At length I effected my own entrance into the town, hoping to gain some information, or even meet some one who could give me orders. The first thing that struck me on passing the gates was the contrast the present aspect of the streets presented to that when we passed through on the evening of the 16th. Then all was sadness, despair, and lamentation; now all joy, confidence, and revel. The countenance of every one you met beamed exultation and triumph, Belgians as well as English. Men came up with frankness, took our hands, and paid us some compliment. The women, by smiles and kind looks, testified their sympathy; whilst the lower orders, in the joy of their hearts, would slap one on the thigh, _en passant_, with an emphatic “Bon!” “Brave garçon!” “Brave Anglais!” “Bon!” Or, if a number were collected at some corner, they would demonstrate their feelings by a cheer of “Vivent les Anglais!” The numerous cafés and cabarets (of which every door and window was open on account of the oppressive heat) were crammed with officers and soldiers of every arm and of every nation, eating, drinking, swearing, singing, and smoking. Music of some sort increased the _bouhara_ in most of them. In many private houses, too, of the first appearance, large parties of officers were regaling themselves; and even in the streets many little assemblages of soldiers were to be seen enjoying their pipes and their beer in some shady corner. It was one complete scene of festivity. The streets were, moreover, crowded almost to suffocation with scattered soldiery: columns on their march; long files of country waggons laden with forage or provisions; together with the pretty little, low, light baggage-waggons of the German infantry, with their snow-white tilts. Here quartermasters and their attendants were running about chalking the doors of the houses (the headquarters were here to-night) with the names of those who were to take up their temporary abode in them. “Lieutenant-Colonel ----” on one; “Deputy-Assistant-Adjutant-General” on another; “1st company of such a regiment” on another, and so on. Then several commissaries (followed by a swarm of Flemish waggoners) hurry along in search of the Magazin des Fourrages. Further on, officers of the general staff are arranging the march of troops. Suddenly a loud shout announces something extraordinary even on this day of excitement. Every one hurries to the spot, pushing each other, jumping, shouting. “What can it mean?” I inquired. “Monsieur l’Officiere, c’est un convoi des prisonniers que vient d’arriver,” replied my man, doffing at the same time his _bonnet de nuit_ and making a most respectful salaam. I stopped to see the convoy pass. The prisoners, dressed in grey _capôtes_ and _bonnets de fourrage_, march steadily on. Some _vieux moustaches_ look very grave, and cast about furious glances at the noisy crowd which follows them with the perseverance of a swarm of mosquitoes, _sacréeing_ and venting all kind of illiberal