Old C----, one of the "all-talented Whigs," who you know is half a buffoon, was a torment to us during the fearful period of the three days--running to and fro, standing in every body's way, seeking and reporting news, exclaiming, "but the battle cannot be lost--I do not see the army in retreat," &c. &c. At length, the battle over, England victorious, the Duke on Monday rode quietly into Bruxelles, to make arrangements for the wounded, &c. C---- rushes to his apartment to make his compliments. "Thirty thousand men lost!" replied the Duke. "But what a victory!" "Thirty thousand men killed!--hard case!"--still answered the Duke, with his usual simplicity of expression when speaking of his own exploits. C----, who knew not what diffidence was, nor could discover its merits in another, retreated in evident disappointment at his compliments of felicitation having the appearance of being so little appreciated; almost doubtful, whether Wellington was in truth a hero, or whether the battle was really gained! The interiors of the churches are divided in stalls, the wounded placed in them on layers of straw, and women and surgeons are seen administering to their ills. The Belgians have thrown open their houses, and officers and soldiers are promiscuously placed in their decorated _salons_, and served with equal assiduity. The French seemed to have fought with redoubled rancour on these terrible days; even the nature of the wounds are without parallel in history. The light carts I saw preparing some weeks since, were sent off to the frontiers; therefore, to add to the sufferings of these brave men, they are brought in upon the rough wagons employed in agriculture. This is the sixth day, and they are still arriving in all kinds of conveyances. Our carriage was stopped in la Rue de Montagne last evening; the cause originated in two wagons filled with the wounded and the dying, recently discovered! Some of the inhabitants, with candles, were groping anxiously, in search of their relations, and administering various restoratives to those they knew not, until another church could be hastily prepared to receive them. Hundreds of French prisoners are brought in,--many of them quite boys, and in peasants' habits, apparently forced by cruel conscriptions to become warriors _malgré eux_, and forming a remarkable contrast to those hardy and athletic frames, who seem destined by nature for the military career. Here were these poor recruits, a few weeks since dragged from their native hearths, constrained by regal power to illustrate themselves by the sword--when their hearts and characters were formed for domestic cares, and those agricultural labours which sweetened their rustic meal, and only trying to evade their direst enemy--the recruiting-sergeant of Napoleon!