this paradise of Brussels, quite weary of the place, we mounted on a
Namur diligence, and jingled off at four miles an hour for Waterloo.

The road is very neat and agreeable: the Forest of Soignies here and
there interposes pleasantly, to give your vehicle a shade; the country,
as usual, is vastly fertile and well cultivated. A farmer and the
conducteur were my companions in the imperial, and could I have
understood their conversation, my dear, you should have had certainly a
report of it. The jargon which they talked was, indeed, most queer and
puzzling--French, I believe, strangely hashed up and pronounced, for
here and there one could catch a few words of it. Now and anon, however,
they condescended to speak in the purest French they could muster; and,
indeed, nothing is more curious than to hear the French of the country.
You can't understand why all the people insist upon speaking it so
badly. I asked the conductor if he had been at the battle; he burst out
laughing like a philosopher, as he was, and said "Pas si bete." I asked
the farmer whether his contributions were lighter now than in King
William's time, and lighter than those in the time of the Emperor? He
vowed that in war-time he had not more to pay than in time of peace (and
this strange fact is vouched for by every person of every nation),
and being asked wherefore the King of Holland had been ousted from
his throne, replied at once, "Parceque c'etoit un voleur:" for which
accusation I believe there is some show of reason, his Majesty having
laid hands on much Belgian property before the lamented outbreak which
cost him his crown. A vast deal of laughing and roaring passed between
these two worldly people and the postilion, whom they called "baron,"
and I thought no doubt that this talk was one of the many jokes that my
companions were in the habit of making. But not so: the postilion was an
actual baron, the bearer of an ancient name, the descendant of gallant
gentlemen. Good heavens! what would Mrs. Trollope say to see his