“My Dear Sir William,—I should have written to you long ere this had not a wound, which deprived me of the use of my arm, prevented me. As to the fall of your son, and my esteemed friend, I can only say that few young men have left this life more sincerely regretted, and his exertions on the 18th will ever endear his memory to all who witnessed his noble conduct on that day. Major Ramsay’s last words to me were as follows: ‘Did you ever witness such noble conduct as that of Brereton and Robe?’ In short, it is a most painful task to relate the history of a man whose fall I sincerely lament, and I cannot without tears of sorrow think of your son, and my esteemed friend Major Ramsay. About five o’clock on the 18th your son received a mortal wound, and about the same time the following day he died at the village of Waterloo, after twice having taken leave of me in the most friendly and affectionate manner. I was too ill to ask him any questions; indeed, I was so distressed when I saw him at his last moments, that I could only shake him by the hand, and in the course of a few minutes he expired. His remains were interred in a beautiful spot of ground in the village of Waterloo, where I intend to raise a monument to his memory.—Yours most truly,
“A. McDonald.”
Reminiscences of Waterloo [? 1895].
“Our Paris correspondent states that a correspondent of the Gaulois gives an interesting account of a conversation with one of the very few surviving spectators of the battle of Waterloo, a widow named Givron, the hundredth anniversary of whose birth is about to be celebrated in the little village of Viesville, Hainault. She relates that on the morning of the day of the great battle she ran away from her parents and made her way through the woods, being curious to see what was going on. She was close to Hougomont when the place was attacked by the French troops, and remained in hiding for hours, not daring to move. The cannonade having diminished she ventured towards the farm, but fled horror-stricken at the sight—the ground, as she expresses it, being like red mud, so drenched was it with blood. She ran across the fields and reached the Bois de Planchenoit, where she fell asleep, worn out by fatigue and excitement. At dusk she was awakened by the noise of horses’ hoofs, and saw a troop of cavalry, headed by a man of short stature mounted on a curveting grey horse. He was riding slowly on as if in a dream, looking straight ahead and paying no heed to what went on about him. The girl learnt on the same evening from her relatives, when she finally reached home, that the rider was Napoleon. Madame Givron is remarkably active, and is particularly proud of her eyesight, which, she declares, is as good as it was seventy-five years ago. When her daughter Marceline, who, as she says, is only seventy-two, sits down to sew, her mother threads the needles for her. The old lady has had seven children, and her descendants number ninety-two.”—Morning Post.
A Centenarian.
Commissary-Gen. Downs writes to the Army and Navy Gazette in July, 1891, as follows:—
“Samuel Gibson—an inmate of the Metropolitan Asylum, Caterham—is now in his 101st year. He enlisted about the year 1803 at Sanderage, county Armagh, as a boy in the 27th Regt., his father being at that time a private in the Monaghan militia. Young Gibson accompanied the Inniskillings to the Peninsula and also served with the regt. at Waterloo. He was discharged from the army soon after on a pension of one shilling per diem, which he afterwards commuted, receiving besides, he states, £74. He has been an inmate of Caterham Asylum for some years, and although unable to leave his bed he still enjoys a pipe of tobacco, which he indulges in frequently.”