Chapter XIX.WELLINGTON.

“All amidst her wrecks and her gore,Proud Denmark blest our chiefThat he gave her wounds relief;And the sounds of joy and griefFilled the shore.”

“All amidst her wrecks and her gore,

Proud Denmark blest our chief

That he gave her wounds relief;

And the sounds of joy and grief

Filled the shore.”

In the very height of the engagement, Parker, greatly alarmed for the safety of his fleet, battered furiously by incessant broadsides, made the signal to retreat. Nelson’s attention was drawn to it. “What does it mean?” asked a colonel of marines standing by. “Why, to leave off action,” said Nelson; “but hang me if I do! You know,” he went on, “I have only one eye. I have a right to be blind sometimes.” Putting his telescope to his blind eye, he exclaimed, “I really do not see the signal.” So he nailed his colours to the mast, and in the midst of the most terrible cannonade to which a British fleet has ever been subjected, Nelson’s signal for “Close action” streamed high aloft, as clear to every man’s sight as a star in the sky.

Napoleon had thus failed in his attack on the obstinate islanders, and he was now ready for a breathing-space in which to recruit his armies and build a navy powerful enough to beat Britain. Accordingly peace was signed, and Great Britain restored all the colonial conquests which she had made during the war, except Ceylon and Trinidad. This was all she gained from a struggle which had cost her thousands of lives, and had added two hundred and seventy millions to the National Debt.

Before the ink was dry on the treaty, Napoleon was busy planning the establishment of a vast colonial empire, and aiming at the downfall of the one power which thwarted him at every turn. The English press bitterly attacked him, coarse and insulting caricatures of him were constantly appearing, and French exiles in England frequently plotted against him. He now demanded the suppression of the hostile newspapers and the expulsion of the plotters, but the British Government refused. Every day the relations between the two countries grew more and more strained, and the breaking-point was not far off.

On May 12, 1803, war was again declared. Napoleon speedily forced Spain to join him, and then began preparations for an invasion of Great Britain. One hundred thousand men were marched to Boulogne, and every road by which the soldiers passed bore the signpost, “To England.” A huge flotilla of flat-bottomed boats was collected, and exercises in embarking and disembarking went on within sight of the white cliffs of Dover. “The Channel,” said Napoleon, “is but a ditch, and any one can cross it who has but the courage to try.” He meant to put his courage to the test as soon as the Channel was clear of the British fleet. From June 1803 to September 1805 his men were waiting the word of command to cross. It was never given.

The prospect of invasion roused every patriotic man in Great Britain. Volunteers flocked to the standards, and soon, out of a nation of fifteen million souls, including the people of Ireland who were not allowed to volunteer, 300,000 men were in arms, besides 120,000 regular troops and 78,000 militia. The dockyards worked night and day, and before the end of the year one hundred and sixty-six new vessels had been added to the fleet. The fortresses were strengthened, martello towers were erected along the coast, and every possible preparation was made. Nevertheless the year 1803 was one of alarm and terror. Next year Napoleon attained the summit of his ambition—he crowned himself Emperor of the French.

Still the projected invasion hung fire, and now Napoleon devised a plan for securing the six hours’ command of the Channel on which the success of his enterprise depended. His fleet was then in the harbour of Toulon, which was being watched by a British fleet, with Nelson in chief command for the first time. Napoleon ordered his ships to slip out of harbour and sail for the West Indies, in order to decoy Nelson away from Europe. Arrived at the West Indies, the French fleet was to put about and return with all speed for Brest, where an attack was to be made on the British squadron blockading that port while Nelson was far away. The defeat of the British squadron at Brest would clear the Channel, and then the grand invasion was to take place.

The plan nearly succeeded. Villeneuve, the French admiral, did slip out of Toulon. Nelson was deceived, and went off on a false scent. When, however, news arrived that the French fleet had sailed for the West Indies, Nelson dashed after it in hot pursuit, and went half-way round the world and back again before he caught it up. Villeneuve had thirty-five days’ start, but Nelson arrived at Gibraltar on the return voyage only three days after the French fleet sighted Cape Finisterre. Here it found a British squadron under Admiral Calder. An indecisive battle took place; and though the result was considered in England as a failure, and almost a disgrace, it ended the grand invasion scheme. Villeneuve was obliged to put into Ferrol to refit, and, meanwhile, Nelson had arrived. Napoleon’s plan had failed, and Britain could breathe freely once more.

In disgust, Napoleon broke up his camp at Boulogne, and rapidly marched his army across France into Germany, where he met the Austrians and Russians, who had formed a new league against him. Now began a series of triumphs which laid the Austrian empire open to the invaders. While Napoleon was rejoicing in his victories, terrible news reached him. The greatest sea-fight in the history of the world had been fought, and the combined fleets of France and Spain were no more. The beginning of the end had arrived for the “terror of Europe.”

Villeneuve, with thirty-three Franco-Spanish vessels, lay in Cadiz harbour, and outside was Nelson with twenty-seven British ships. The French admiral had been stung to the quick by a bitter, taunting letter from the emperor, accusing him of cowardice. To vindicate his courage, Villeneuve gave the order to put to sea. On the morning of October 20, 1805, the fleets came in sight of each other.

“The sun never rose on a grander and more impressive ocean-picture. As the courses and hulls of the hindmost of the British vessels floated up the sea-line, the blue girdle of the deep became a field of ships; giant structures bristling with guns, canvas swelling in clouds to the heavens from their tall sides black with grim and formidable defences, crowds of sailors motionless in expectation, quarter-decks glittering with uniforms, and stillness everywhere, broken only by the creaming wash of the bow-surge as it was shouldered off into yeast by the towering battleships.”

At daybreak, after a night clouded with the presentiment that he would die on the morrow, Nelson arrayed himself in his full admiral’s uniform, and came on deck blazing with orders. Watching the fleet of the enemy forming line of battle, he exclaimed several times, “I’ll give them such a dressing as they never had before.” He advanced in two columns, intending to crash into the enemy’s line, thus breaking it and destroying the ships in the centre before those on the wings could come to their relief. Undoubtedly therewasa plan of attack, though modern critics have questioned the fact. The battle perhaps looked like a “heroic scramble,” but behind the apparent confusion there was a subtle, daring, and unexpected plan.

Just before the battle began Nelson went to his cabin, and there on his knees wrote a beautiful and touching prayer. Coming on deck again, he ordered that signal to be made which is his greatest bequest to his country—a signal which stirs the pulses of every true Briton even after the lapse of a century. High above theVictory’sdeck flew the colours, and as the words,England expects every man to do his duty, were interpreted, a great huzza rose from the fleet. “Now,” said Nelson, “I can do no more. We must trust to the great Disposer of all events and to the justice of our cause.”

The British ships now bore down, Collingwood in theRoyal Sovereignbeing the first to engage. He was twenty minutes in the midst of a furious cannonade before he received support. The whole British fleet now came into action, but not near enough for Nelson, and he signalled, “Engage the enemy more closely,” and set the example by dashing into the enemy’s line. Seven or eight of the weathermost ships immediately opened a terrific fire on him. So fierce was it that for a few minutes theVictorymade no reply. Her mizzen top-mast went over the side, her wheel was knocked away, and a double-headed shot killed eight marines at one stroke. Amidst this hail of death the hero moved with the utmost indifference. As a splinter tore the buckle from his shoe he remarked smilingly to his captain, “This is too warm work, Hardy, to last long.” But now the gallant old ship got to work, and with a broadside that disabled her immediate enemy, drove into theRedoutableso closely that the muzzles of theVictory’sguns touched the enemy’s side.

At half-past one, when Nelson was walking the deck, a musket-shot from theRedoutablemizzen-top struck him, and he fell with his face to the deck. “They have done for me at last, Hardy,” he exclaimed. “I hope not,” answered the captain. “Yes,” said Nelson; “my backbone is shot through.” They bore him to the cockpit, and on the way he drew a handkerchief over his face that his sailors might not see him and be discouraged. The gloomy cockpit was a shambles, resounding with the groans of anguished men. Dr. Beatty flew to his side. “Ah, Mr. Beatty,” said Nelson, “you can do nothing for me. I have but a short time to live; my back is shot through.” And so it was. The decorations with which he had adorned himself were too good a mark for the French sharpshooters.

The hero lay a-dying while the storm of crashing artillery continued to rage. High above the thunder came the huzzas of his seamen as ship after ship of the enemy struck. The dying man turned and smiled. “Will no one bring Hardy to me?” he asked, but the captain could not be spared. All the beauty, the magnanimity, and tenderness of Nelson’s disposition shone out in those dying hours. At last Hardy came. “Well, Hardy, how goes the day with us?” “Very well, my lord,” was the reply; “we have got twelve or fourteen of the enemy’s ships.” “I hope,” said Nelson anxiously, “that none of our ships have struck.” “No fear of that, my lord,” replied Hardy. And now the surgeon tearfully told him that his life was done. “God be praised,” he whispered. “Now I am satisfied. Thank God I have done my duty!” Nelson was dead.

As his breath floated away, the cannonading ceased, and Trafalgar was won. Of the French and Spanish fleet that rose and fell upon the waves on that October morning all that remained was a huddle of hulks rolling helplessly in the trough of the sea, with the British colours flying on the stumps of the wreckage, and a trail of beaten ships staggering portwards for safety. Nelson had not spent his life’s blood in vain. He had ensured his land a century’s command of the sea, during which time she spread her empire far and wide, and developed her commerce to an extraordinary degree.

The Death of Nelson.(By Benjamin West, P.R.A. By permission of the Corporation of Liverpool.)

Napoleon on Board the “Bellerophon.”(From the picture by W. Q. Orchardson, R.A., in the National Gallery of British Art. By permission of the Berlin Photographic Co.)

Chapter XIX.WELLINGTON.

“Lead out the pageant: sad and slow,As fits an universal woe,Let the long long procession go,And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow,And let the mournful martial music blow:The last great Englishman is low.”

“Lead out the pageant: sad and slow,

As fits an universal woe,

Let the long long procession go,

And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow,

And let the mournful martial music blow:

The last great Englishman is low.”

IT is a bleak November day in the year 1852. Vast multitudes, most of them in the garb of mourning, throng the streets of London, and stand for hours waiting for a great funeral procession to pass by. The muffled bells of the churches are tolling a knell, cannon are booming their last farewells, buildings are draped with black, the flags fly at half-mast, and all business is suspended. Now you see the long procession approaching, soldiers with reversed arms leading the way, and marching with slow, reluctant step to the roll of drums and the solemn wail of the “Dead March.” Behind them come men representing all the rank, talent, and dignity of Great Britain, as well as the distinguished mourners which foreign sovereigns have sent to represent them on the solemn occasion. Many of the older spectators barely stifle their sobs as a riderless steed is led by, with reversed jack-boots in the stirrups. He who has bestridden this war-charger was well known to them. They remember all his greatness in the past; they recall him as a familiar figure in the streets and in Parliament. But, hush! here is the towering car upon which lies all that remains of him. Every head is bared, and in deep, solemn silence the sad pageant passes.

“All is over and done:Render thanks to the Giver,England, for thy son.Let the bell be toll’d.Render thanks to the Giver,And render him to the mould.Under the cross of goldThat shines over city and river,There he shall rest for ever,Among the wise and the bold.”

“All is over and done:

Render thanks to the Giver,

England, for thy son.

Let the bell be toll’d.

Render thanks to the Giver,

And render him to the mould.

Under the cross of gold

That shines over city and river,

There he shall rest for ever,

Among the wise and the bold.”

Side by side with that Mighty Seaman, “saviour of the silver-coasted isle,” they bury the Great Duke “to the noise of the mourning of a mighty nation.”

Who was this Great Duke, and why does “sorrow darken hamlet and hall” at his passing? Let the story of his life and fame be told.

Arthur Wellesley, afterwards Duke of Wellington, was born in 1769, less than four months before Napoleon. His father was the Earl of Mornington, an Irish peer, and Dublin still shows the house, 24 Upper Merrion Street, where he was born. In 1787, when eighteen years of age, Wellesley became an ensign in the army, but was at first quite undistinguished, and was, indeed, considered dull, idle, and rather frivolous. Not until 1793, when he was appointed to the command of his regiment, did he show that he had found the vocation in which he was to win such renown.

In 1798 his eldest brother sailed for India as governor-general, and Arthur Wellesley accompanied him. Soon afterwards he was given a military command, and speedily proved himself a most active and successful general. In 1805 Wellesley was back in England, and for the next few years he was employed in various capacities. During the year after his return he became a member of Parliament, and was frequently consulted on military matters by the ministry of the day.

The little kingdom of Portugal was almost the last European nation which refused to join Napoleon. He therefore overran the country and entered Lisbon. The king was deposed, and Joseph, Napoleon’s brother, was placed on the throne. Thus the whole Iberian Peninsula passed into Napoleon’s power. These high-handed proceedings roused the nations to another struggle against him. An insurrection broke out in Spain and Portugal, which even Napoleon could not stamp out. The British Government eagerly seized the opportunity of waging a land-war with Napoleon. Arms and money were sent to the Spaniards, and on August 1, 1808, an army was landed in Portugal. Wellesley was given the command of a force of some 9,000 men, and was instructed to assist either the Spaniards or the Portuguese at his discretion. He sailed on the 12th of July, and, landing his men, moved towards Lisbon. This was a bold step, for the French general, Junot, had been in occupation of the Portuguese capital since November.

On the 21st of August he defeated Junot on the hillside at Vimiera, and Lisbon would have been captured and the whole French army destroyed had Wellesley been permitted to pursue. A superior officer, however, had now arrived, and Wellesley was no longer first in command. Nevertheless, so decisive was the fight that Junot offered to leave Portugal altogether, provided he and his troops were permitted to return unmolested to France. This offer was accepted, greatly to the annoyance of the British people, who were sorely disappointed that the whole French army had not been captured.

Wellesley and his superior officer were recalled and tried for not capturing Lisbon. The latter was deprived of his command; the former was sent back to Portugal. And now Wellington began that long, dogged struggle known as the Peninsular War, a six years’ contest in which he displayed wonderful generalship, foresight, and tenacity, and finally drove the French out of Spain and captured Toulouse. Before it was over he had been raised to the peerage, and as Viscount Wellington was universally regarded as Britain’s greatest soldier.

In the fourth year of Wellington’s struggle in Spain the Tsar Alexander, tired of submitting to Napoleon’s mastery, defiantly opened his ports to trade with Britain. Napoleon thereupon declared war on him, and marched a vast army of 600,000 men into Russia. A miserable, crushed remnant of 20,000 men was all that struggled back to Germany. This terrible blow led to a general rising of European powers against Napoleon. Russia, Prussia, Austria, and Sweden allied their forces, and Napoleon found himself beset on all sides, and with no army to meet his foes.

After the first outburst of dismay, France rallied to him as of old, and gave him the new army for which he asked. The terrible waste of life during the stormy years since the Revolution had pressed heavily on his people, and now half-grown lads of seventeen were called to the standards. They came willingly, and once more the old enthusiasm prevailed. Within six months Napoleon had 200,000 men ready to meet the Russians and Prussians on the Elbe. Twice he smote the allies, and forced them to seek an armistice. Then the fortune of war abandoned him, and at Leipzig, in what the Germans call “the battle of the nations,” he was defeated and forced to retreat to France.

By this time success had crowned Wellington’s efforts in Spain. He had made satisfactory soldiers of the Portuguese, and the Spaniards had greatly improved. While Napoleon was marching into Russia, Wellington had stormed Ciudad Rodrigo and Badajoz, and had won a great battle at Salamanca, where he “beat 40,000 men in forty minutes.” This battle was his masterpiece. “There was no mistake,” he said; “everything went as it ought, and there never was an army so beaten in so short a time.”

Then Wellington took Madrid, which had been four years in the hands of the enemy; but as the French massed their forces against him, he had to retire towards the Portuguese border. In 1813 he attacked the French at Vittoria, routed them, cut off their retreat, and drove them back across the Pyrenees with the loss of every cannon and wagon which they possessed. While the allies were swarming into France, Wellington, with 100,000 veteran troops, stood ready to fall upon her.

The end now rapidly approached. Napoleon struggled heroically with the remnant of the army which had been defeated at Leipzig, but in vain. Time after time he checked the invaders; but numbers triumphed at last, and the allies entered Paris on March 31, 1814, where the fickle populace received them with shouts of joy.

Napoleon was now sent to the little Italian island of Elba, where he played at being king for eight or nine months. All the time he was watching affairs in France very closely and was biding his time. In 1814 ambassadors from nearly all the Powers assembled at Vienna to settle the affairs of Europe. There were constant wrangles, and at one time the tension was so acute that war seemed likely to break out again. Suddenly, on March 7, 1815, a messenger arrived with news that immediately ended their quarrels and, in the face of a new and alarming danger, brought them shoulder to shoulder. The Tsar said to Wellington, who was one of the commissioners, “It is for you to save Europe.” What had happened?

Napoleon had landed in France, and was making a triumphant progress towards Paris. The Bourbon Government, which had been installed by the Powers, melted away like snow before the summer sun. Everywhere Napoleon’s old soldiers donned the cockade and flocked to his standards. Whole regiments deserted; the wonderful fascination which the emperor exercised upon his followers once more asserted itself. Marshal Ney, who had promised King Lewis to bring back the invader in an iron cage, fell a victim to the charm of his old chief as soon as he met him. Lewis and his friends fled the country, and Napoleon once more occupied the Tuileries. During the next hundred days he displayed all his old energy and daring. By the 13th of June he had nearly 200,000 men available for war.

Meanwhile the Powers had not been idle. They bound themselves to raise a million armed men, and never to rest from their labours until Napoleon was finally crushed. In a few months an overwhelming force of allies would be marshalled. In the meantime, the only troops available were those of the British and Prussian armies, now in Belgium, and commanded by Wellington and Blücher respectively.

Now let us pay a visit to the most renowned battlefield in all the world, the field on which the destinies of Europe were changed and the great Emperor of the French was hurled from a throne to a prison and a grave. We are in the village of Waterloo, eleven miles south of Brussels, the capital of Belgium. Leaving Waterloo, we traverse a road bordered on both sides by houses, and after having walked a couple of miles we arrive at the village of Mont St. Jean. Here two roads meet, both of which cross the battlefield.

Now we push on beyond the cross-roads to an obelisk in memory of the Germans who fell in the battle. A quarter of a mile to the right rises the mound of the Belgian Lion. It is two hundred feet in height, and was thrown up on the spot where the Prince of Orange was wounded in the battle. Surmounting it is a lion made out of the metal of captured French cannon. We ascend the mound, and facing south find ourselves in the best position to survey the battlefield. Unfortunately, the levels of the ground have been much altered by the earth removed to form the mound. Still from our coign of vantage we may get a good general idea of the position occupied by both armies on June 18, 1815.

We are now on the ridge of a long chain of low hills with gentle slopes. On this ridge Wellington extended his first line of troops. The ridge, as you will observe, is narrow, so that the second line was enabled to occupy a sheltered position on the sloping ground behind us. One mile distant, across a shallow valley, is another line of hills. These were occupied by the French. Now notice a farmhouse on the main road to our left. This is La Haye Sainte, which was occupied by German troops, and protected the allied centre. Follow the road across the battlefield, and you will come to the farm of La Belle Alliance. During the greater part of the battle Napoleon took up his station a little to the right of this house, where a French monument now stands. Were you to push on along this road for seven or eight miles you would come to Quatre Bras (“four arms”), from which place two roads lead to the river Sambre.

Now look along the road to our right front and observe the chateau of Hougoumont, which was an old ruined place even in 1815. This building, which still bears traces of the fearful scenes that took place about it, was on the right of the allied line, and formed the key to the position. Hougoumont was strengthened by Wellington, and though continually assaulted was never captured. Had Napoleon once gained possession of it, the battle would probably have had quite a different ending. Now that we have surveyed the chief points of interest on the field, let us turn to the battle itself.

By the beginning of June Napoleon had concentrated one hundred and twenty thousand men on the Sambre at Charleroi, ready to advance when he should arrive to take command. Wellington’s army was scattered in various places from Nivelles westward, while Blücher’s was extended from the same place eastward. Wellington’s plan was to unite his forces with those of Blücher at Quatre Bras, and block Napoleon’s advance. Napoleon, however, was determined to prevent the allied generals from uniting their forces. His plan was to fall upon them before they could concentrate, and defeat them piecemeal.

When Blücher reached Ligny, with eighty thousand men, Napoleon met him, and a desperate battle ensued in which the Prussian general suffered terrible loss, but, still undefeated, retreated in good order on Wavre, so that he might join Wellington at Waterloo, according to a previous arrangement which he had made with Wellington. Napoleon thought that the Prussians were retreating on the Rhine, and detached thirty-three thousand men under Grouchy to hang on their rear. Grouchy missed the Prussians, and his troops took no part in the great battle.

On the same day Ney, with twenty thousand men, appeared before Quatre Bras, where only ten thousand British and an equal force of Belgians had been able to assemble. The Belgians fled before the French cavalry, but the British infantry kept up a dogged resistance while corps after corps was hurried up. At the close of the day Ney saw that he was outnumbered, and withdrew, while Wellington retreated to the line of heights upon which we are now gazing.

Napoleon now pushed on to measure swords with Wellington in person for the first time. On Sunday morning, the 18th of June, the two armies faced each other. As Napoleon looked across the valley and saw the British redcoats on the rising ground opposite, he cried, “I have them.” He had good reason to believe that he would win. His forces numbered between seventy and eighty thousand men, and he was superior both in guns and in cavalry to his foes. Wellington had about sixty-seven thousand men; but his British troops were mainly raw recruits, and the rest of his forces were very mixed, and included the Belgians who had already fled before the French cavalry.

The preceding night had been wet and stormy, and when morning broke Napoleon considered the ground too heavy for cavalry. He therefore delayed the opening of the battle until between eleven and twelve in the forenoon. This delay was fatal. Time was most important to both commanders. Napoleon knew well that he must beat Wellington before Blücher could join him; Wellington, on the other hand, was determined to hold his ground to the last man, so as to give the Prussians time to come up in force and settle the issue of the day.

The battle began with a fierce attack on Hougoumont; but it was held right manfully by the British Guards, and though the French won the gardens and orchards, they could not drive the defenders from the buildings. Then Napoleon sent his heavy columns against the British left, but they were utterly routed. His third effort was against the British centre, which he tried to break by heavy artillery fire and furious cavalry charges.

The British formed square, and, though assailed for five hours, held fast. They seemed, said an onlooker, “rooted” to the earth. Every attempt to pierce them failed, until even the British privates saw the uselessness of the attempt, and cried, as Napoleon’s squadrons charged them, “Here come those fools again.” Every attempt to take the ridge was repulsed with terrible slaughter. At last, in the thick of the fighting, the cannon of the advancing Prussians were heard, and Napoleon made one last desperate effort to break the British line.

La Haye Sainte was captured about six in the evening, and Napoleon’s cannon were now so near that Wellington’s centre was in dire danger. Blücher was rapidly drawing near, and already he was threatening the French right and rear. Like a desperate gambler, Napoleon now staked all on a charge of the Old Guard. A little after seven he gave the word, and six thousand of his veterans, led by Marshal Ney, were hurled at the long-tried British. As the French rushed up the slope, the British Guards, who had been lying down behind the top of the ridge, sprang to their feet and poured a volley into the enemy. Their columns wavered, and our soldiers charged with the bayonet, hurling the enemy down the hill in utter confusion. Soon after eight o’clock the Prussians made their appearance on the scene, and speedily Napoleon found himself assailed on his flank by forty thousand men.

At this juncture, “on the ridge, near the Guards, his figure standing out amidst the smoke against the bright north-eastern sky, Wellington was seen to raise his hat with a noble gesture—the signal for the wasted line of heroes to sweep like a dark wave from their covered positions, and roll out their lines and columns over the plains. With a pealing cheer the whole line advanced just as the sun was sinking.” In vain the French Guards rallied, only to be swept away by the fierce British charges. When darkness fell, the whole French army was in flight. The Prussians went in hot pursuit, and before long the proud French army of the morning was almost annihilated. Wellington and Blücher had lost twenty-two thousand men. The French loss will never be known.

The battle was decisive; the long struggle was at an end; and Napoleon’s star had set. He put spurs to his horse, and rode hard through the midsummer night to escape capture. Fearing death at the hands of the Prussians, he surrendered himself to the captain of the British man-of-warBellerophon. The British Government banished him to the lonely isle of St. Helena, where he languished in captivity until his death in 1821.

But what of the victor of Waterloo—

“Foremost captain of his time,Rich in saving common sense,And, as the greatest only are,In his simplicity sublime.”

“Foremost captain of his time,

Rich in saving common sense,

And, as the greatest only are,

In his simplicity sublime.”

He was no callous victor, regarding his men merely as pawns in the great game. When he learnt the death-roll of the battle he burst into tears. Scarcely one of those who had fought side by side with him in the Peninsula remained to share the joy of victory. To the end of his days he was an ardent advocate of peace. “Only those who have seen it,” he said, “can possibly know how terrible war is.” The nation’s gratitude flowed out to him as a river; the meanest intelligence could appreciate the overwhelming importance of the victory which he had won. Never did such vast issues rest on a single battle; never did Britain stand so high among the nations as after Waterloo. All possible honours were heaped upon him. He received the thanks of both Houses of Parliament and a vote of £200,000 wherewith to purchase the estate of Strathfieldsaye; while foreign nations vied with each other in awarding him gifts and titles.

He was but forty-six years of age when the crowning victory of his life was accomplished, and for the next quarter of a century he was rightly regarded as one of the pillars of the State. In 1828 he became Prime Minister; but though wise, moderate, and inspired by a high sense of duty, he did not prove himself a great statesman. At one time he was actually the subject of the nation’s wrath; but as the years went by he recovered all his old popularity, and that without striving in the least to regain it.

He died in his eighty-third year, and you already know how this “last great Englishman” was borne to his grave amidst sorrowing crowds. And here, side by side with Nelson, we leave him—the two great captains of the British race, who teach to all future times that the “path of duty” is “the way to glory.”

The Meeting of Wellington and Blücher after the Battle of Waterloo.(From the fresco by Daniel Maclise, R.A., in the Houses of Parliament.)

QUEEN VICTORIA IN HER CORONATION ROBES.(From the picture by Sir George Hayter in the Royal Collection.)

Chapter XX.VICTORIA THE GOOD.

“Their thoughts shall be my thoughts, their aims my aim,Their free-lent loyalty my right divine;Mine will I make their triumphs, mine their fame,Their sorrows mine.”

“Their thoughts shall be my thoughts, their aims my aim,

Their free-lent loyalty my right divine;

Mine will I make their triumphs, mine their fame,

Their sorrows mine.”

IT is five o’clock on a June morning in the year 1837. London is not yet awake, nevertheless four high officers of state are knocking lustily and ringing loudly at the outer gate of Kensington Palace. They have come straight from the deathbed of William the Fourth, and they have news of the highest importance for the young princess who resides within. But at this early hour of the day the whole palace is wrapped in slumber, and the knocking and ringing have to be repeated many times before the drowsy porter is awakened. You see him rubbing his eyes and reluctantly throwing open the gate. Now the little party, which includes the Primate and the Lord High Chamberlain, enters the courtyard, and another long wait follows. At length the distinguished visitors are admitted to a lower room of the palace, and there they seem to be quite forgotten. They ring the bell, and when it is answered the Lord High Chamberlain requests that the attendant of the Princess Victoria be sent to inform her Royal Highness that high officials of state desire an audience on business of the utmost importance.

There is another long delay, and again the bell is rung, this time with pardonable impatience. The attendant of the princess is summoned, and she declares that her royal charge is in such a sweet sleep that she cannot venture to disturb her. “We are come on business of state to the Queen,” says the Lord High Chamberlain, “and even her sleep must give way to that.”

A few minutes later the door opens again, and a young girl of eighteen, fresh as a newly-opened rosebud, enters the room. She has not waited to dress. Her hair falls loose upon her shoulders; she has hurriedly thrown a shawl round herself, and thrust her feet into slippers. There are tears in her eyes as she learns that her uncle the king is dead and that she is queen!

At once she turns to the archbishop, and with simple, unaffected piety says, “Pray for me!” All kneel together, and the venerable prelate supplicates the Most High, who ruleth over the kingdoms of men, to give the young sovereign an understanding heart to judge so great a people.

Thus Victoria, before she is out of her teens, takes up the arduous and exacting duties of her high office. Read the letters which she wrote in those early days to her relatives and statesmen, and you will marvel at the clear judgment, the strong will, and the sound common sense of the girl-queen. Her reign opens in times of national distress and political unrest, and below a certain social level there is no sentiment of loyalty to the Crown. But all this will suffer a wondrous change in the years that are to come. Prosperity hitherto undreamed of will bless the land, and year by year freedom will slowly broaden down from precedent to precedent; and through all the changes and chances of national life Victoria will play her part with a courage, steadfastness, and rectitude that will evoke universal approbation and passionate loyalty. The time will come when she will be the idol of her people, and the richest jewel in her crown will be a nation’s love.

“And ever when mid-June’s musk roses blowOur race will celebrate Victoria’s name,And even England’s greatness gain a glowFrom her pure fame!”

“And ever when mid-June’s musk roses blow

Our race will celebrate Victoria’s name,

And even England’s greatness gain a glow

From her pure fame!”

You are in London on the twenty-second day of June in the year 1897, and again it is in festal array. The whole nation is making holiday to rejoice in the completion of sixty years of peace and prosperity under the beneficent sway of a dearly-loved queen. Ten years ago great public thanksgivings signalized her jubilee; now that she has occupied the throne longer than any of her predecessors, and has reigned for more years than any other monarch known to history, the nation’s delight and gratitude know no bounds.

You are standing in a favoured position gazing on the front of St. Paul’s Cathedral. Afar off you hear the dull roar of cheering. The queen is making her progress through the capital of her vast Empire. She rides in state to-day amidst evidences of almost filial loyalty, and her eyes are wet with tears of love and gratitude as she perceives how dear she is to the hearts of her people. On the steps of the cathedral are the City Fathers, the Colonial Premiers, and a white-robed throng of bishops, priests, and choristers, the aged Archbishop of Canterbury at their head. The noise of cheering grows louder and louder, a troop of Household Cavalry clatters by, and you hear the loud cry, “The Queen! The Queen!” Every head is bared as the state carriage with its eight horses appears; the huzzas that go up from thousands of throats almost deafen you.

And now the carriage halts, and the old archbishop offers simple and fervent thanks to Almighty God for the signal mercies vouchsafed through such long years to Victoria and her people. Then, as a climax, the whole concourse bursts into the strains of “God save the Queen.” Never has the National Anthem been so heartily sung, never before has it been so little of a demonstration and so much of a prayer. There is no lip-service here: Victoria’s throne is in the hearts of her people; she is theirs, and they are hers.

Look at this little, old lady, whom all men, from duke to crossing-sweeper, are to-day hailing as their pride and joy. Look at her, and strive to realize the splendour of the great office which she has filled so long and so worthily. She is the sovereign lady of a dominion so wide in extent and so rich in resources that nothing like it has ever been seen before in the history of the world. Glance at the colonial procession which is even now wending its way through the streets, and you will marvel at the world-wide character of her sway. Here you see men of British race, dwellers in the most distant parts of the earth, all come from afar to grace their queen’s pageant, and all bearing themselves proudly in the eyes of their kinsfolk “at home.” Here, too, you see numerous foreign subjects of the queen, men of almost every variety of colour, creed, and language, equally proud to do her honour, equally ready to praise her beneficent sway.

It is almost impossible for the aged monarch on this red-letter day of her life not to reflect on the wonderful changes which have transformed the world since that June morning sixty years ago when they waked her out of sleep and told her that she was queen. The vast Empire, for example, which has been so vividly brought before the minds of the British people to-day is very largely the creation of her reign. In extent it has nearly doubled itself since she came to the throne, and now covers almost one-fifth of the globe. In 1837 the colonial population was under 4,000,000. Now, excluding India, more than 18,000,000 of colonists are subject to her. India under her sway has doubled its native population, and to-day one-fifth of all the people on earth acknowledge her as their sovereign.

The railways which have brought tens of thousands of visitors rapidly and cheaply to town were only in their infancy when she rode through London to her coronation, the steamships which have carried her brave colonials across countless leagues of sea were unknown. The electric telegraph, which is even now flashing the news of her pageant through thousands of miles of wire and cable to every part of the civilized world, was then but a toy. The penny post, which to-night will convey tens of thousands of letters to every town in the land and to most parts of her wide Empire, did not exist. There were no omnibuses, no tramcars, no district railways, no “twopenny tubes,” no motor cars. To-night London will blaze with electric lights. What a contrast to the flickering oil lamps of her childhood!

And what a vast improvement has taken place in the condition of her people! She reflects that there is still plenty of poverty and misery in her land, but not a tithe of that which existed when she came to the throne. Wages are far better, food is far cheaper, housing has greatly improved, and men are kings to what they were. The barbarous old criminal laws have been abolished; work-people are no longer the helots of their masters; education is universal, and as free as air and sunlight; and every householder has a voice in the government of his country. She casts her mind back over sixty years, and rejoices that all things have worked together for this great good, and that the result is a proud, self-respecting, orderly, and deeply-patriotic people.

Truly in retrospect her reign appears one long, triumphal march; yet there have been reverses, checks, and disasters in plenty, though shame never. War has been waged in almost every quarter of the globe, and plentiful laurels have been won. Her thoughts revert for a moment to the great struggle in the Crimea, which took place forty-three years ago, and to the splendid British courage and endurance there displayed. “Alma,” “Balaclava,” “Inkerman,” “Sevastopol”—what heroic memories these names recall to her! And then she remembers the terrible period of anxiety which followed, when the Sepoys rose, and India almost fell from our grasp. “Delhi,” “Lucknow,” “Cawnpore”—what anguish and heroism these names import! As for the rest of her wars, she rejoices to know that they have been, for the most part, punitive expeditions against savage neighbours and revolting tribesmen. How fervently she prays that peace at home and abroad may ever be the lot of her people!

The great day draws to a brilliant close, and from end to end of the Empire runs her gracious message of gratitude:—

“From my heart I thank my beloved people. May God bless them!”

Saving the Colours: An Incident of the Battle of Inkermann.(From the picture by Robert Gibb, R.S.A. By permission of Mr. Bruce-Low.)

In the neighbourhood of the Sandbag Battery the British Guards were surrounded by a strong Russian force, through which they cut their way, with the colours carried high as a rallying point. The moment selected for representation is that when the Guards are first entering their own lines.

Queen Victoria at St. Paul’s.(An Incident of the Diamond Jubilee. From a photograph.)

Jessie’s Dream.(From the picture by F. Goodall, R.A., in the Mappin Art Gallery. By permission of the Corporation of Sheffield.)

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