covered, not with glory, but with dust, galloping towards the town!  I heard the gates close against them, and saw them scamper over the plain towards Lacken.  The mob increased; their shrieks of terror rent the air,—­“Les Francois sont ici!  Ils s’emparent de la porte de la ville!” mingled with the cries of the women, and with those of my little household, who all rushed into my chamber, expecting me to save them.  In the midst of this terror, I heard the well-known voice of the commander of the town, Colonel Jones, vociferating with all the energy and passion of a Welchman.  In my distraction, I ran out to him; he stormed, and explained in no gentle terms, that it was a false alarm, caused by the sudden nervous affection of the troop of Belgians I had seen in flight.  He commanded me to quit my house, and kindly sent me a carriage to secure my entrance into the town.  We were cheered in the hurry of quitting our rural abode, by the arrival of some thousands of British troops; many of the poor fellows, heated and languid, entered asking for water to quench their thirst.  From them I learnt that they had returned to England from America, and, without being permitted to land, were immediately ordered to Ostend.  I felt what might be their influence on the fate of that day, and selfishly partook of their impatience to arrive on the field of battle.  The whole of Saturday we believed the battle lost; and there are those who think that it was, but for the mysterious conduct of Grouchy, or the treason of the estafettes sent to summon him to advance.

The English families continued to fly towards Ostend:  the roads and inns were crowded; the living bewailing their temerity, close to the chambers of the dead!  Your brother and sister were at Antwerp, in the next room to the unfortunate Duc de Brunswick.  The awful hours passed tardily with me, in pangs for the soldier and his chiefs.  On Saturday the 17th, to add to the accumulating horrors of our critical situation, the very elements vented forth their wrath, in the most tremendous thunder and lightning; the rain poured in torrents; all nature was at fearful strife, and God’s anger was apparent; for it seemed as if the very heavens were warring against man’s quarrel; and in my agony I exclaimed with Macbeth—­

  “’Twas a rough night—­”

as I listened to the pelting storm, crouching on a mattress by the side of my weeping emigree, imploring me for words of comfort.  Towards morning the rain abated, but gloomy clouds ushered in that eventful day.  At two o’clock I dined with Monsieur D’H——­, whose daughter-in-law, la Comtesse de P——­’s first-born son, had seen the light of this world only a few hours before—­while at dinner, the servants rushed into the room in disorder, exclaiming, “All is over!” A detachment of dragoons, which passed a few hours ago to join the enemy, are returned!  We rose precipitately; Mr. D’H——­ took a key from a drawer, and commanded us to follow