On Friday evening Sir William was very feverish, and the appearance of the blood was very inflammatory. I had learnt now to judge for myself, as Mr Powell, seeing how anxious I was, sometimes had the kindness to give me a little instruction. About ten at night Mr Powell and Mr Woolriche came. While I told them how Sir William had been since their last visit, and mentioned several circumstances that had occurred, I watched them and saw they looked at each other. I guessed their thoughts. I turned away to the window and wept.

They remained a little time, and I recovered myself enough to speak to them cheerfully as they went out. They lingered, and seemed to wish to speak to me, but I was well aware of what they had to say. I felt unable to hear it then, and I shut the door instead of going out. It was that night Mr Powell asked Emma if she knew what I thought. He desired to be sent for on the first appearance of change. At one in the morning he was in great pain, and as I raised him that he might breathe more freely, he looked so fixed that I was afraid he was just expiring. His arms were round my neck to raise himself by, and I thought we should both have been killed by the exertion. He asked if Mr Powell had not talked of bleeding him again. I said I had sent for him. He bled him then for the last time. From that moment all the fever was gone. Mr Powell said it was of consequence to keep him quiet, and if he would sleep calmly it would do him good. At four in the morning I was called out to see a surgeon sent from Mr Powell, who was ill in bed. He came to know how Sir William was. He had slept a little till three; but the oppression was returning. This surgeon told me he had been anxious to speak to me several times, to tell me that it was he who had first seen him on the field, and who had given it as his opinion that he might live. He was grieved indeed to think that it should fall to his lot to tell me that it was the opinion of the surgeons that if I had anything particular to say to Sir William, I should not delay long. I asked, "How long?" He said they could not exactly tell. I said, "Days or hours?" He answered that the present symptoms would certainly not prove fatal within twelve hours. I left him, and went softly into my husband's room, for he was sleeping. I sat down at the other end of the room, and continued looking at him, quite stupefied; I could scarcely see. My mouth was so parched that when I touched it, it felt as dry as the back of my hand. I thought I was to die first. I then thought, what would he do for want of me during the remaining few hours he had to live. This idea roused me, and I began to recollect our helpless situation whatever happened, and tried to think who I could inform of the circumstances. I was not long in deciding on General Dundas, if he could be found, and have time to come and take care of us both. I immediately wrote a long letter to him, telling him how I was situated, and begging that he would come after twelve hours. I said I hoped I should be calm and fit to act for myself; but as I had never been near such a scene before, I knew not what effect it might have upon me. I therefore explained what I wished might be done after all was over, with respect to everything. I then sent the servant with the letter and orders to find General Dundas, if he were within ten miles of Brussels. A few hours after, I had one line from him to say he would be at Waterloo in the evening.

After I had sent the letter, I sat down to consider what I was to do next. Though Sir William was aware of his danger, I thought it my duty to tell him how immediate the surgeons seemed to think it. I knew he was far above being the worse of such a communication, and I wished to know if he had anything to say. I sat thinking about it, when he awoke and held out his hand for me to take my usual station by his bedside. I went and told him. We talked some time on the subject. He was not agitated, but his voice faltered a little, and he said it was sudden. This was the first day he felt well enough to begin to hope he should recover! He breathed freely, and was entirely free from pain; and he said he had been thinking if he could be removed to Brussels, he should get well soon.

I then asked if he had anything to desire me to do, or anything to say to anyone. He reminded me of what he had told me had engrossed his thoughts when he imagined himself dying on the field. He said he felt exactly the same now. He felt at peace with all the world; he knew he was going to a better one, etc., etc. He repeated most of what he had told me were his feelings before—that he had no sorrow but to part from his wife, no regret but leaving her in misery.

He seemed fatigued; and shutting his eyes, he desired me not to speak for a little. I then determined not to introduce the subject again, nor to speak about it unless he seemed to wish it, as I had done all that was necessary.

In an hour or two he ate some breakfast, tea and toasted bread, with so much relish that it almost overcame me. He observed that I must have caught cold by sitting in a draught of air. I said I had. He felt so much better that I was anxious the surgeon should see him. He came in the evening. He was pleased to see Sir William free from pain, but said there was scarcely a possibility of its continuing so. He said he might linger a day or two, but that every symptom was bad. He advised me to keep him as quiet and composed as possible. I assured him no person had been in the room but the surgeons whom he had brought to consult; and I had sat beside him the whole day, scarcely speaking. I said I had told Sir William his opinion of his case. He said it had evidently not agitated him, for his pulse was quite calm. Mr Woolriche called in the afternoon; he was going to Brussels, and would do anything there we wished. We had nothing for him to do, and he was going when he repeated the question. Sir William looked at me earnestly, and said, "Magdalene, love, General Dundas." I answered, "I wrote to him this morning," and nothing more passed.

Late in the evening, when we were as calm and composed as could be, and I was sitting and looking at him, and holding his hand as usual, Mr Powell and Dr Hume came. He was even more cheerful than before, paid a rapid, noisy visit, and away again. It disturbed our tranquillity not a little, but he is reckoned so skilful that we ought to have been glad to see him. He bade Sir William rouse up, felt his pulse, and said it would bear another bleeding yet, if necessary.

The poor dying man raised his languid eyes, and said, "Oh no, I do not need it now; I am quite cool."

Dr Hume said he had no wish to bleed him, but would like to have his limbs fomented. He shook his head. I asked him if he knew what it was. He said No, and would like to try. I asked Dr Hume if it would be advisable. He said he thought it might refresh him. He went out, and I followed to hear what he would say. He said to Mr Powell, "Why do you give up a man with such a pulse? with such a good constitution, too! You make them all sad and useless. It does no harm to be trying something."

He named several things. "Put a blister on his breast, and leeches after, if the pain is great down the side."

I looked at Mr Powell, doubting, as I depended most on his opinion, as his constant attention to the progress of the illness gave it most weight. I thought he looked sorry that my hopes should be renewed, but of course he said nothing.

Dr Hume said, "Oh, don't fear, he won't desert the cause."

I was angry at such nonsense, and said, "Be assured I do not fear that Mr Powell will desert us, but he said this morning there was no hope."

"Nay," said he, "not quite so much as that: I said there was little hope."

I went away, and left them to discuss it themselves.

Sir William said he wished to try what Dr Hume was speaking of, and I went to order some boiling water to be prepared. I made the people understand that he wanted a great quantity in a tub. While I was speaking, Mr Powell returned. He had taken a turn with Dr Hume, and I fancy he had explained his opinion. He said he would go home and prepare a blister, and he believed we had leeches. I said, was it not a great pity to torment him. He said he would not pretend to say that he thought it could be of much consequence, but for this reason he advised me to do it: I was not aware, he said, how I should feel afterwards; and I might perhaps regret when it was too late, not having done everything which a physician of Dr Hume's eminence deemed advisable. He said that Sir William would not be at ease at any rate, and it would scarcely plague him; the fomentation would be pleasant to him, and I might take the blister off in six hours if he wished it.

When I went to foment his limbs, I could not find a morsel of flannel. At last I thought of the servant's blanket, and tore it in two. Sir William said this was a most delightful thing, and refreshed him very much. He expressed a great wish to have a bit on his chest. I did not know what to do for flannel. I regretted now excessively not having brought a change of clothes; for I could have taken a flannel petticoat. This put me in mind of the one I had on, and I instantly tore a great piece out of it and put it into the tub. The cottagers held up their hands, exclaiming, "Ah, madame!" He said it did him good, and was delicious, unconscious where we had found the flannel; indeed he never was aware of the difficulty, for the tub was placed in the outer room.

General Dundas came. Sir William heard me speaking to him, and asked who it was. I told him, and he asked if he was going to remain. I said he was. Sir William seemed gratified, but did not say anything. Surely no earthly feeling can be superior to such perfect sympathy.

Sir William fell asleep, and I went out to see if there was anything for General Dundas to eat. He told me he had got a very good room upstairs, and was willing to remain as long as I wished. His only request was that I would not mind him any more than if he was not there, but send for him when I wanted him. I opened the door of Sir William's room and sat close to it, so as to hear if he moved or spoke. I sat down to coffee for the first meal I had, and talked over several things necessary to be settled with General Dundas. I could not speak above a whisper, my voice was so faint. He entreated me, if possible, to try and take some rest that night, for fear I should be ill before my husband could spare me. I promised. He then told me that Lady Hamilton had asked him to take me to her house when I returned to Brussels; and also the Count de Lannoy had prepared rooms, which he begged I would occupy as long as I pleased. I preferred going to the house we had been in before, and I thought I could be more entirely alone there than at any other person's house, which was what I wished, and knew would be best for me. I was struck when I did return to Brussels, with two marks of attention. I had a message from the Commissary to say that orders had been given that I was to draw rations and forage for as long as I stayed; and the other circumstance was this. On the letters I had sent from Antwerp I had neglected to write "private," which is necessary when writing to a person in office. I gave them up for lost, and was uncomfortable. After I had been three days at Brussels, they were all returned unopened from Headquarters.

Sir William called me. I sat a short time beside him, and after I had prepared drink for the night I told him I was so very tired I would go and lie down for a short time, if he would allow my maid to bring the medicine which he took every four hours. He agreed, and asked if I did not always take plenty of sleep. I said, "Oh yes," and was going, when he said the pain in his chest was returning, and perhaps leeches would do some good. This was the only time I hesitated to oblige him, for I really could scarcely stand; but of course I proceeded to apply the leeches, and in a few minutes the excessive drowsiness went off; so much so, that when after an hour I went to lie down, I could not sleep. I started every moment, thinking he called me. I desired Emma to waken me if he spoke or seemed uneasy. She gave him the medicine. He looked at her, and asked where I was; she told him I was sleeping. He said, "That's right, quite right."

The pain in his chest grew intolerable, and depending upon my being asleep he yielded to complaint, and groaned very much. Emma roused me and told me she feared he was suffering very much. I had slept half an hour. I went and stood near him, and he then ceased to complain, and said, "Oh, it was only a little twitch." I felt at that time as if I was an oppression to him, and I was going away, but he desired me to stay. I sat down and rubbed it, which healed the pain, and towards morning I put on the blister. Between five and six he ate some toasted bread and tea, about two inches of bread. Before he began he entreated me to take off the blister only for ten minutes, that he might eat in tolerable comfort. I said I would take it away entirely, and he was pleased. The doctor came about nine. He was breathing then with great difficulty, and there was a rough sound in his throat. Mr Powell said the only thing to be done was to keep him quiet as usual, and to prevent him speaking. He asked Mr Powell if he might rise, for he might breathe easier at the window, and he was so tired of lying in that bed. Mr Powell urged him not to think of it; he was not able; it would hurt him very much, etc.

About eleven o'clock he sent me away for ten minutes, and with the help of his servant he rose and got to the other end of the room. I was terrified when I heard he was up, and called General Dundas, who went in and found him almost fainting. They placed him in bed again, and when I returned he was much exhausted. I opened the windows wide and shut the door, and sat by him alone, in hopes that he might go to sleep and recover a little. He slept every now and then for a little. He seemed oppressed with the length of the day for the first time. He asked repeatedly what o'clock it was; he often asked if it was three yet. When I told him it was near five, he seemed surprised. At night he said he wished he could fall upon some device to shorten the weary long night; he could not bear it so long. I could not think of any plan. He said if I could lie down beside him it would cut off five or six hours. I said it was impossible, for I was afraid to hurt him, there was so little room. His mind seemed quite bent upon it. Therefore I stood upon a chair and stepped over him, for he could not move an inch, and he lay at the outer edge. He was delighted; and it shortened the night indeed, for we both fell asleep.

At five in the morning I rose. He was very anxious to have his wound dressed; it had never been looked at. He said there was a little pain, merely a trifle, but it teased him. Mr Powell objected; he said it would fatigue him too much that day. He consented to delay. I then washed his face and hands, and brushed his hair, after which I gave him his breakfast. He again wished to rise, but I persuaded him not to do it; he said he would not do anything I was averse to, and he said, "See what control your poor husband is under." He smiled, and drew me so close to him that he could touch my face, and he continued stroking it with his hand for some time.

Towards eleven o'clock he grew more uneasy; he was restless and uncomfortable; his breathing was like choking, and as I sat gazing at him I could distinctly hear the water rattling in his throat. I opened the door and windows to make a draught. I desired the people to leave the outer room, that his might be as quiet as usual; and then I sat down to watch the melancholy progress of the water in his chest, which I saw would soon be fatal.

About three o'clock Dr Hume and Mr Powell came. I must do the former the justice to say he was grave enough now. Sir William repeated his request to have the wound dressed. Dr Hume consented, and they went away to prepare something to wash it with; they remained away half an hour. I sat down by my husband and took his hand; he said he wished I would not look so unhappy. I wept; and he spoke to me with so much affection. He repeated every endearing expression. He bade me kiss him. He called me his dear wife. The surgeons returned. My husband turned on one side with great difficulty; it seemed to give much pain.

After I had brought everything the surgeons wanted, I went into another room. I could not bear to see him suffering. Mr Powell saw a change in his countenance; he looked out, and desired Emma to call me, to tell me instantly Sir William wanted me. I hastened to him, reproaching myself for having been absent a moment. I stood near my husband, and he looked up at me and said, "Magdalene, my love, the spirits." I stooped down close to him and held the bottle of lavender to him: I also sprinkled some near him. He looked pleased. He gave a little gulp, as if something was in his throat. The doctor said, "Ah, poor De Lancey! He is gone." I pressed my lips to his, and left the room.

I went upstairs, where I remained, unconscious of what was passing, till Emma came to me and said the carriage was ready, and General Dundas advised me to go that evening to Brussels, but I need not hurry myself. I asked her if the room below was empty. She assured me it was; and I went down and remained some time beside the body. There was such perfect peace and placid calm sweetness in his countenance, that I envied him not a little. He was released: I was left to suffer. I then thought I should not suffer long. As I bent over him I felt as if violent grief would disturb his tranquil rest.

These moments that I passed by his lifeless body were awful, and instructive. Their impression will influence my whole life.

I left Waterloo with feelings so different from those I had on going to it. Then all was anxious terror that I would not be there in time to see one look, or to hear one word. Now there was nothing imaginary—all was real misery. There now remained not even a chance of happiness, but what depended on the retrospect of better days and duties fulfilled.

As I drove rapidly along the same road, I could not but recall the irritated state I had been in when I had been there before; and the fervent and sincere resolutions I then made, that if I saw him alive, I never would repine.

Since that time I have suffered every shade of sorrow; but I can safely affirm that except the first few days, when the violence of grief is more like delirium than the sorrow of a Christian, I have never felt that my lot was unbearable. I do not forget the perfection of my happiness while it lasted; and I believe there are many who after a long life cannot say they have felt so much of it.

As I expressed some uneasiness to General Dundas at having left the body with none but servants, Colonel Grant at his request went to Waterloo the same evening, and remained till it was brought up next day to Brussels. General Dundas then kindly executed all my orders with respect to the funeral, etc., which took place on Wednesday the 28th, in the cemetery of the Reformed(39) Church. It is about a mile from Brussels, on the road to Louvain. I had a stone placed, with simply his name and the circumstances of his death. I visited his grave(40) on Tuesday, the 4th of July. The burying-ground is in a sweet, quiet, retired spot. A narrow path leads to it from the road. It is quite out of sight among the fields, and no house but the grave-digger's cottage is near. Seeing my interest in that grave, he begged me to let him plant roses round it, and promised I should see it nicely kept when I returned. I am pleased that I saw the grave and the stone; for there were nearly forty other new graves, and not another stone.

At eleven o'clock that same day, I set out for England. That day, three(41) months before, I was married.

M. De L.



NOTES TO LADY DE LANCEY'S NARRATIVE

Most of the following notes have been compiled by Mr T.W. Brogden, of the Middle Temple, to whom I take this opportunity of expressing my indebtedness for his assistance in the preparation of this volume, and for his kindness in seeing the book through the press, during my absence in Canada.

EDITOR.

(1) "On Thursday the 15th June we had spent a particularly happy morning. My dear husband gave me many interesting anecdotes of his former life, and I traced in every one some trait of his amiable and generous mind; never had I felt so perfectly content, so grateful for the blessing of his love."—Abridged Narrative.

(2) General Alava, who was Minister Plenipotentiary from Spain to the King of the Netherlands.

Sir William and Lady De Lancey were amongst the guests invited to the Duchess of Richmond's famous ball that night. See Reminiscences of Lady de Ros, p. 127.

(3) "He turned back at the door, and looked at me with a smile of happiness and peace. It was the last!"—Abridged Narrative.

(4) The Duke's house was at the corner of the Rue de la Montagne du Parc and the Rue Royale, and was next to the Hotel de France. The Count de Lannoy's house was at the south-east corner of the Impasse du Parc.

(5) By 9 P.M. the first orders had been despatched.

Colonel Basil Jackson has the following recollections of his experiences on the evening of the 15th June: "I was sauntering about the park towards seven o'clock on the evening of the 15th June, when a soldier of the Guards, attached to the Quartermaster-General's office, summoned me to attend Sir William De Lancey. He had received orders to concentrate the army towards the frontier, which until then had remained quiet in cantonments. I was employed, along with others, for about two hours in writing out 'routes' for the several divisions, foreign as well as British, which were despatched by orderly Hussars of the 3rd Regiment of the German Legion, steady fellows, who could be depended on for so important a service. To each was explained the rate at which he was to proceed, and the time when he was to arrive at his destination; he was directed also to bring back the cover of the letter which he carried, having the time of its arrival noted upon it by the officer to whom it was addressed.

"This business over, which occupied us till after nine, De Lancey put a packet into my hand directed to Colonel Cathcart—the present Earl—a thorough soldier, and highly esteemed by the Duke, who then filled, as he had previously done in Spain, the arduous post of Assistant Quartermaster-General to the whole of the cavalry.

"'I believe you can find your way in the dark by the cross roads to Ninove,' said Sir William, 'let this be delivered as soon as possible.'

"Proud of my commission, I was speedily in the saddle and threading my way, which I did without difficulty. My good nag rapidly cleared the fifteen miles, but ere reaching the above place, then the headquarters of the cavalry, I fell in with one or two orderly Dragoons speeding to out-quarters. I could also perceive lights flickering about in the villages adjacent to my route: indications which satisfied me that the German Hussar previously despatched from Brussels had accomplished his mission.

"Here let me stop for a moment to commend the practice in our service of having plenty of well-mounted staff officers ready to convey orders of moment at the utmost speed. On the portentous night in question, several, chiefly belonging to the Royal Staff Corps, a body attached to the Quartermaster-General's department, were employed in conveying duplicates of the instructions previously forwarded by Hussars, in order to guard against the possibility of mistake. The omission of such a precautionary measure at the Prussian headquarters, on the same evening, was attended with disastrous consequences, for Bluecher's order for Bulow's corps to unite with the rest of his army, being entrusted to a corporal, probably wanting in intelligence, he did not deliver it in time, whereby that corps, 30,000 strong, failed to reach Ligny and share in the battle."[33]

[Footnote 33: "Recollections of Waterloo," by a Staff Officer, in United Service Journal for 1847, Part III., p. 3.]

(6) "I entreated to remain in the room with him, promising not to speak. He wrote for several hours without any interruption but the entrance and departure of the various messengers who were to take the orders. Every now and then I gave him a cup of green tea, which was the only refreshment he would take, and he rewarded me by a silent look. My feelings during these hours I cannot attempt to describe, but I preserved perfect outward tranquillity."—Abridged Narrative.

(7) By 12 midnight, the after orders had been despatched. With regard to the orders of the 15th and 16th June, including the "Disposition of the British Army at 7 o'clock A.M., 16th June," attributed to Sir William De Lancey, see Gurwood, vol. xii., pp. 472-474; Supplementary Despatches, vol. x., p. 496; Ropes' Waterloo, pp. 77-89; and Colonel Maurice in U.S. Magazine, 1890, pp. 144 and 257-263.

(8) Doubtless, General Mueffling, Prussian attache at the headquarters of the Duke of Wellington. He accompanied the Duke to the ball, and next morning rode with him to Quatre Bras.

(9) I.e., without changing their ball dress. Some of the officers were killed at Quatre Bras in their shoes and silk stockings. "There was a ball at Brussels, at the Duchess of Richmond's, that night (which I only mention because it was so much talked of), at which numbers of the officers were present, who quitted the ball to join their divisions, which had commenced their march before they arrived at their quarters, and some of them were killed the next day in the same dress they had worn at the ball." (Extract from a letter written by Colonel Felton Hervey shortly after the battle, and published in the XIXth Century for March 1903, page 431.) See also Colonel Maurice in U.S. Magazine, 1890, p. 144.

(10) "As the dawn broke, the soldiers were seen assembling from all parts of the town, in marching order, with their knapsacks on their backs, loaded with three days' provisions. Unconcerned in the midst of the din of war, many a soldier laid himself down on a truss of straw and soundly slept, with his hands still grasping his firelock; others were sitting contentedly on the pavement, waiting the arrival of their comrades. Numbers were taking leave of their wives and children, perhaps for the last time, and many a veteran's rough cheek was wet with the tears of sorrow. One poor fellow, immediately under our windows, turned back again and again to bid his wife farewell, and take his baby once more in his arms; and I saw him hastily brush away a tear with the sleeve of his coat, as he gave her back the child for the last time, wrung her hand, and ran off to join his company, which was drawn up on the other side of the Place Royale. Many of the soldiers' wives marched out with their husbands to the field, and I saw one young English lady mounted on horseback slowly riding out of town along with an officer, who, no doubt, was her husband. Soon afterwards the 42nd and 92nd Highland regiments marched through the Place Royale and the Parc, with their bagpipes playing before them, while the bright beams of the rising sun shone full on their polished muskets and on the dark waving plumes of their tartan bonnets. Alas! we little thought that even before the fall of night these brave men whom we now gazed at with so much interest and admiration would be laid low." (Mrs Eaton's Waterloo Days, p. 21.)

(11) "I stood with my husband at a window of the house, which overlooked a gate of the city, and saw the whole army go out. Regiment after regiment passed through and melted away in the mist of the morning."—Abridged Narrative.

(12) "Le Grand Laboureur."

(13) The Duke's corpse did not arrive at Antwerp till Saturday afternoon. See Mrs Eaton's Waterloo Days, p. 59.

(14) "I went to Antwerp, and found the hotel there so crowded, that I could only obtain one small room for my maid and myself, and it was at the top of the house. I remained entirely within, and desired my maid not to tell me what she might hear in the hotel respecting the army. On the 18th, however, I could not avoid the conviction that the battle was going on; the anxious faces in the street, the frequent messengers I saw passing by, were sufficient proof that important intelligence was expected, and as I sat at the open window I heard the firing of artillery, like the distant roaring of the sea, as I had so often heard it at Dunglass. How the contrast of my former tranquil life there was pressed upon me at that moment!"—Abridged Narrative.

Southey, the poet, says that the firing of the 16th was heard at Antwerp, but not that of the 18th. It is an extraordinary but indisputable fact that the firing at Waterloo was heard in England. The Kentish Gazette of Tuesday, 20th June 1815 (published therefore before any one in England, not even Nathan Rothschild himself, was aware that there had been a battle fought at Waterloo), contained the following piece of news from Ramsgate: "A heavy and incessant firing was heard from this coast on Sunday evening in the direction of Dunkirk." Dunkirk lies in nearly a straight line between Waterloo and the coast of Kent. What makes the matter still more extraordinary is the fact that Colville's Division, which, on the 18th, was posted in front of Hal, about ten miles to the west of the battlefield, never heard a sound of the firing, and did not know till midnight that any battle had taken place.

(15) Wellington's headquarters on the night of the 16th June were at Genappe, two or three miles to the rear of the battlefield of Quatre Bras. He slept at the Roi d'Espagne. Bluecher occupied the same inn on the night of the 18th.

(16) The battle began about 11.35, though Wellington in his despatch states that it began about 10. Napoleon's bulletin fixes noon as the time. Marshal Ney said that it began at 1 o'clock. It is clear they did not all look at their watches.

(17) De Lancey is supposed to have been struck about the time when the French batteries opened a fierce cannonade on the English centre, preparatory to the first of their tremendous cavalry attacks. This would make the hour nearer 4 o'clock than 3.

He fell not far from the Wellington Tree, and close to the famous chemin creux of Victor Hugo, in the immediate rear of which Ompteda's brigade of the King's German Legion was posted. The appearance of the spot is now entirely altered. The tree was cut down in 1818, and all the soil of the elevated ground on the south side of the chemin creux was carted away to make the Belgian Lion Mound about 1825. A steam tramway now runs by the place.

For a sketch of the celebrated tree, with Napoleon's guide, De Coster, in the foreground, see Captain Arthur Gore's Explanatory Notes on the Battle of Waterloo, 1817; and for another view of the ragged old tree as it appeared the day before it was cut down, see Illustrated London News, 27th November 1852.

The map which faces page 110 is adapted from the plan of the battlefield of Waterloo, drawn in 1816, by W.B. Craan, Surveying Engineer of Brabant.

The troops are shown in the positions occupied by them at 11 o'clock, A.M., just before the opening of the battle.

On the map will be seen the position of the Wellington Tree, also the farm and village of Mont St Jean, to which village it is supposed Sir William De Lancey was carried, after he had received the fatal blow.

The village of Waterloo is outside the map, some two miles to the north.



"The Duke had no fixed station throughout the day, and did not remain at this tree for more than three or four minutes at any one time. He frequently rode to it to observe the advance of the columns of attack. A deep dip in the main road prevented his going beyond it without a detour to the rear. It was here also that, the Duke having galloped up with the staff and using his glass to observe the enemy's movements, poor Colonel De Lancey by his side was struck by a heavy shot which slanted off without breaking either his skin or even his coat, but all the ribs of the left side were separated from the back."—Siborne's Waterloo Correspondence, vol. i., p. 51.

Sir Walter Scott has the following interesting passage in the Seventh of his Paul's Letters to his Kinsfolk. After a reference to the British army taking up its position on the field of Waterloo the night before the battle, he thus continues: "The Duke had caused a plan of this and other military positions in the neighbourhood of Brussels, to be made some time before by Colonel Carmichael Smyth, the chief engineer. He now called for that sketch, and with the assistance of the regretted Sir William De Lancey and Colonel Smyth, made his dispositions for the momentous events of next day. The plan itself, a relique so precious, was rendered yet more so by being found in the breast of Sir William De Lancey's coat when he fell, and stained with the blood of that gallant officer. It is now in the careful preservation of Colonel Carmichael Smyth, by whom it was originally sketched."

For an account of Colonel Sir James Carmichael Smyth, Commanding Royal Engineer on the Staff of the Duke of Wellington, see Dictionary of National Biography, vol. liii., p. 185.

Major John Oldfield, Brigade-Major, R.E., gives the following particulars about this map, which is reproduced opposite page 565 of vol. i. of C.D. Yonge's Life of Field-Marshal the Duke of Wellington.

"Shortly after my chief—Colonel Smyth—had joined headquarters (this was on the 16th), he sent in to me, at Brussels, for the plan of the position of Waterloo, which had been previously reconnoitred. The several sketches of the officers had been put together, and one fair copy made for the Prince of Orange. A second had been commenced in the drawing-room for the Duke, but was not in a state to send; I therefore forwarded the original sketches of the officers.

"Morning of the 17th.—Upon my joining Colonel Smyth, he desired me to receive from Lieutenant Waters the plan of the position, which, according to his desire, I had sent to him from Brussels the preceding day, and of which I was told to take the greatest care. It had been lost in one of the charges of the French cavalry, and recovered. Lieutenant Waters, who had it in his cloak before his saddle (or in his sabretasche attached to his saddle, I forget which), was unhorsed in the melee and ridden over. Upon recovering himself, he found the cavalry had passed him, and his horse was nowhere to be seen. He felt alarmed for the loss of his plan. To look for his horse, he imagined, was in vain, and his only care was to avoid being taken prisoner, which he hoped to do by keeping well towards our right. The enemy being repulsed in his charge was returning by the left to the ground by which he had advanced. After proceeding about fifty yards, he was delighted to find his horse quietly destroying the vegetables in a garden near the farmhouse at Quatre Bras. He thus fortunately recovered his plan, and with it rejoined the Colonel. The retreat of the Prussians upon Wavre rendered it necessary for the Duke to make a corresponding movement, and upon the receipt of a communication from Bluecher, he called Colonel Smyth and asked him for his plan of the position of Waterloo, which I immediately handed to him. The Duke then gave directions to Sir William De Lancey to put the army in position at Waterloo, forming them across the Nivelles and Charleroi chaussees."—Porter's History of the Corps of Royal Engineers, vol. i., p. 380. See also Ropes' Waterloo, p. 296.

(18) "He was able to speak in a short time after the fall, and when the Duke of Wellington took his hand and asked how he felt, he begged to be taken from the crowd that he might die in peace, and gave a message to me."—Abridged Narrative.

(19) Captain and Lieutenant-Colonel Delancey Barclay, 1st Foot Guards. See Army List for 1815, pp. 30 and 145, also Waterloo Roll Call, p. 30.

(20) Probably a barn at the farm of Mont St Jean, about 700 yards north of the Wellington Tree.

(21) Doubtless the village of Mont St Jean, the village of Waterloo being two miles further north.

When Miss Waldie (afterwards Mrs Eaton—see Dictionary of National Biography, vol. lix., p. 26) went to Waterloo on the 15th July, she noticed the name of Sir William De Lancey written in chalk on the door of a cottage, where he had slept the night before the battle. (Waterloo Days, p. 125.) The sketch on the opposite page is reproduced from Sketches in Flanders and Holland, by Robert Hills, 1816, and shows the village of Mont St Jean, as it appeared a month after the battle. The figures in the foreground represent villagers returning from the battlefield with cuirasses, brass eagles, bullets, etc., which they had picked up.



(22) See Waterloo Roll Call, p. 35, and Army List for 1815, p. 31.

(23) The Duke began the Waterloo despatch very early on the 19th at Waterloo, but he finished it at Brussels, that same morning.

(24) I.e., not only Waterloo, but Ligny, Quatre Bras, and the fighting that took place on the 15th and 17th June.

(25) Mr William Hay of Duns Castle. He had been in the 16th Light Dragoons in the Peninsular War (see Army List for 1811, p. 89), and had come over from England a few days before to see his old friends, and introduce his young brother, Cornet Alexander Hay, to his old regiment.

(26) Mr Hay was on the battlefield during the early part of the fight. Early next morning he revisited the field, to try to find some trace of his brother. The body was never found. He had been killed late at night on the French position, while the 16th Light Dragoons were in pursuit of the enemy. (Tomkinson's Diary of a Cavalry Officer, 1809-1815, p. 314; also Reminiscences, 1808-1815, under Wellington, by Captain William Hay, C.B.) There is a memorial tablet to him in the church at Waterloo, with the following inscription:

"Sacred to the memory of Alexander Hay, Esq., of Nunraw, Cornet in the 16th Light Dragoons, aged 18 years, who fell gloriously in the Memorable Battle of Waterloo, June 18, 1815.

"O dolor atque decus magnum ... Haec te prima dies bello dedit, haec eadem aufert.

"This tablet was placed here by his Brothers and Sisters."

(27) No doubt Lieutenant-General John Mackenzie who was in command at Antwerp. He succeeded Sir Colin Halkett in that post. See Army List for 1815, p. 8.

(28) Another indication that it was in the village of Mont St Jean and not Waterloo.

(29) "One of the most painful visits I ever paid was to a little wretched cottage at the end of the village which was pointed out to me as the place where De Lancey was lying mortally wounded. How wholly shocked I was on entering, to find Lady De Lancey seated on the only broken chair the hovel contained, by the side of her dying husband. I made myself known. She grasped me by the hand, and pointed to poor De Lancey covered with his coat, and with just a spark of life left."—Reminiscences, etc., by Captain William Hay, C.B., p. 202.

(30) Creevey states that as he was on his way from Brussels to Waterloo on Tuesday the 20th June, the Duke overtook him and said he was going to see Sir Frederick Ponsonby and De Lancey. The Duke was in plain clothes and riding in a curricle with Colonel Felton Hervey.—The Creevey Papers, p. 238.

(31) Probably the Duke had in his mind the charge of Lord Edward Somerset's Household Brigade against the French Cuirassiers, which took place about 2 o'clock. Alava, in his report to the Spanish Government, calls it "the most sanguinary cavalry fight perhaps ever witnessed."

(32) This was the general opinion at the time. Four days after the battle an officer in the 3rd Battalion of the 1st Foot Guards wrote as follows: "I constantly saw the noble Duke of Wellington riding backwards and forwards like the Genius of the storm, who, borne upon its wings, directed its thunder where to break. He was everywhere to be found, encouraging, directing, animating. He was in a blue short cloak, and a plain cocked hat, his telescope in his hand; there was nothing that escaped him, nothing that he did not take advantage of, and his lynx eyes seemed to penetrate the smoke and forestall the movements of the foe" (p. 42, Battle of Waterloo, 11th edition, 1852, L. Booth). A highly interesting remark from the Duke's lips just before the attack made by the Imperial Guard has been preserved in a letter written at Nivelles on the 20th June, by Colonel Sir A.S. Frazer. "'Twice have I saved this day by perseverance,' said his Grace before the last great struggle, and said so most justly." This seems to coincide with the observation which the Duke made to Creevey at Brussels the morning after the battle. "By God! I don't think it would have been done, if I had not been there."

(33) Another proof that it was Mont St Jean and not Waterloo.

(34) Probably James Powell, an apothecary in the Medical Department. Date of rank, 9th September 1813. See Army List for 1815, p. 93. In the Army List of 1817, and in subsequent Army Lists he is shown with a [symbol: Blackletter W] before his name, as being in possession of the Waterloo Medal. His last appearance in the Army List is in 1841, in which issue he is shown on page 340 as a surgeon on half-pay.

(35) John Robert Hume was a Deputy-Inspector of the Medical Department. See Army List for 1815, p. 90. He also held the appointment of surgeon to the Duke of Wellington. He was in attendance on the memorable occasion when a duel took place in Battersea Fields between the Duke of Wellington and Earl Winchilsea, 21st March 1829. He died in 1857. See Dictionary of National Biography, vol. xxviii., p. 229.

The following is Dr Hume's account of his visit to the Duke the morning after the battle. "I came back from the field of Waterloo with Sir Alexander Gordon, whose leg I was obliged to amputate on the field late in the evening. He died rather unexpectedly in my arms about half-past three in the morning of the 19th. I was hesitating about disturbing the Duke, when Sir Charles Broke-Vere came. He wished to take his orders about the movement of the troops. I went upstairs and tapped gently at the door, when he told me to come in. He had as usual taken off his clothes, but had not washed himself. As I entered, he sat up in bed, his face covered with the dust and sweat of the previous day, and extended his hand to me, which I took and held in mine, whilst I told him of Gordon's death, and of such of the casualties as had come to my knowledge. He was much affected. I felt the tears dropping fast upon my hand, and looking towards him, saw them chasing one another in furrows over his dusty cheeks. He brushed them suddenly away with his left hand, and said to me in a voice tremulous with emotion, 'Well, thank God, I don't know what it is to lose a battle; but certainly nothing can be more painful than to gain one with the loss of so many of one's friends.'"—(Extract from a Lecture by Montague Gore, 1852.)

(36) Stephen Woolriche was a Deputy-Inspector of the Medical Department. See Army List for 1815, p. 90. His name appears for the last time in the Army List of 1855-56. By that time he had gained a C.B., and held the rank of Inspector-General of the Medical Department on half-pay.

(37) General Francis Dundas (Army List for 1815, p. 3) was Colonel of the 71st Highland Light Infantry. He had served in the American War, and afterwards at the Cape. At the time of the alarm of a French invasion, of England in 1804-5, he commanded a portion of the English forces assembled on the south coast under Sir David Dundas, the Commander-in-Chief, who married an aunt of Sir William De Lancey. Sir David Dundas was at this time Governor of Chelsea Hospital, where he died at the age of eighty-five, on the 18th February 1820.—(See Dictionary of National Biography, vol. xvi., p. 185.)

(38) Sir Hew Dalrymple Hamilton, fourth baronet, was born on the 3rd January 1774, and married, on the 19th May 1800, Jane, eldest daughter of the first Lord Duncan of Camperdown.

(39) There were at that time three Protestant cemeteries at Brussels. This was the St Josse Ten Noode Cemetery, on the south side of the Chaussee de Louvain. Many were here buried who had died of wounds received at Waterloo, including Major Archibald John Maclean, 73rd Highlanders; Major William J. Lloyd, R.A.; Captain William Stothert, Adjutant, 3rd Foot Guards; Lieut. Michael Cromie, R.A.; Lieut. Charles Spearman, R.A.; Lieut. John Clyde, 23rd Royal Welsh Fusiliers. See Times of 9th February 1889.

(40) In 1889, Sir William De Lancey's remains were exhumed from the old, disused cemetery of St Josse Ten Noode, and, along with those of a number of other British officers who fell in the Waterloo campaign, were removed to the beautiful cemetery of Evere, three miles to the north-east of Brussels. On the 26th August 1890, H.R.H. the Duke of Cambridge unveiled the celebrated Waterloo memorial which contains their bones.

The following was the inscription on the gravestone which Lady De Lancey erected:—

"THIS STONE IS PLACED TO MARK WHERE THE BODY OF COL. SIR W. HOWE DE LANCEY, QUARTERMASTER-GENERAL, IS INTERRED.

"HE WAS WOUNDED AT THE BATTLE OF BELLE ALLIANCE (WATERLOO) ON THE 18TH JUNE 1815."



(41) Tuesday, 4th April 1815.—This date is confirmed by the Gentleman's Magazine, 1815, which states: "April 4, Col. Sir W. De Lancey, K.C.B., to Magdalene, daughter of Sir James Hall, Bart."

On the other hand, the Abridged Narrative states as follows:—"I was married in March 1815. At that time Sir William De Lancey held an appointment on the Staff in Scotland. Peace appeared established, and I had no apprehension of the trials that awaited me. While we were spending the first week of our marriage at Dunglass, the accounts of the return of Bonaparte from Elba arrived, and Sir William was summoned to London, and soon after ordered to join the army at Brussels as Adjutant-Quartermaster-General." Napoleon landed in France on the 1st March, and in the London Evening Mail of the issue headed:—

"From Wednesday, March 8, to Friday, March 10, 1815," the following appears as a postscript:—

"LONDON,

"Friday Afternoon, March 10.

"Letters have been received at Dover of the most interesting import; they announce the flight of Buonaparte from the island of Elba, and his arrival at Frejus, the place at which he landed on his return from Egypt. We have seen the King of France's proclamation against him, dated the 6th instant, declaring him and his adherents traitors and rebels: of these he is said to have had at first only 1300, but to have directed his march immediately on Lyons. It was considered that he would make a dash at Paris. Now, however, the villain's fate is at issue."

This news probably reached Edinburgh by coach a week later, and may have been known at Dunglass on the following day, the 18th March.

It seems doubtful, therefore, whether Lady De Lancey did not make a mistake of a month in dating her marriage exactly three months before the 4th of July. She may possibly have been married in March.

The "Hundred Days" cover the period between Napoleon's first proclamation at Lyons on the 13th March and his abdication on the 22nd June.

It will therefore be seen that the married life of the De Lanceys, if it extended from the 4th March to the 26th June 1815, covered this period, with just thirteen days to spare.



APPENDIX A

Letters to Captain Basil Hall, R.N., from Sir Walter Scott and Charles Dickens.[34]

[Footnote 34: From the autograph collection in the possession of Lady Parsons.]

* * * * *

"MY DEAR CAPTAIN HALL,

"I received with great pleasure your kind proposal to visit Tweedside. It arrived later than it should have done. I lose no time in saying that you and Mrs Hall cannot come but as welcome guests any day next week, which may best suit you. If you have time to drop a line we will make our dinner hour suit your arrival, but you cannot come amiss to us.

"I am infinitely obliged to you for Captain Maitland's plain, manly, and interesting narrative. It is very interesting, and clears Bonaparte of much egotism imputed to him. I am making a copy which, however, I will make no use of except as extracts, and am very much indebted to Captain Maitland for the privilege.

"Constable proposed a thing to me which was of so much delicacy that I scarce know how [sic] about it, and thought of leaving it till you and I met.

"It relates to that most interesting and affecting journal kept by my regretted and amiable friend, Mrs Hervey,[35] during poor De Lancey's illness. He thought with great truth that it would add very great interest as an addition to the letters which I wrote from Paris soon after Waterloo, and certainly I would consider it as one of the most valuable and important documents which could be published as illustrative of the woes of war. But whether this could be done without injury to the feelings of survivors is a question not for me to decide, and indeed I feel unaffected pain in even submitting it to your friendly ear who I know will put no harsh construction upon my motive which can be no other than such as would do honour to the amiable and lamented authoress. I never read anything which affected my own feelings more strongly or which I am sure would have a deeper interest on those of the public. Still the work is of a domestic nature, and its publication, however honourable to all concerned, might perhaps give pain when God knows I should be sorry any proposal of mine should awaken the distresses which time may have in some degree abated. You are the only person who can judge of this with any certainty or at least who can easily gain the means of ascertaining it, and as Constable seemed to think there was a possibility that after the lapse of so much time it might be regarded as matter of history and as a record of the amiable character of your accomplished sister, and seemed to suppose there was some probability of such a favour being granted, you will consider me as putting the question on his suggestion. It could be printed as the Journal of a lady during the last illness of a General Officer of distinction during her attendance upon his last illness, or something to that purpose. Perhaps it may be my own high admiration of the contents of this heartrending diary which makes me suppose a possibility that after such a lapse of years, the publication may possibly (as that which cannot but do the highest honour to the memory of the amiable authoress) may not be judged altogether inadmissible. You may and will, of course, act in this matter with your natural feeling of consideration, and ascertain whether that which cannot but do honour to the memory of those who are gone can be made public with the sacred regard due to the feelings of survivors.

[Footnote 35: Lady De Lancey married again in 1819 Captain Henry Hervey, Madras Infantry, and died in 1822. Gentleman's Magazine, vol. lxxxix, Part I., p. 368, and vol. cii., Part II., p. 179.]

"Lady Scott begs to add the pleasure she must have in seeing Mrs Hall and you at Abbotsford, and in speedy expectation of that honour I am always,

"Dear Sir,

"Most truly yours,

"WALTER SCOTT.

"ABBOTSFORD, 13th October 1825."

* * * * *

"DEVONSHIRE TERRACE,

"Tuesday evening, 16th March 1841.

"MY DEAR HALL,

"For I see it must be 'juniores priores,' and that I must demolish the ice at a blow.

"I have not had courage until last night to read Lady De Lancey's narrative, and, but for your letter, I should not have mastered it even then. One glance at it, when through your kindness it first arrived, had impressed me with a foreboding of its terrible truth, and I really have shrunk from it in pure lack of heart.

"After working at Barnaby all day, and wandering about the most wretched and distressful streets for a couple of hours in the evening—searching for some pictures I wanted to build upon—I went at it, at about ten o'clock. To say that the reading that most astonishing and tremendous account has constituted an epoch in my life—that I shall never forget the lightest word of it—that I cannot throw the impression aside, and never saw anything so real, so touching, and so actually present before my eyes, is nothing. I am husband and wife, dead man and living woman, Emma and General Dundas, doctor and bedstead—everything and everybody (but the Prussian officer—damn him) all in one. What I have always looked upon as masterpieces of powerful and affecting description, seem as nothing in my eyes. If I live for fifty years, I shall dream of it every now and then, from this hour to the day of my death, with the most frightful reality. The slightest mention of a battle will bring the whole thing before me. I shall never think of the Duke any more, but as he stood in his shirt with the officer in full-dress uniform, or as he dismounted from his horse when the gallant man was struck down.

"It is a striking proof of the power of that most extraordinary man Defoe that I seem to recognise in every line of the narrative something of him. Has this occurred to you? The going to Waterloo with that unconsciousness of everything in the road, but the obstacles to getting on—the shutting herself up in her room and determining not to hear—the not going to the door when the knocking came—the finding out by her wild spirits when she heard he was safe, how much she had feared when in doubt and anxiety—the desperate desire to move towards him—the whole description of the cottage, and its condition; and their daily shifts and contrivances; and the lying down beside him in the bed and both falling asleep; and his resolving not to serve any more, but to live quietly thenceforth; and her sorrow when she saw him eating with an appetite so soon before his death; and his death itself—all these are matters of truth, which only that astonishing creature, as I think, could have told in fiction.

"Of all the beautiful and tender passages—the thinking every day how happy and blest she was—the decorating him for the dinner—the standing in the balcony at night and seeing the troops melt away through the gate—and the rejoining him on his sick bed—I say not a word. They are God's own, and should be sacred. But let me say again, with an earnestness which pen and ink can no more convey than toast and water, in thanking you heartily for the perusal of this paper, that its impression on me can never be told; that the ground she travelled (which I know well) is holy ground to me from this day; and that please Heaven I will tread its every foot this very next summer, to have the softened recollection of this sad story on the very earth where it was acted.

"You won't smile at this, I know. When my enthusiasms are awakened by such things they don't wear out.

"Have you ever thought within yourself of that part where, having suffered so much by the news of his death, she will not believe he is alive? I should have supposed that unnatural if I had seen it in fiction.

"I shall never dismiss the subject from my mind, but with these hasty and very imperfect words I shall dismiss it from my paper, with two additional remarks—firstly, that Kate has been grievously putting me out by sobbing over it, while I have been writing this, and has just retired in an agony of grief; and, secondly, that if a time should ever come when you would not object to letting a friend copy it for himself, I hope you will bear me in your thoughts.

"It seems the poorest nonsense in the world to turn to anything else, that is, seems to me being fresher in respect of Lady De Lancey than you—but my raven's dead. He had been ailing for a few days but not seriously, as we thought, and was apparently recovering, when symptoms of relapse occasioned me to send for an eminent medical gentleman one Herring (a bird fancier in the New Road), who promptly attended and administered a powerful dose of castor oil. This was on Tuesday last. On Wednesday morning he had another dose of castor oil and a tea cup full of warm gruel, which he took with great relish and under the influence of which he so far recovered his spirits as to be enabled to bite the groom severely. At 12 o'clock at noon he took several turns up and down the stable with a grave, sedate air, and suddenly reeled. This made him thoughtful. He stopped directly, shook his head, moved on again, stopped once more, cried in a tone of remonstrance and considerable surprise, 'Halloa old girl!' and immediately died.

"He has left a rather large property (in cheese and halfpence) buried, for security's sake, in various parts of the garden. I am not without suspicions of poison. A butcher was heard to threaten him some weeks since, and he stole a clasp knife belonging to a vindictive carpenter, which was never found. For these reasons, I directed a post-mortem examination, preparatory to the body being stuffed; the result of it has not yet reached me. The medical gentleman broke out the fact of his decease to me with great delicacy, observing that 'the jolliest queer start had taken place with that 'ere knowing card of a bird, as ever he see'd'—but the shock was naturally very great. With reference to the jollity of the start, it appears that a raven dying at two hundred and fifty or thereabouts, is looked upon as an infant. This one would hardly, as I may say, have been born for a century or so to come, being only two or three years old.

"I want to know more about the promised 'tickler'—when it's to come, what it's to be, and in short all about it—that I may give it the better welcome. I don't know how it is, but I am celebrated either for writing no letters at all or for the briefest specimens of epistolary correspondence in existence, and here I am—in writing to you—on the sixth side! I won't make it a seventh anyway; so with love to all your home circle, and from all mine, I am now and always,

"Faithfully yours,

"CHARLES DICKENS.

"I am glad you like Barnaby. I have great designs in store, but am sadly cramped at first for room."



APPENDIX B

BIBLIOGRAPHY OF LADY DE LANCEY'S NARRATIVE

Reminiscences, by Samuel Rogers, under the heading: "Duke of Wellington," p. 210.

Memoirs, Journal, and Correspondence of Thomas Moore, edited by Lord John Russell, Journal of 29th August 1824, vol. iv., p. 240.

Notes of Conversations with the Duke of Wellington, by Earl Stanhope, p. 182.

Letter from Sir Walter Scott to Captain Basil Hall, R.N., dated 13th October 1825, published in the Century Magazine (New York), April 1906, and in Appendix A, ante.

Letter from Charles Dickens to Captain Basil Hall, R.N., dated 16th March 1841, published in the Century Magazine (New York), April 1906, and in Appendix A, ante.

Illustrated Naval and Military Magazine, 1888, vol. viii., p. 414. A condensed account of her experiences at Waterloo, written by Lady De Lancey for the information of her friends in general. See page 31, ante.

Century Magazine, New York, April 1906. Publication in full of the original narrative as written by Lady De Lancey for the information of her brother, Captain Basil Hall, R.N.



INDEX

Abbotsford, 124.

Abercrombie, General, 6.

Abridged Narrative, 103, 104, 106, 107, 108, 112, 118.

Adonais, 38.

Alava, General, 16, 17, 19, 56, 103, 114.

Ambassador, Spanish, 42, 103.

Annapolis, 5.

Antwerp, 41, 44, 45, 48, 52, 53, 58, 59, 64, 93, 108.

Appleton's Cyclopaedia, quoted, 3, 5, 8, 24.

Autobiography of Sir Harry Smith, quoted, 10, 17.

B., Mrs, 60, 61.

Bacon, quoted, 1, 2.

Bahama Islands, 9.

Ball at Duchess of Richmond's, 45, 103, 106.

Barclay, Colonel Delancey, 51, 112.

Barnaby Rudge, 35, 125, 130.

Barnes, Major-General Sir E., 15, 18, 20.

Bathurst, Earl, 12, 33.

Berkeley, Colonel, 18.

Beverley, 5, 8.

Bibliography of Lady De Lancey's Narrative, 131.

Bloomingdale, 7.

Bluecher, 18, 21, 105, 109.

Bonaparte, Napoleon, 121.

Bowood, 32.

Brogden, T.W., 103.

Broke-Vere, Sir Charles, 116.

Brunswick, Duke of, 46.

Brussels, 12, 14, 18, et passim.

Bulow, 105.

Caen, 3, 4.

Calnek and Savary, 5.

Cambridge, Duke of, 117.

Canning, Colonel, 18.

Castel Cicala, Prince, 19.

Castle Rackrent, 15.

Cathcart, Colonel, 104.

Century Magazine, 131, 132.

Charleroi, 20, 112.

Chichester, Henry Manners, 15, 23.

Childe Harold, 38.

Clyde, Lieutenant, 117.

Colville's Division, 108.

Connecticut, 6.

Constable, 33, 122, 123.

Cooke, General, 18.

Corunna, 25, 30.

County of Annapolis, History of, 5.

Craan, W.B., 109.

Creevey Papers, 10, 11, 114, 115.

Creevey, Mr, 114, 115.

Cromie, Lieutenant, 117.

Crown Point, 6.

Cruger, Colonel John Harris, 7.

Dalton's Waterloo Roll Call, 20, 112, 113.

Defoe, 1, 36, 126.

De Coster, 109.

De Lancey, Charlotte, 8.

De Lancey, Edward Floyd, 3, 5, 24.

De Lancey, Etienne, 3, 4.

De Lancey, James, 5.

De Lancey, Lady, 12; Narrative of, 24, 31-38.

De Lancey, Oliver, 5, 8, 26.

De Lancey, Peter, 5.

De Lancey, Sir William Howe, biography of, 10; military services of, 10, 25, 26; on board H.M.S. Endymion, 25; marriage, 12, 118; summoned to Belgium, 13; at Brussels, 13, 39-45; at the battle of Waterloo, 14, 50, 51; wounding and death of, 13-16, 50, 99, 110.

De Lancey, Stephen, 8, 9.

De Lancey, Susanna, 8.

De Lancey, Guy, 3.

De Ros, Lady, 103.

Despatches of the Duke of Wellington, quoted, 15, 16.

Dickens, Charles, 1, 33, 34, 37, 121, 130, 131.

Dickens, Kate, 127.

Dictionnaire de la Noblesse de France, 3.

Dictionary of National Biography, 10, 11, 12, 15, 23, 25, 26, 111, 112, 116, 117.

Draper, Sir William, 8.

Dundas, General Sir David, 8, 117.

Dundas, General Francis, 35, 82, 86, 89, 92, 93, 96, 99, 100, 101, 117, 125.

Dunglass, 108, 118, 119.

Dunkirk, 108.

Eaton, Mrs, 107, 108, 112.

Edinburgh, 119.

Elba, 10, 118, 119.

Emma, 35, 46, 48, et saepe.

Endymion, H.M.S., 25, 27, 28, 30.

Evening Mail, quoted, 17, 118.

Evere Cemetery, 117.

Fragments of Voyages and Travels, 25, 26, 31.

Frazer, Colonel Sir A.S., Letters of, 13, 15, 115.

Frejus, 119.

Fremantle, Colonel, 17.

Genappe, 22, 49, 109.

Genoa, 11.

Gentleman's Magazine, 118, 122.

Ghent, 11.

Gordon, Colonel Sir Alexander, 18, 20, 21, 116.

Gore, Captain Arthur, 2, 109.

Gore, Montague, 116.

Grant, Colonel, 100.

Greene, General, 7.

Gronow, Captain, 19.

Gurwood's Despatches of the Duke of Wellington, 10, 15, 106.

Hal, 108.

Halkett, Sir Colin, 114.

Hall, Captain Basil, 24, 25, 26, 31, 32, 33, 35, 121, 124, 131.

Hall, Magdalene (Lady De Lancey), 12, 26, 68, 89, 99, 118.

Hall, Mrs Basil, 24, 121, 124.

Hall, Sir James, 12, 118.

Hamilton, Sir H.D., 82, 113.

Hamilton, Lady, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 60, 61, 93.

Hay, Captain William, 113, 114.

Hay, Cornet Alexander, 113.

Hay, Lieut., 59, 60, 66, 67, 113.

Hervey, Mrs (Lady De Lancey), 122.

Hervey, Colonel Felton, 19, 106, 114.

Hills, Robert, 113.

History of the Corps of Royal Engineers, quoted, 112.

Howe, General Sir William, 7.

Howe, Lord, 6.

Hudson River, 7.

Hume, Dr, 13, 80, 81, 89, 90, 91, 98, 115, 116.

"Hundred Days," 119.

Illustrated London News, 109.

Illustrated Naval and Military Magazine, 31, 131.

India, 29.

Invalides, Les, 38.

Jackson, Colonel Basil, 19, 104.

James II., 4.

James, Mr, 53, 54, 55, 57.

Johnson, Mrs S., 10.

Jones' History, quoted, 3, 7.

Kentish Gazette, 103.

Ladysmith, 16.

Lannoy, Count de, 39, 93, 104.

Lansdowne, Lord, 32.

Larochejaquelein, Memoires de Madame la Marquise de, 34.

Lennox, Lord William, 19.

Ligny, 21, 105, 113.

Lloyd, Major W.J., 117.

London, 8, 71.

Long Island, 7.

Louvain, 101, 117.

Lowe, General E.W.H. De Lancey, 31.

Lowe, Sir Hudson, 10, 11.

Loyalists of the American Revolution, quoted, 8.

Lycidas, 38.

Lyons, 119.

Machel, Town Major, 47.

Maclean, Major, 117.

Madrid Gazette, 17.

Maitland, Captain, 121, 122.

Malines, 58.

Maurice, Colonel, 106.

M'Kenzie, General, 62, 63, 64, 114.

Memoires de Madame la Marquise de Larochejaquelein, 34.

Mitchell, Captain, 46, 47, 49, 55, 57.

Mons, 13.

Mont St Jean, 22, 110, 112, 113, 114, 115.

Moore, Thomas, 32, 33, 131.

Mount-Norris, Lord, 18.

Mueffling, General, 106.

Namur, 20, 21.

Nantes, Revocation of the Edict of, 3, 4.

Napoleon, 10, 11, 38, 109, 118, 119.

National Biography, Dictionary of, 10, 11, 12, 15, 23, 25, 26, 111, 112, 116, 117.

Naval and Military Magazine, Illustrated, 31, 131.

New Jersey, 8.

New York, 3, 4, 5, 6, 8, 9, 10.

Ney, Marshal, 109.

Nineteenth Century Magazine, 106.

"Ninety-Six," Fort, 7.

Ninove, 105.

Nivelles, 15, 20, 71, 112, 115.

Notes of Conversations with the Duke of Wellington, quoted, 2, 33.

Nova Scotia, 5.

Nunraw, 113.

Oldfield, Major, R.E., 111.

Ompteda, 109.

Orange, Prince of, 11, 19.

Ossining, 3, 5.

Ostend, 39.

Paris, 33, 122.

Parsons, Lady, 24, 121.

Paul's Letters to his Kinsfolk, 110.

Picton, General Sir Thomas, 18, 21.

Ponsonby, Sir Frederick, 114.

Ponsonby, Sir William, 16.

Porter's History of the Corps of Royal Engineers, 112.

Portsmouth, 29.

Portsmouth, N.H., 8, 9.

Powell, Mr, 78, 79, 83, 84, 89, 90, 91, 95, 96, 97, 98, 115.

Pozzo di Borgo, Count, 19.

Quatre Bras, 20, 106, 109, 112, 113.

Ramsgate, 108.

Recollections and Anecdotes, by Captain Gronow, quoted, 19.

Richmond, Duke of, 19.

Richmond, Duchess of, 45, 103, 106.

Rogers, Samuel, 14, 15, 24, 131.

Ropes' Waterloo, 106, 112.

Rothschild, Nathan, 108.

Royal Engineers, History of the Corps of, 112.

Russell, Lord John, 33, 131.

Sabine, General Sir E., 13.

Sabine's Loyalists of the American Revolution, quoted, 8.

Scott, Lady, 124.

Scott, Sir Walter, 33, 34, 38, 110, 121, 131.

Scovell, Sir George, 52, 62, 67, 77, 78.

Sharpe, W. Arthur, 24.

Siborne's Waterloo Correspondence, 110.

Sketches in Flanders and Holland, 113.

Smith, Sir Harry, 10, 16.

Smyth, Col. Sir Carmichael, R.E., 110, 111, 112.

Somerset, Lord Edward, 114.

Somerset, Lord Fitzroy, 18, 19, 20.

Southey, Robert, 108.

Spearman, Lieutenant, 117.

Stanhope, Earl, quoted, 2, 33.

Staten Island, 7.

St Josse Ten Noode, 117.

Stothert, Captain W., 117.

Taj, The, 38.

Tarrytown, 7.

Tennyson, 38.

Ticonderoga, Fort, 6.

Tobago, 9.

Tomkinson's Diary of a Cavalry Officer, 113.

Torrens, General Sir H., 11.

Trafalgar, 16.

United Service Journal, 23, 105.

United Service Magazine, 106.

Uxbridge, Lord, 18.

Van Cortlandt, Stephanus, 4.

Vanity Fair, 38.

Van Schaak, 8.

Vendee, La, 34.

Victor Hugo, 109.

Vilvorde, 65.

Vincent, Baron, 19.

Waldie, Miss, 112.

Waterloo, 1, 10,12, et passim.

Waterloo, Battle of, by L. Booth, 115.

Waterloo Days, 107, 108, 113.

Waterloo, Explanatory Notes on the battle of, 2, 109.

Waterloo, Recollections of, 23, 105.

Waterloo Roll Call, 20, 112, 113.

Waterloo, Ropes', 106, 112.

Waters, Lieut., R.E., 111.

Wavre, 112.

Webster, Lady Frances, 18.

Wellington, Duke of, 2, 10, 11, et saepe.

Wellington, Duke of, Despatches of the, quoted, 15, 16.

Wellington, Duke of, Supplementary Despatches of the, quoted, 11, 12, 18.

Wellington Tree, 109, 110, 112.

Winchilsea, Earl, 116.

Woolriche, Mr, 82, 83, 88, 116.

Yonge's Life of Wellington, 111.

York, Duke of, 8, 12.

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