Recollections of Waterloo by a Surviving Veteran.

I WELL remember, the morning of the 18th. The heavy rain during the night had chilled the air, the dark clouds overhead cast a gloom upon the field, and altogether the morning was unusually cheerless for the month of June. But I perceived no reflection of that gloom upon the faces of our men, and as column after column of the French came in sight, they maintained the same undaunted aspect. For my own part, I felt anxious-but not wholly on my own account. I had been pretty well seasoned to the smell of powder on the eastern coast of Spain; but I had a brother, quite a young fellow, who never had worn a red coat until two days before. This youth, being appointed to my own corps, I had smuggled away to join the regiment in place of the depôt. I did it without leave, and the act was a rash one; but I thought it might perhaps be the making of him if he could see a little service. I now deplored my rashness. The lad appeared so unnerved that I feared he might disgrace himself, and bring ruin upon me too. If he ran off the field, what would follow? I shuddered at the thought. He would be stigmatized for life as a coward and a deserter, while I should be tried by court-martial, and perhaps dismissed the service for the breach of discipline I had committed. "Oh, R., this is fearful!" said my hopeful protégé, as the shots began to tell. "Did you see poor fall? And there's killed!

And I don't see he must be gone too! we shall all soon be knocked over at this rate!" I called the sergeant of my company (poor fellow, he was numbered with the dead ere nightfall.) "Sergeant," said I, "you see my brother; he is quite a boy, unused to service. I entrust him to you; don't let him out of your sight a moment during the day. If I should fall, and he survives me, hand over my watch and purse to him; but mind and keep your eye upon him."

As it drew towards mid-day, the heat became oppressive, and it was truly painful to watch our brave troops bearing up against it under the ponderous accoutrements of those days. But none succumbed to the heat, and our gallant fellows handled brown Bess (a weapon that weighed fourteen pounds) with as good a will as the lucky chaps of the present day do the Enfield or the Whitworth.

We had now remained stationary some hours, drawn up in square, our ranks as yet not materially thinned, when a huge column of the enemy, bearing down all before it, opened so murderous a fire upon us, that our corps lost half its men. We retired to another position, where we re-formed square-a small square now, and in this attitude, on the defensive, we continued until the issue of the great fight was virtually decided.

Those only who have experienced what it is to be kept in an attitude of defence know how it tries the patience of the soldier. Our men were Eterally thirsting for a charge, but necessity forbad it. It was not so much our exposure to the fire of musketry or grape-shot that induced this kaging to prod the enemy; but it was the charges, or rather the attempted charges, of the cavalry which provoked the feeling. Again and again came up the cuirassiers, but it was no go. The horses liked not those shining bayonets, and the bayonets never flinched; so, with bitter imprecations, they were compelled to turn tail. Many a brave cuirassier was brought to the ground while thus retracing his steps, our men having orders to fire at the horses as they retreated.

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It was just after one of these charges, during a few minutes' respite, that I looked around me to see who was gone, or rather who was left, when to my dismay I could nowhere discern my brother. "Where was the sergeant under whose charge I had placed him?” "He was down,” they told me. And my brother?" "He has left the field." "Left the field!" exclaimed I in agony. "It's all right," replied a brother officer; "he was wounded-not badly; see, here is his shako." And sure enough, on examining the shako, I found it to be his; and, what was more satisfactory, a ball had smashed the peak and damaged the front; moreover, the inside was stained with blood.

It may seem strange, but the sight of that blood afforded me intense relief, especially when I heard that the wound was no way dangerous. The apprehension and self-reproach under which I had been labouring since. the dawn all left me, and I commenced forthwith congratulating myself upon my own temerity, and to frame congratulations for my brother if I should live to meet him.

To us it seemed the day was going dead against us. To be sure, we could see but a section of the field; but if that presented a sample of the fight there was but one conclusion to arrive at, that we were outnumbered and overpowered by the enemy.

But the day was wearing away. In a few hours the sun would set, and if victory were denied us there was comfort in the thought that darkness would, at any rate for a space, terminate the combat. Doubt and speculation prevailed amongst us: the night's campaign was, indeed, beginning to be discussed, when a staff officer was descried galloping up towards us. He was evidently the bearer of an important communication. What was it? That the army was routed? That immediate retreat was ordered? Listen. "The body of the French army was in full retreat— we were to follow up the enemy!"

It would take an abler pen than mine to convey a notion of the effect this intelligence produced. The enthusiasm of our men sought vent in shouts, and with all speed we commenced carrying out the welcome order. Shots of all sorts and sizes were still flying about us, and in quitting the ground where we had passed so many weary hours, I received a wound in the knee: a rascally rifle-ball had lodged and stuck fast between the

small bones, putting me completely hors de combat. This was really too bad, being disabled just as the best fun was coming; but it was vain to grumble, and truly glad was I to be lifted on to the back of a stray horse which they caught and brought me. Declining any escort, I set out alone, telling my comrades I should make my way unassisted to the rear, if not to Brussels. I soon, however, became painfully aware of my error; for when well out of reach of help, the poor brute that carried me staggered and fell, having, I conclude, received some wound which had escaped detection.

My plight was now a sorry one. My knee was growing stiff, and swelling fearfully. Pain and weakness were increasing every moment, and I felt I must soon lie down amongst the dying and the dead. Still, on I limped, dragging after me the stiffening limb. I leant upon my sword, but it bent beneath my weight, and I resolved, if I could, to change it for one that would better support me. A few paces off lay the body of a French officer, awfully mangled by a round shot which had struck him in the bowels. As I glanced at his countenance, it seemed quite calm, and beyond the pallor on the cheeks there was little in the features to characterize his present slumber as the sleep of death, or to indicate preceding agony. No feeling of solicitude was it which brought me to the side of this poor fellow. I was attracted by his sword, a cavalry one with a steel scabbard the very thing I wanted. To this I thought to help myself, and with what strength I could summon, I proceeded to detach the coveted sabre. While so engaged, it seemed to me that the body moved. Surely it was fancy. But the head had moved; and conceive my horror when the eyes I had supposed fast closed in death, opened feebly, and met mine. My fingers instinctively let loose their hold. Unnerved and

His

ashamed, I stammered out an apology-" Mille pardons-mal blessé-ne desirais que l'épée," when the Frenchman, with that native politeness which not even approaching death could restrain, tried to smile, and gasped just audibly, "De grâce, monsieur, prenez tout!" His all was at my service. No further use had he for sword or aught else now. accoutrements were an evident incumbrance to him, so I eased his stock, unbuttoned his coat, and unhooked his waist-belt. He seemed relieved, and as I was taking leave of him, he asked whether I could give him anything to drink. Luckily I had a flask of brandy. So raising his head, I put it to his lips. He drank it off and strove to thank me. He then closed his eyes and muttered something I could not catch, while I gently replaced his head upon its dreary pillow. I then rose, feeling much saddened by this affecting incident, and as I stole one last look at the expiring soldier, the lips were still in motion, though whether with the words of prayer or of mere gratitude to me, I could not tell.

Leaning on the Frenchman's sword, I began once more to creep towards the rear; but faint and exhausted, I soon broke down in the attempt, and as I lay down amongst the tall rye-grass, I began to think my end was drawing near. I may have lain thus half an hour, when I

heard the tramp of cavalry approaching the spot where I lay hidden in the herbage. Was I then to be trodden to death? The thought was horrible. On and on they came. It must soon be all over with me. I resolved, sooner than submit to such a death, to make one more effort. Accordingly, I took off my cap, and placing it on the point of my sword, waved it to and fro as best I could. Providentially, the waving cap attracted notice. The gallant fellows (it was a squadron of the -th Dragoons) made way for me, and gently raising me on to the back of one of their horses, consigned me to the care of two troopers who conveyed me safely to the rear. It was late in the afternoon of the following day before the cartload of wounded of whom I formed one reached Brussels; and amongst the first that welcomed me on my arrival was my wounded brother. His head was bandaged so plentifully that a Turk might have envied him his head-dress. His delight at seeing me, if anything exceeded mine at meeting him. I asked him what he thought of the army. He said it was a fine service, but he had had enough of it; and from that day forth, as it happened, he never served again. He still lives, a hale old man of seventy. His forehead has an ugly scar, but it has paid him fairly, and I have never heard him grumble at the mark.

It took the surgeon just six weeks to extract the ball from my kneeEix weeks of desperate suffering. Soon after this, my wound healed up, and I was on my feet once more. By way of blood-money, Government paid me down 5001. This I handed over to my agent, but he, poor man, got somehow into difficulties, cut his throat, and I lost all.

After five-and-thirty years of active service, I became a martyr to the pains and aches which my campaigning had induced, and I found myself compelled finally to lay aside my sword. Verging on fourscore, I still have strength to limp along, supported by a crutch on either side. I hope, ere long, to be summoned to the land of peace; meanwhile, may I be thankful that I live to tell the tale of Waterloo.

The Second Funeral of Napoleon.

(BY MICHAEL ANGELO TITMARSH.)

[MR. THACKERAY once more appears in the pages of the Cornhill Magazine. We are about to give our readers some sketches of his, which have, indeed, been printed before, but that was when he was writing for a generation so astonishingly dull as to see no merit in Barry Lyndon; while we in these days wonder sometimes whether even Thackeray himself ever surpassed that little book, so wonderfully vigorous and keen. But he wrote many things then that were neglected, and were soon altogether forgotten. One of them was "THE SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON," of which probably not one in ten thousand of the readers of his Magazine ever heard. And yet it was published in due form and in decent duodecimo, by Mr. Hugh Cunningham, a bookseller whose shop was at the corner of St. Martin's Place: he who also first published the Paris Sketch Book. It was illustrated with some woodcuts of no great merit, and thereto was added the famous "Chronicle of the Drum," which the "leading Magazines" had all refused to print. And as the able editors of the time rejected the ballad, so the intelligent public of the time refused to read the account of the SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON, though it had all the allurement of being written at the time and in the presence of the event it commemorates. The gentleman who sends us the original MS., from which we reprint the long-forgotten narrative, says :—

"The Letters on the Second Funeral' were a failure. I had the pleasure of editing the tiny volume for Mr. Thackeray, and saw it through the press. And, after a while, on the dismal tidings from the publisher that the little effort made no impression on the public, Mr. Thackeray wrote to me from Paris a pretty little note commencing :- So your poor Titmarsh has made another fiasco. How are we to take this great stupid public by the ears? Never mind; I think I have something which will surprise them yet....' .' This was evidently an allusion to Vanity Fair, which he had begun at that time."]

I-ON THE DISINTERMENT OF NAPOLEON AT ST. HELENA.

MY DEAR, It is no easy task in this world to distinguish between what is great in it, and what is mean; and many and many is the puzzle that I have had in reading History (or the works of fiction which go by that name), to know whether I should laud up to the skies, and endeavour, to the best of my small capabilities, to imitate the remarkable character about whom I was reading, or whether I should fling aside the book and