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believe that he looked upon his army merely as a machine, and that all his care for it arose from simple calculation; but he was content, if he deserved his soldiers' love by maintaining their general comfort, to be without it rather than abstain from sacrificing one for the good of all. Of all theatricality he was singularly void, and his emotions were always under the strict guidance of reason.
There have been countless historical parallels instituted 5 between Wellington and other great generals. He has been very ably compared to Cromwell, and in some respects he resembled that astonishing man. piercing vision, the same swift energy, the same organizing genius, distinguished both. But the parallel fails in a most important point: the conditions of the time made it morally impossible for a Cromwell to be produced in the last great European outburst of intellect. In the great Puritan awakening, the infinite elements of religion and of duty had the most prominent and pervading influence; the Puritan felt himself fighting under the banner of Jehovah; the earth was to him a little desert, bordered by the celestial mountains, and what mattered it though he fought and toiled here if he saw the crown awaiting him yonder. A time which produced its highest literary impersonation in Milton might have, as its great martial impersonation, Cromwell. But, in that mighty shaking of 6 the nations which is still going on, the infinite elements of our nature have probably had less direct influence upon the minds of men than was ever the case before. The highest idea of the philosophism from which it sprung was, that man should conquer the elements, assert his freedom, and carpet for himself the earth with the flowers of Paradise. Science was put into the place of God; the light of earth was deemed to have utterly eclipsed the light from heaven. Never, perhaps, did the world so
minutely answer to the idea of a stage, where puppet philosophers and puppet armies played their parts in the most profound unconsciousness that God held the wires ; never was the Divinity who was silently shaping the ends
so totally invisible to those who were rough-hewing them. 7 Of the distinctive opinions of this era we regard Shelley as the greatest literary impersonation; its two greatest martial impersonations were Napoleon and Wellington. It is but a partial resemblance that there can be between the great Puritan general and the conqueror of Waterloo; a more correct parallel would be between the Dukes of Wellington and of Albemarle.
We think we find a singularly close parallel to the career of Napoleon and Wellington in that of Hannibal and Scipio. The first of these ancient generals is pretty generally recognized as the greatest military genius that ever lived. He ran his course from victory to victory until a general arose to oppose him whose attention was sleepless, whose accuracy was unfailing, whose intellectual vision was penetrating, whose valor was dauntless, and who could bring troops into the field which no African levies could match. They met on the plains of Za-ma;
fame has not failed to record that the generalship of Hannibal at least equaled that of Scipio; but victory 9 fled for ever to the Roman eagles. Wellington belonged to the class of generals represented by Scipio; Napoleon to that represented by Hannibal. The wild force of genius has oft been fated by Nature to be finally overcome by quiet strength, and never was it more signally so than in the case of Napoleon and Wellington. The volcano sends up its red bolt with terrific force, as if it would strike the stars ; but the calm, resistless hand of gravitation seizes it
and brings it to the earth. 10 We look upon the late Duke as one of the soundest
and stateliest men that Great Britain has produced-one of those embodied forces which are sent by God to perform important parts in the history of the world, and around which their respective generations are seen to cluster. The memory of such men is a sacred treasure. The men of Elis did well in appointing the descendants of Phidias to preserve from spot or from detriment their grand statue of gold and ivory; it had been produced in one generation; it was much if following generations kept it whole and untarnished. Our great Wellington has just been placed in the temple of the past, to sit there with the heroes of other times, and to witness that among us too, in the nineteenth century, a mighty man arose. It is the duty of us and of our children to see that no blot abide
upon his massive and majestic statue.
THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.-THE BATTLE OF
(See note on preceding extract.)
We now draw toward the end of that great martial 1 drama which we have been briefly contemplating. While Wellington was marching upon France, with the armies of Napoleon in retreat before him, the nations of the north were closing in upon their great master. When the ducal coronet had been placed upon Wellington's brow and the marshal's baton put into his hand, after the great triumph of Vittoria, the contest in the north was still doubtful, although the scale of Napoleon seemed
steadily rising; when the last blow was dealt at Toulouse, the scepter and the sword had fallen from his grasp. They sent him to Elba, and Europe snatched a few moments of restless repose, while huge armies not yet dis2 banded lay like nightmares on its troubled bosom. But the end had not yet come; the thunders were to awake once more ere the azure of peace was to smile over Europe. Suddenly it was awakened, as by a red bolt of fire passing across the sky; Napoleon had burst his chains, and was again at the head of his armies. And now the two extraordinary men, who had been born in the same year, and who had from the first been destined to meet, were finally to close in the wrestle of death. Once more the wild Celtic vehemence and valor, under a leader of mighty but kindred genius, were to come into conflict with the still, indomitable strength of the Teutons, under a leader whose overwhelming powers were all masked in calmness. We must omit all preliminaries, and endeavor to gaze upon the great contest itself.
After various passages of war, the two hosts lay facing each other on the heights of Waterloo; the French were posted on one ridge, the British on another, and there were several important posts of defense between them. The dim morning of the memorable 18th of June, 1815, looked down upon the British squares on the one hill-side, and the vast masses of French cavalry and infantry on the opposing heights; in the valley between them, summer had spread out a rye-field; ere evening, it was to be trod4 den flat, and welded together by human gore. common enough remark in the present day that the modern battle lacks the interest and sublimity of the ancient one; mechanically, it is said, you shoot, and mechanically you are shot at; the wild fire that lit the eye of an Achilles can gleam no more; the shattering sway of the one
It is a
strong arm has ceased to be of account in the day of battle; give us the fiery melée of the olden time, in which a Hector could mingle, and of which a Homer could sing. Is it, then, so superlatively and exclusively noble and difficult to deal the stern blow when the nerves are strung by the animal excitement of the combat, and the enthusiasm is raised by the presence and justling of the foe? And is it nothing to gaze, unflinching, upon the slow, steady advance of the column, from which the eye of death is calmly glaring? Is that deliberate determination of small account by which death, whether it comes in the shattering cannon-ball, or the tearing musket-bullet, or the cold bayonet-stab, is chosen before flight or surrender ? We declare without hesitation that the modern 5 battle is a grander spectacle than was the ancient; around no Homeric battle was there ever such a terrific sublimity as there hung around the field of Waterloo. Napoleon did not, with bared arm, rush into the midst of the combatants, trusting to his single prowess. Wellington did not, heading with musket and bayonet the onward charge, expose his bosom to the steel. But did ever an Achilles or an Attila avail so much in the day of battle as that dark-browed Corsican, or that calm, clear-eyed Briton ? Each remained apart, wielding the tremendous mechanism of war, mightier than the very gods of Homer. And had the valor which they wielded become mechanism, had human heroism no place in that field ? Let us look upon
6 it and see.
Under the fitting drapery of jagged and trailing clouds, which seemed weeping over the fearful scene, stood a certain number of little squares, ranged on the slope of a valley ; toil-worn they were, drenched with rain, and few in number on the bleak hill-side. On the ridges to which, with dauntless eye, they looked, were ranged three hundred cannon; from all their throats,