On the 17th the Duke of Wellington displayed his whole force to the enemy, and seemed to defy them to the combat—­but in the evening retired upon Waterloo, and there reposed with some of his officers in the village, which lies embosomed in the Foret de Soignies.  Picton had fallen; each herald brought us tidings of a hero less, where all were heroes.

That night was dreadful for the soldier and his horse.  No sooner had darkness covered the earth, than a fearful tempest arose; it was awful for man and beast—­for the houseless peasant and his children, who had been driven from their late peaceful habitations, and stood exposed to the pitiless storm, viewing in wild dismay their fields devastated, the spring produce of their gardens laid low in human gore!  At early dawn, on the Sabbath,—­that hallowed day, enjoined to be held sacred for the worship of God, and for rest to toil-worn animals—­the British army beheld the chevaleresque legions of the enemy, in all its superior numbers, ranged in order of battle on the rising ground.  The sun at mid-day flashed its brilliant radiance over their military casques and arms.  The cannonade then became general; the Duke of Wellington exposed himself like a subaltern; his personal venture in the strife excited anxiety; it was in vain that the officers of his staff urged him to be less conspicuous, that the fate of the battle hung upon his life:  it was evident that he had determined to conquer or die:  we knew it in Bruxelles, and we knew also that the Prince of Orange would succeed to the command in such a dread emergency; and although we did not doubt his Royal Highness’s personal valour, we questioned much his experience in military tactics.  In the streets every one demanded, “Will Blucher be able to advance?” and we were fully aware if that veteran General could not effect a junction with Wellington before eight o’clock that evening, all would be lost.  At nine o’clock the two heroes mutually felicitated each other at the small auberge of Genappe.  But it was not till three o’clock in the morning that the word “Victory!” was proclaimed by an affiche on the walls to the terrified population of Bruxelles!

The Prince of Orange had been wounded early in that evening, after having in the morning disputed every inch of ground against the superior force of the enemy, and continued to fight like a valourous chevalier each succeeding day for his kingdom:  he has fairly won it.  May his future subjects record the fact in ineffaceable characters on their memory!  The British army had faught thirteen successive hours; they halted, and to the fresh troops of the Prussians the task of pursuing the fugitive enemy was assigned:  they gladly forgot all fatigue, in vengeful feeling and relentless retaliation against their former merciless and insulting invaders.  The British moved forward this day, and will enter France to-morrow.  Eight hundred lion-mettled and noble sons of Britain have