BRUSSELS, 17TH.--I was on the top of the diligence this morning at six, for another ride of thirty-six miles to the capital of Belgium, over the field of Waterloo. The only village on the route worth mentioning is Genappe. At noon we came in sight of a large mound, in the form of a pyramid, surmounted by a figure of an animal. It proved to be the Belgic lion-monument, commemorating the great victory of the allies. We soon came up to, and passed over the centre of, the battle-field, our conducteur meanwhile pointing out the various localities which he doubtless has often had occasion to do before: 'Le Maison ou Napoleon logé.' 'Wellington et Blucher.' A tablet over the door of the cottage explained: '_La belle Alliance. Recontre des Generaux Wellington et Blucher dans la bataille memorable de Juin 18, 1815._' On the right of the road, 'L'armie Prusse;' farther on, 'L'armie Anglais;' on the left, 'L'armie Française.' We had now come where the fight raged thickest, at present marked only by the monuments to the more distinguished victims. The field is smaller than I supposed. Those great armies must have been necessarily in close contact. This is the spot, then, where, at the expense of the lives of twenty thousand men, the mastership not only of France but of all Europe was decided. 'And here I stand upon the place of skulls, The grave of France--the deadly Waterloo!' And here, where on that dreadful night, the groans of the wounded and dying went up to heaven, calling aloud for retribution on their ambitious fellow man, who sought, at whatever cost, to 'Get the start of the majestic world, And bear the palm alone;' here you now see only the peaceful labors of the peasant women, planting their flax and potatoes over the graves of the slaughtered, which scarcely have a 'stone to tell where they lie,' or to remind you of the stirring scenes of the night when the gayety of the ball at Brussels was changed to anxious terror, by the cry of 'The foe! they come!--they come!'