On the 17th of June, 1815, the Duchess of Richmond gave a little tea entertainment at Brussels, with dancing in the programme, and for which latter purpose the Brussels’ carpets had to be taken up. A few hours previous to this eventful festivity, the commander of the British regulars had been taking pot luck with the Prince of Orange and Count Von Schwillensweiper, of the German embassy. Scarcely had the apples and nuts been placed upon the table, when an aide-de-camp, all stuccoed over with rural mud, rushed into the apartment, and placed before his Grace a dirty despatch, sealed with a pipe stem. “Take a chair and a nobbler,” said the Duke to the muddy young gentleman, after which he opened the tobacco-scented missive, and, then, with his characteristic determination, said nothing more. The fact was, that Bonaparte had begun hitting Blucher, who had immediately sent to tell his big brother. “He’s at him again,”--_ce coquin Bony_--quietly remarked the Duke, when the messenger had quitted the room, and then he placed a lot of nut-shells to show the position of the armies; “very simple,” continued his Grace, “It lies in a nutshell--in for a penny, in for a pound, and to-morrow we shall pound away.” The ball was brilliant in the extreme, but it did not escape attention that the Duke wore thick boots before midnight. The commander-in-chief slipped out, pretending he wanted a smoke. Picton, whose presence of mind never forsook him, put a truffed sausage in each pocket. The Prince of Orange whispered to the Duchess that “Ney had turned up, and was teasing the Prussians.” “Ney turned up,” replied her witty Grace of Richmond--what _Nay retrouse_. They kept up the capering till daylight, long before which the Belgian belles couldn’t imagine what had become of the red coats. The famous engagement of the 18th of June--it must be borne in mind, that June is summer-time in Belgium--was fought in a corn field, to the great injury of the crops. The rival armies were considered as two of the best teams that had ever met. It began, some historians say, at ten o’clock sharp, while others contend that the Emperor had not breakfasted at that time, but the fact is, that the battle seems to have resembled many quarrels. It is difficult to say exactly, how it commenced. Charges were made from either side in turn, and there was a good deal of recrimination, and bad language followed. Sir Thomas Picton, at the head of his gallant men, who were all picked ones, fought till he was out of breath. Hundreds of poor fellows cut about till they had’nt a leg to stand upon, and the brave Lord Uxbridge found himself with only one. To heighten the horrors of the scene, it came on to rain in the afternoon, and the smell of gunpowder is described as having been most oppressive. “Sire,” exclaimed a distinguished general officer, as he stood upon a looking-out arrangement, like a fire escape, “I see troops in the distance. They