thinking it a pity to be at the trouble of drawing stones up to the top of such a mountain, where there were abundance close at hand, very naïvely pulled down what remained of the castle and built the wall round its site with its own materials! By the way, whilst all justice has been done to the bravery of the English at Waterloo, and all the credit to which they were entitled, _at least_, claimed for the Scotch regiments--it is a fact that speaks, whole bulletins and gazettes for the gallantry of the Irish, that the regiment which had the greatest number _killed_ of any on the field was the 27th foot, the Enniskillens, which lost one hundred and three men besides three hundred and sixty wounded. The Château of Hougemont is undergoing a similar change, the wood which surrounded it has been all cut down, new buildings are erecting and the old ones fast passing into dust--the gate, however, still hangs upon its hinges with remnants of the old leaves that witnessed the great day, perforated by ten thousand bullets--the little chapel stands almost roofless in the ruinous court--and the guide points out “with bated breath,” the walls of the barn which was set on fire by the artillery and consumed the wounded and the dying who had been carried into it for shelter. Crossing the farm-yard a little postern leads to the Copse where once the garden smiled And still where many a garden flower grows wild. The ruinous alcoves and grass grown walks serve to show what it had once been--and by its side is the orchard, the possession of which on that memorable day was to decide the freedom or the subjection of Europe. It was then piled with carnage, and strewn with “garments rolled in blood”--it is now encumbered with a bending crop of fruit, and one solitary grave over an English officer, who was buried where he fell, is the only memento of that fearful morning. In the field around it, three thousand French were slain by the well directed fire from within; we walked over it as it had been newly ploughed, and in the course of a few minutes picked up a handful of bullets, some fragments of shells and grape-shot, and a musket flint still clasped in its leaden envelope--what an iron shower must have rained upon it, that after so many years, the plough should still furrow up its deposits!