...Before leaving Brussels for ever, it is impossible not to speak about the dogs. What would you say, what would you think, and how would you laugh at some of these wondrous equipages. You meet them in all directions carrying every species of load. They were only surpassed by one vehicle we met on the road drawn by nine, and as luck would have it, just as we passed, the five leaders fell to fighting and ran their carriage over some high stones. Then the women within began to scream and the driver without began to whip, which caused an inevitable scene of bustle and perplexity.... At Quiverain we passed the line of separation between France and Belgium and were subjected to a close inspection by the Custom House Officers, during which some Bandana handkerchiefs of Edward's were for a time in great jeopardy, but they were finally returned and "nous voilà" in "la belle France." The change was perceptible in more ways than one. Before we had travelled a mile we beheld a proof of this subjugated state in the person of a Cossack "en plein costume," with two narrow, horizontal eyes placed at the top of his forehead, bespeaking his Tartar origin. Upon a log of timber twenty more were sitting smoking. The Russian headquarters are at Maubeuge, but the Cossacks are scattered all over the frontier villages and are seen everywhere. We fell in with at least a hundred. They are very quiet and much liked by the people. The Duke of Wellington, when returning to Valenciennes a few days ago from Maubeuge, was escorted by a party of these gipsy guards. On approaching Valenciennes other tokens of conquest appeared. A clean-looking inn, with a smart garden in Islington style, presented itself, bearing a sign with an English name containing the additional intelligence that London Porter and Rum, Gin, and Brandy were all there, and to be had. Over many a window we saw a good John Bull board with "Spirituous Liquors Sold Here" inscribed thereon in broad British characters, unlike the "Spiritual Lickers" in the miserable letters upon the signboards at Ostend. As to Valenciennes, nothing was French but the houses and Inns. The visible population were red-coated soldiers, and it was impossible not to fancy that our journey was a dream, and that we had in fact re-opened our eyes in England.