to strain his eyes, in vain attempts to discover what was passing.  At length, some soldiers in French uniforms were seen in the distance; and as the news flew from mouth to mouth, it was soon magnified into a rumour that the French were coming.  Horror seized the English and their adherents, and the hitherto concealed partizans of the French began openly to avow themselves; tri-coloured ribbons grew suddenly into great request, and cries of “Vive l’Empereur!” resounded through the air.  These exclamations, however, were changed to “Vive le Lord Vellington!” when it was discovered that the approaching French came as captives, not conquerors.

Between seven and eight o’clock in the evening, I walked up to the Porte de Namur, where the wounded were just beginning to arrive.  Fortunately some commodious caravans had arrived from England, only a few days before, and these were now entering the gate.  They were filled principally with Brunswickers and Highlanders; and it was an appalling spectacle to behold the very soldiers, whose fine martial appearance and excellent appointments I had so much admired at the review, now lying helpless and mutilated—­their uniforms soiled with blood and dirt—­their mouths blackened with biting their cartridges, and all the splendour of their equipments entirely destroyed.  When the caravans stopped, I approached them, and addressed a Scotch officer who was only slightly wounded in the knee.—­“Are the French coming, sir?” asked I.—­“Egad I can’t tell,” returned he.  “We know nothing about it.  We had enough to do to take care of ourselves.  They are fighting like devils; and I’m off again as soon as my wound’s dressed.”—­An English lady, elegantly attired, now rushed forwards—­“Is my husband safe?” asked she eagerly.—­“Good God!  Madam,” replied one of the men, “how can we possibly tell!  I don’t know the fate of those who were fighting by my side; and I could not see a yard round me.”  She scarcely heeded what he said; and rushed out of the gate, wildly repeating her question to every one she met.  Some French prisoners now arrived.  I noticed one, a fine fellow, who had had one arm shot off; and though the bloody and mangled tendons were still undressed, and had actually dried and blackened in the sun, he marched along with apparent indifference, carrying a loaf of bread under his remaining arm, and shouting "Vive l’Empereur!" I asked him if the French were coming.—­“Je le crois bien,” returned he, “preparez un souper, mes bourgeois—­il soupera a Bruxelles ce soir.”—­Pretty information for me, thought I.  “Don’t believe him, sir,” said a Scotchman, who lay close beside me, struggling to speak, though apparently in the last agony.  “It’s all right—­I—­assure—­you—.”  The whole of Friday night was passed in the greatest anxiety; the wounded arrived every hour, and the accounts they brought of the carnage which was taking place were absolutely terrific.  Saturday morning was still worse; an immense number of supernumeraries