At the hotel of Le Grand Laboureur they knew and welcomed us again, and testified great joy at the success of the Allies since we had seen them, and a great dread lest Napoleon should make his escape. In the streets we met numbers of poor wounded British officers, weak, pale, faint, and emaciated, slowly and painfully moving a few yards to taste the freshness of the summer and the blessed beams of heaven. Many fine young men had lost their limbs, many were on crutches, many were supported by their wives or by their servants. At the open windows of the houses, propped up by pillows, some poor unfortunate sufferers were lying, whose looks would have moved a heart of stone to pity. We passed several hospitals, and looked into some of them. The cleanliness and neatness of appearance which they exhibited were truly gratifying. Antwerp was filled with wounded. In every corner we met numbers of convalescent soldiers and officers, some of whom looked well; but the sufferings we saw, and heard of, were far too dreadful to relate, and in many cases death would have been a blessed relief from a state of hopeless torture. Several vessels had already sailed, filled with convalescent wounded, for England. Most of the wounded French, the wretched survivors of Buonaparte's imperial army, were here. But what consolation had they to support them on the bed of pain and sickness? What glory awaited them when they returned to their native country? What was their recompense for their valour, their sufferings, their services, and their dangers?--Broken health, and blighted hopes, and ruined fortunes, and blasted fame, were all they had to look to. They had not fought and bled for their country, but for a leader who had basely deserted them. Surrounded by these bleeding victims of a tyrant's ungovernable ambition, I felt the truth that inspired the poet's lines-- "Unblest is the blood that for tyrants is squandered, And Fame has no wreath for the brow of the slave." And what British heart would not exclaim with him-- "But hail to thee, Albion, who meet'st the commotion Of Europe, as firm as thy cliffs meet the foam, With no bond but the law, and no slave but the ocean-- Hail, Temple of Liberty! thou art my home!" The night soon closed in upon us, and we could see the wounded no more. We went to rest, and enjoyed a night of more calm repose than it had ever yet been our lot to experience in Antwerp.