| Transcript or Index | Mont St Jean, Waterloo – Oct 18 1816
Dear Sir,
You will perhaps be surprised at this letter and its date, but I think a few lines from this place will gratify you, even though they should be finished <at Bruxelles or> London. We left Bruxelles at nine this morning, and soon plunged into the forest of Soignies, so dense and dark that sunshine seems never to reach the straight damp road that runs through it, and daylight scarcely to penetrate its recesses, where the water stands everywhere on the surface and the trees, tall and straight, without branches or underwood, rise like the pillars of Staffa, and are planted so thickly, that looking into the depths of the forest, daylight does not appear between their stems. Association and novelty made this scene interesting for some time, but twelve miles without any variety, any opening glades or gleams of light somewhat chilled us, and we were glad when sunshine and Waterloo opened upon us together.
Waterloo is a more considerable village than I expected and contains between three and four hundred houses, but we soon plunged again into the forest, which left us only at this place – we alighted, and have made the whole circuit of the field with Pierre Brassin, a guide whose name I think is honourably mentioned by Walter Scott and who deserves his fame both for his intelligence and enthusiasm on the subject. La Coste of La Belle Alliance has been more celebrated, but I have heard it doubted whether he really was with Buonaparte all the time as he asserts, and whether he does not sometimes draw upon his invention. Do not expect me to give you a long and laboured description of the field, you know it from Maps, you know it from Panoramas, and the latter have been so faithful that when I reached the spot, I rather looked round for the man and horses that seemed to have vanished since I had seen it last, than to receive any new impression from the field itself. I think however it will give me some new hints for Waterloo, which I am ashamed to say is still in statu quo but when I return, I am determined that no new pursuit however fascinating, shall run away with me till I have made another attempt at it, though indeed I feel it, as I always did, and always told you, beyond my grasp –
As we pursued our way over the field I was surprised to find the traces of conflict so nearly obliterated. One rich harvest has already been gathered, and in some places the fields were again ploughed, and even the young corn springing. We have seen La Haye Sainte, and the inscription to the Officers who fell there. We have stolen a bit of wood from the tree of Wellington, and obtained some buttons, a cannon ball, and part of a shell, as memorials. We have seen Planchenoit where Picton fell, Frichemont where the Prussians came in, the little copse where the Prince of Orange was so happily wounded, the farm of La Belle Alliance where Wellington and Blucher met, and which our guide said was [la] plus belle alliance qui avoit jamais été. [...] spot whence Buonaparte took his flight, […] little heights of Mont Plaisir, whence his cannon thundered, and those of Hougomont, whence they were so ably answered. The burnt and battered Chateau itself, where little remains but the Chapel – in short we have seen all, and not without emotion – but still with wonder at the silence, solitude and serenity which now reign over the scene of such a recent such a mighty conflict. It has left a deep impression in the hearts of the Belgians, who seem to look upon the English as their friends. They hate the Dutch and would have preferred our rule. In France we are feared but not loved. It would be impossible.
I had forgotten to say that we saw on the plain of Waterloo the little Hillock called Les Cailloux which we were told is the highest land in all Belgium – <rightly> is it named, for it looks little better than a pebble. Alas! well are they called the Low countries. In this land of Pancakes (or if you would chuse[sic] a more watry [sic], and therefore a more correct comparison, of flounders) every molehill swells into a mountain, and the postillions and horses would pant at the very mention of a hill. <On our way to Bruxelles> we had been creep[ing] sometime up one which could not have [an] angle of above six degrees, and when I [...] the driver to hasten a little, he answered Oh Madame, la Montagne! La Montagne! thought I, I wish I could see it. When Thomson was told of someone who was writing an Epic poem, “He write an Epic! said he – he has never seen a Mountain. Alas! then I say again, for all our party may have in hand – Alas! for all the natives may ever attempt – crasso in aere natus [in English, born in thick air], their eggs of fancy will all be addled, and they will never have occasion to “pluck the feathers from the wings of their imagination, and stick them in the tail of their judgement –“
I know not whether you may have met with the last idea. I found it in a paper at Bruxelles the day before the above was written. It was given as the address of a judge to a young lawyer, who had just finished a speech loaded with only a triple portion of Metaphor.
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