Brussels’ hospitals—The British and French soldiers under amputation—I lose my finger—Another loss also—I leave the hospital and am removed to the Provost Guard—The Belgian marauders bared to the skin—The point of honour—Sensation produced on their comrades—The Belgian regiment under arms—Guard-house surrounded—Narrow escape—Removal of the Belgians—Assassination of a French Count by a Cossack officer—Medals sent from England—Consequent dissensions—Poor Wheatley—Quarters at Mouvres—Augustine—An old acquaintance—A rival—Augustine leaves her father’s house—Pursued—Her father’s despair—Removal to Cambray—The regiment receives orders to embark for England—We part. I REMAINED in Brussels three days, and had ample means here, as in several other places, such as Salamanca, &c., for witnessing the cutting off legs and arms. The French I have ever found to be brave, yet I cannot say they will undergo a surgical operation with the cool, unflinching spirit of a British soldier. An incident which here came under my notice, may in some measure show the difference of the two nations. An English soldier belonging to, if I recollect rightly, the 1st Royal Dragoons, evidently an old weather-beaten warfarer, while undergoing the amputation of an arm below the elbow, held the injured limb with his other hand without betraying the slightest emotion, save occasionally helping out his pain by spirting forth the proceeds of a large plug of tobacco, which he chewed most unmercifully while under the operation. Near to him was a Frenchman, bellowing lustily, while a surgeon was probing for a ball near the shoulder. This seemed to annoy the Englishman more than anything else, and so much so, that as soon as his arm was amputated, he struck the Frenchman a smart blow across the breech with the severed limb, holding it at the wrist, saying, “Here, take that, and stuff it down your throat, and stop your damned bellowing!”