly, but little ornamental, of a vast dining-room, and the sand with which the pavement is covered seems to justify the comparison.

At the extremity of this wealthy faubourg the carriage in passing the road touches the overhanging branches of trees in a vast park, and their shadow and freshness envelope the traveller some distance on

The author of this article is M. Leon Gozlan, one of the most esteemed contributors to the periodical press of France.

Some unimportant passages in this article have been omitted, but without modifying the language of the writer, who displays the usual sensitiveness of his countrymen with regard to this last "Decisive Battle of the World." The notion of the defeat of the British, so coolly insisted upon by him, will afford amusement rather than provocation to the English reader.-ED.

the route. This estate surrounds an elegant mansion belonging to De Beriot, an artiste doubly celebrated in his profession as a genius, and as the husband of the lamented cantatrice, Madame Malibran. On quitting the spot, and approaching the forest of Soignies, I could not forbear repeating the verses of Lamartine, written at the foot of the statue raised to the Queen of Song in the picturesque cemetery of Lacken,* where she is interred.

"Beauté, génie, amour, furent son nom de femme,

Ecrit dans son regard, dans son cœur, dans sa voix ;
Sous trois formes au ciel appartenait cette âme;
Pleurez, terre, et vous, cieux, accueillez-la trois fois!"

"Sir," exclaimed my conductor, suddenly interrupting my meditations, excuse me if I am troublesome, but before arriving at MontSaint-Jean I wish to warn you of a knavish trade you have probably never heard of at Paris.

"A knavish trade unknown at Paris?" I replied, incredulously; "that is rather surprising. But come, tell me what is this new species of industry?"

"You can easily suppose," pursued my loquacious coachman, "that after the battle of Waterloo there remained on the field a large quantity of cannon-balls, buttons, small brass eagles, and broken weapons. Well, for the past thirty-four years, the country people in the neighbourhood have been carrying on a famous business in these articles.'

"It seems to me, however, my friend," I observed, "that a sale continued for so long a period, must have left very little to be disposed of at present."

"True, sir; and this is precisely what I would guard you against. Those who obtain a subsistence by such means, purchase the goods new at a manufactory, in shares, and then bury in different parts of the field, and for a wide space around, pieces of imperial brass eagles, thousands of metal buttons, and heaps of iron balls. This crop is allowed to rest in the earth until summer, for few strangers visit Waterloo in winter; and when the fine weather arrives, they dig up their relics, to which a sojourn of eight months in a damp soil gives an appearance of age, deceiving the keenest observer, and awakening the admiration of pilgrims."

"But this is a shameful deceit."

"True again, sir; but the country is very poor about here; and after all, perhaps," added the philosophic driver, "no great harm is done. This year the harvest of brass eagles has been very fair."

We entered the forest of Soignies by a narrow and naturally covered alley, the two sides crowned with the most luxuriant foliage. Poplars, elms, and plane trees appeared to be striving which should attain the highest elevation. One peculiarity I could not avoid remarking in the midst of this solemn and beautiful abode of nature, and that was the perfect stillness prevailing around. The air itself seemed without palpitation, and during a ride of two hours through this sylvan gallery not even the note of a bird broke on the solitude. A forest without feathered songsters appeared unnatural, and the only possible reason that could be imagined for such a circumstance might be, that since the

Lacken, it is well-known, is the seat of a royal palace, about three miles from Brussels, in which the King of the Belgians usually resides. It was at this place that Napoleon traced the plan of the campaign of Russia.

formidable day of Waterloo, they had quitted these shades, never to return, frightened away by the roar of the cannon and the dismal noise of war. What melancholy is impressed upon the beautiful forest of Soignies! I cannot overcome the idea, that since Providence destined it should become the mute spectator of the great event in its vicinity, it bas retained the mysterious memory in the folding of its leaves and the depths of its shades. Destiny designs the theatre for great actions. An army of one hundred thousand men perished there. Such was the irrevocable decree !

"Do you think," I inquired of the coachman-wishing to change the current of my thoughts, "there are persons so unscrupulous as to speculate on the curiosity of tourists to Waterloo, in the manner you have described?"

"Ah, sir!" he replied, "I have not told you half the tricks they practise on the credulous. It would indeed fatigue you if I mentioned all of them, but, if you will permit me, I will relate an instance I witnessed myself one day. I was conducting from Waterloo to Brussels a French artist and a Prussian tourist. The Prussian supported on his knee some object very carfully enveloped in a handkerchief, and which he seemed to value greatly. When we had arrived about midway on the road, he inquired of the Frenchman, whether he had brought away with him any souvenir of his pilgrimage to Waterloo.

"In good faith, no,' replied the other; and yet I was on the point of making a certain acquisition, but the exorbitant price demanded prevented me: one hundred francs, besides the trouble of carrying off such an article.'

"What could it have been?' demanded the Prussian, curiously.

"You must not feel offended if I tell you,' returned the artist; it was the skull of a Prussian colonel, a magnificent one! And what rendered it more valuable, it was pierced by three holes, made by the balls of Waterloo. One was in the forehead, the others were through the temples. I should have had no objection to secure this, if I could have afforded it, and have had a lamp made of the skull of a Prussian officer killed by the French. And you, sir?' he continued, looking at the packet carried by his fellow traveller, "pray what luck have you had ?"

"I,' replied the Prussian, with an uneasy movement, and looking greatly confused, 'I am astonished at the wonderful resemblance of what has happened to both of us, for I purchased this morning the skull of a French colonel killed by a Prussian at Waterloo."

"You, sir?'

"'Y—e—s,' stammered the Prussian, and I thought of having it made into a cup to drink the health of Blucher at each anniversary of our victory.'

"And is the skull pierced by three bullets?' demanded the Frenchman, his suspicions becoming awakened.

"With a look of consternation the Prussian hastily unrolled the handkerchief, and examined the contents. The skull bore the same marks indicated by his travelling companion! It was the identical relic that was French when offered to an Englishman or Prussian, and had become Prussian or English when offered to a Frenchman.

"This, sir," added Jehu, smacking his whip, "you will admit is worse than selling false brass buttons and the Emperor's eagles."

During this conversation, we had nearly reached the end of the wood,

and at length the sunbeams shot through the last tree, and the breeze saluted me with its freshness, while, on returning to the right of the road, the country lay extended beyond, forming a beautiful panorama. "There is the Lion's Mount!" exclaimed my conductor, with an eagerness probably new to him at each excursion, for, to judge from his manner, he seemed to have beheld it for the first time, with this difference in his favour, that he perceived the mountain clearly, while I, although straining my sight, could not get a glimpse of it. I was obliged to have the horses stopped, and ask him to indicate to me its position. At length his enthusiasm having subsided, he pointed out to me the artificial mound, and the metal lion on its summit. Gradually my vision became accustomed to the great development of light of which I had been deprived during the two hours we had traversed, in partial obscurity, the wood of Soignies, and now I beheld distinctly the colossal monument erected by our enemies to the memory of our glorious disasters.

"It appears to me," I said, addressing the driver, "that this part of the forest has been much diminished in size. Has it been cut down?" "You have guessed rightly, sir;" he returned, "it belongs to several proprietors, each of whom does what he likes with his portion. One roots up the trees, and plants rape-seed in their place, because it is more profitable. Another prefers his flax field to ten thousand feet of green-wood."

"So," thought I, "in twenty or thirty years the forest of Soignies will have ceased to exist. It would have been better, perhaps, to have left it in the state nature designed, but who thinks in 1849 of preserving anything? Let us hasten quickly to contemplate the last vestiges of Waterloo, if it is not even now too late!"

I need not remind my readers that the 18th of June is the anniversary of the celebrated battle of Waterloo. I had expressly chosen this illfated day for my historical excursion to Mont-St.-Jean, in the hope of meeting on the way some veterans of la grande armée piously curious like myself, to traverse the vast field of death.

It was so mighty, that army of my country, that I seem to imagine the remains of it will exist for ages! The road, however, was deserted, that sinister way by which the English, in 1815, retreated twice towards Brussels, and which they traversed the same day in all the amazement of unexpected victory.

*

At length we reached Genappe, and rolled at length over the badlypaved route, connecting Waterloo with Mont-St.-Jean. Although placed under the authority of a single burgomaster, that of Waterloo, these two hamlets are still somewhat separated from each other. They differ but little from the similar class of villages in France, except in the admirable neatness of their appearance.

The church of Waterloo has some slight pretensions deserving of notice. It has a species of façade, with a stone dome. On the front is

* M. Gozlan has readily adopted the gross error into which so many French writers have fallen of attributing the confused mass of fugitive camp followers, wounded soldiers, and alarmed peasants, who, with vehicles of all sorts, crowded the road to Brussels through the forest of Soignies during the whole day of the battle, to a movement of retreat on the part of the British Army. This confusion was increased by numerous desertions from the ranks of our auxiliaries, especially Les brave Belges, but the only corps that fell back upon Brussels was the Cumberland Regiment of Hanoverian Hussars under Colonel Rulle, who having turned fail, carried the alarm that the French were at their heels.

an inscription to the effect, that the Marquis of Gastanaga, Governor of the Low Countries for Charles II., King of Spain, laid the foundation of the structure in the year 1690. The battle to which the English have given the name of this village, Waterloo, bore for a long time in France the designation of Mont-St.-Jean, whilst the Prussians record it as the victory of La Belle Alliance. These three titles are equally well founded. The French occupied the back of Mont-St.-Jean,* the English covered the opposite side, and leaned in consequence towards Waterloo, and the Prussians towards the close of the combat fell upon the farm of La Belle Alliance, where Blucher and Wellington met after the victory.

If the village of Mont-St.-Jean possesses no church, it can nevertheless boast of having the largest hotel in the district, where travellers usually take up their quarters, and recruit their strength with a frugal breakfast, previous to traversing the vast field of Waterloo, every object on which deserves attention, and to ascend the Mountain of the Lion.

Without the money spent by these strangers, the two villages would indeed be miserably off, but owing to the perpetual tribute paid by the curious world, Mont-St.-Jean and Waterloo have prospered. It would be more precise to say that since 1815, their extent has been doubled. The names which forty years ago belonged only to petty farms hidden in the woods, and surrounded by muddy fields, have become imperishable in history, and the most celebrated of modern times. Waterloo, Mont-St.-Jean, La Belle Alliance, Quatre-bras, the farm of Caillou, these rustic dwellings in which the housewife plied her domestic duties, have now replaced Babylon, Tyre, Memphis, and Carthage, in the honours of memory! Their milk was changed into blood. Sad glory! The moment a tourist enters Waterloo, he is assailed on every side by guides. In general, they are robust men, with a warm and clear glance, a military figure, and easy flow of speech, but too accustomed to repeat the same things to interest a listener. They consist of three classes, for the convenience of French, English, or German visitors. The moment a stranger makes his appearance, his nationality is intuitively discovered at once, and the cicerone of the nation to which he belongs takes possession of him without contest. The English guides gain more money than the French, whose profits, however, exceed those of the German, and this is accounted for by the fact that the French are not so often seen at Waterloo as the English, and the Germans, with their usual apathy, scarcely ever visit the spot. Formerly, these guides demanded ten francs, but at the present time they are satisfied with five and even three francs. Most of them have personal recollections of the battle of Waterloo, in which they served, not as soldiers, but as grave-diggers. Willing, or against their inclination, they, their fathers, and mothers, brothers, and sisters, dug, during eight days, immense holes in the ground, in which ninety thousand bodies were deposited! It was a short time preceding the harvest. The wheat was then lost, but the following year the crops were magnificent!

We descended at the hotel of Mont-St.-Jean, and were introduced into a large apartment on the ground-floor. By an arrangement, the

• M. Gozlan is quite out in his notion of the locality. The village of MontSt.-Jean instead of having been as he makes it appear, just in front of the French line, was more than half a mile to the rear of the British centre, and La Belle Alliance occupied the same relative position with respect to the French army. The conflict, in fact, raged nearly midway between these two points.