From Ostend I go direct to Brussels, the capital of Belgium. I happen to arrive in the city on the day of a national celebration. Everything is decorated for the occasion. At night the city is beautifully illuminated, and great crowds of enthusiastic people throng the streets. The fireworks display is especially fine, representing, among other things, the eruption of Vesuvius, the Falls of Niagara, and the Battle of Waterloo. As the standing army of Belgium is present, the officers giving commands, and the soldiers going through the manual of arms; as the royal bands are filling the air with martial music; and, as in the midst of the brilliant scene, are the bronze statues of Wellington and others who fought by his side on the field of Waterloo,—it really seems as if the memorable battle of 1815 is being re-enacted before my eyes! I can but think of Byron’s thrilling lines descriptive of the original battle. Next morning I am up early, and am soon on my way to the scene of action, nine miles from Brussels, where the powers of earth came together to wrestle for the thrones of Europe. Napoleon was at a very great disadvantage, as Wellington had by far the best position. On the hill where Wellington’s army was stationed, there is now an artificial mountain, about six hundred yards in circumference and two hundred and fifty feet high. This mountain is crowned with a granite pedestal, about twenty-five feet high, on which stands a huge bronze lion, his right foot resting on a great iron ball representing the earth. This king of beasts has his eyes turned toward France and has a proud, triumphant look on his face. There are several small monuments on the field, marking the places where different officers and heroes fell. The large one of which I speak was built seven years after the battle, or one year after the death of Napoleon on St. Helena. There are several trees, also one small brick house surrounded by a wall of the same material standing on the field, just as they were on the day of the battle. Of course, they are much riddled and shattered by shot and shell. I am much interested in a conversation with an old man who lives where he was born, about four miles from the battle field. He is now ninety-one years old, hence he was nineteen years of age when the memorable battle was fought. He saw Napoleon on the day of the fight, and the day afterwards was on the field and helped to bury the dead. He saw Wellington several times, and remembers distinctly how he looked after his greatest victory. The old man is approaching the end of his journey, and I am truly glad to have met him before he crosses the river.