“On the 18th of June, the anniversary of the battle of Waterloo, a black flag was hoisted by the Belgians at the top of the monument erected on the field where the battle was fought.” A black flag, the emblem of mourning, the device of sorrow and regret, waves over the field of Waterloo! Not placed there by vanquished France, whose legions fought with all their chivalry; not hoisted by the proud Gaul, on the plain where, in defeat, he bit the dust; but in penitence of heart, in deep sorrow and contrition, by the Belgians who ran--by the people who fled--by the soldiers who broke their ranks and escaped in terror. What a noble self-abasement is this; how beautifully touching such an instance of a people's sorrow, and how affecting to think, that while in the halls of Apsley House the heroes were met together to commemorate the glorious day when they so nobly sustained their country's honour, another nation should be in sackcloth and ashes, in all the trappings of woe, mourning over the era of their shame, and sorrowing over their degradation. Oh, if a great people in all the majesty of their power, in all their might of intellect, strength, and riches, be an object of solemn awe and wonder, what shall we say of one whose virtues partake of the humble features of every-day life, whose sacrifice is the tearful offering of their own regrets? Mr. O'Connell may declaim, and pronounce his eight millions the finest peasantry in the world--he may extol their virtues from Cork to Carrickfergus--he may ring the changes over their loyalty, their bravery, and their patriotism; but when eulogising the men who assure him “they are ready to die for their country,” let him blush to think of the people who can “cry” for theirs. A NUT FOR WORKHOUSE CHAPLAINS. [Illustration: 219]