cleared up, and being ashamed of having to say that I had seen nothing, I went forward for about a mile in a melancholy petted mood, refusing and remercying about a dozen boors, who successively proposed as directors to the chief points of interest.

While the green blade waved far and wide over the graves of the dead, I wished that the innocent trophies of agriculture could have obliterated the marks of the field of death from the remembrance of man; and I had no sympathy with the triangular mound, crowned with a colossal lion, which the Flemish King has erected to eternize the memory of the 18th of June. Pondering on what might be the ghastly appearance of corruption a few days after the battle, a team of cattle dragged past me, along the muddy road, the raw carcase of a skinned horse, his tongue lolling out in the dirt, and eyes sunk in his head, a horrible sight! that but too well accorded with some of my reflections. But these were not the most painful emotions on this dreadful theatre. Surrounded for miles by what constituted the memorial of indescribable woe, my mind seemed to become helpless, and the sport of impressions inflicted without its own sphere for a long time I could not get quit of an imaginary view of the souls of the slain, agitated from the sepulchre, and cursing the authors of their now irretrievable destiny. But enough of this.I am not sure that I can justify such a view of Waterloo ;

but I must honestly present what did pass in my mind upon the consideration of it. Perhaps if I had possessed more patriotism, I should have leapt and danced on the scene of our national glory. Alas! my patriotism, if I have any, lies not in this channel; so I must be content with what is of another character, hoping that if it do not administer much good, it may effect no great harm.

The waes of war have often been depicted: the following lines attempt a small under-scene in the great tragedy :

THE RELUCTANT MESSENGER.

A PILGRIM, frae the eastern clime,

My native nook regaining;

And hieing on, the thoughts o' hame

My heart-strings sweetly straining.

O'er many a rugged mountain side,
And woody wild, I basted;

Or by some spring, at warm noon-tide,
My weary feet I rested.

A boy and silver-headed sire,

Draw near, intent to meet me ;

The gallant foeman's whizzing fire

Were welcomer to greet me.

Though weel I kenn'd the friendly pair,
Yet fain would I hae press'd on:

They scrutinize wi' wistfu' air,

And many a look and question.

That other lips the tale should bear,

Full fondly had I reckon'd;

"Now, wha o' John M'Queen would hear, Or the brave Ninety-Second?"

"Far frae our wish, wi' idle wark,
On traveller to intrude, Sir;
His little son, I pray you, mark,
Wi' his auld useless gudesir."

"O soldier stay!" the boy he said,
Speak, as the dearest favour;
My mother sick, lies on her bed,
And aft weeps for my father.

"My gudesir reads the news at late,
And threips he maun be near,
And ilka morn we rise to wait,
And watch till he appear."

(O Peace! thou fail'st me in thy cheer,
And cruel are thy terms!)
"When last I saw my comrade dear,
'Twas sinking in these arms.

"And on we drove, and on we sped,

As he and we did sever

A moment's tarrying with our dead!
A thousand had the forfeit paid,

And perished for ever!"

Sunday, May 25.

To-day I spent a very agreeable Sabbath; having met with not a few persons of exalted piety, and attended public worship in the French Presbyterial Chapel, and a private meeting of about twenty in the evening, I have much to say upon the Christian pleasures of this day which might be interesting to some of my readers, but I dare not, as it would be necessary to reveal confidential conversations, and to promulgate what passed among individuals and families; which would scarce be justifiable, even for the purpose of general edification.

Ghent, 26th May.

To-day I passed through a country still wonderful for richness and beauty, on the road to Ghent. It being the Feast of Pentecost, the whole of this ultra-Catholic population on the line of road we have passed, are flocking to church, dressed in their best clothes, and apparently clean and comfortable: nevertheless, I have not seen any where such throngs of ugly faces. I find I have been mistaken in supposing that Teniers and other painters of the Flemish school dealt in caricature. They drew from nature; and the deformity of several in their imitations of low life, is nothing more than the general semblance of the folks in the Pays Bas. I have

not seen one well-favoured man, woman, or child, since I entered the country, and the farther I go it is the worse. They possess capacious mouths, but that might be borne with, had they not moreover a hideous wreath at the corners, which completes the ugliness of that feature, which of all others is supposed to give expression to the countenance. Some of the women have blue eyes, and a tolerable upper part of a face; but their chins are long and broad, like that of some other creature, rather than a human chin. Nobody can tell what is to be the shape of any grim visage here: sometimes it is long and broad, sometimes small and globular, as the knob on the head of a stick, with the mouth and lips screwed round like a wet cloth well wrung; the colour of a dirty milk hue. At about thirty years old, all the women have the look of age: I cannot describe the old grandams, and on the whole am apprehensive of some disease by mere gazing on this illfavoured generation. Notwithstanding, however, every thing has the appearance of thrift and prosperity: the population, if not so graceful and handsome as the French, seem cheerful and good humoured: and it is not uncommon to see the frows in their ungainly frolics, capering about, throwing themselves back in loud peals of laughter, and clapping their knees as if unable to contain their hilarity.

A a