osts of
the dead haunt these sepulchral groves, we must have passed through an
army of spirits, as our driver, who had visited the scene three days
after the battle, described the last four miles as a continued pavement
of men and horses dying and dead.

[Illustration: Interior of Hugomont June 18, 1816.

_To face p. 265._]

At length a dome appears at the termination of the avenue. It is the
church of Waterloo. They were preparing for a mass and procession, and
the houses were most of them adorned with festoons of flowers or
branches of trees....

...We turned to the right down the Nivelle road, for it was there
Donald's gun was placed, and some labourers who were ploughing on the
spot brought us some iron shot and fragments of shell which they had
just turned up. The hedges were still tolerably sprinkled with bits of
cartridge-paper, and remnants of hats, caps, straps, and shoes were
discernible all over the plains. Hougoumont was a heap of ruins, for it
had taken fire during the action, and presented a very perfect idea of
the fracas which had taken place that day year. How different now! A
large flock of sheep, with their shepherd, were browsing at the gate,
and the larks were singing over its ruins on one of the sweetest days we
could have chosen for the visit. As I was taking a sketch in a quiet
corner I heard a vociferation so loud, so vehement, and so varied, that
I really thought two or three people were quarrelling close to me. In a
moment the vociferator (for it was but one) appeared at my elbow with an
explosion of French oaths and gesticulations equal to any discharge of
grape-shot on the day of attack. "Comment, Monsieur," said I, "What is
the matter?" "Oh, les coquins! les sacres coquins" and away he went,
abusing the coquins in so ambiguous a style that I doubted whether his
wrath was venting against Napoleon or against his opponents. "Oui,"
remarked I, "ils sont coquins; et Buonaparte, que pensez-vous de lui?"
This was a sort of opening which I trusted would bring him to the point
without a previous committal of myself. It certainly did bring him to
the point, for he gave a bounce and a jump and his tongue came out, and
his mouth foamed, and his eyes rolled, as with a jerk he ejaculated,
"Napoleon! qu'est-ce que je pense de lui?" It was well for poor Napoleon
that he was quiet and comfortable in St. Helena, for had he been at
Hougoumont, I am perfectly convinced that my communicant would have sent