arrive at Ghent, just after I had gone to bed. It had been more than
twenty-four hours on its way, travelling at the rate of about a mile an
hour; and much did I wish that it had been longer, for neither peace
nor repose was now to be had. Bonfires were lighted, guns fired, squibs
and crackers let off in the streets, rockets sent up to the clouds,
and both heaven and earth disturbed by the uproar. Not satisfied with
this, they took it into their heads to keep up a firing with muskets
under my windows; and the inhabitants and the English soldiers, royally
drunk and loyally noisy, vied with each other in singing or rather
roaring out the most discordant strains; and "God save the King," in
English, and a variety of Belgic songs in low Dutch, were sung all at
once, with the most patriotic perseverance, in the streets. By the time
these outrageously loyal people found their way to bed, it was nearly
time for me to get up, which I did at five o'clock, in order to see a
very fine cabinet of paintings. The old Flemish gentleman to whom they
belonged, not satisfied with giving me permission to see them, had the
politeness to rise at that unseasonable hour, in order that he might
be ready to receive me, and to show them to me himself. What English
gentleman would have got out of his bed before six o'clock in order
to show his collection of paintings to a foreigner, a person of no
distinction, of whom he knew nothing, who had no introduction to him,
whom he had never seen before, and would most probably never see again?
Next day at nine o'clock we embarked from Ostend for England in a
large packet crowded with passengers. We set sail with a favouring
gale, but the winds and the waves maintained their usual capricious
and inconstant character, and after a succession of calms, contrary
winds, and opposing tides, we found ourselves, late on the evening of
the second day, at anchor within sight of the harbour of Margate, but
without a hope of reaching it till the following morning. In order to
escape spending another night on board, we embraced the expedient of
committing ourselves to a little boat, in which it seemed invariably to
be our fate to end all our voyages.
We were rowed ashore, and landed in the dark, at past eleven o'clock
at night, upon the slippery and weed-covered rocks of Margate, exactly
six weeks after we had landed in the same manner, at the same hour, and
the same day of the week, on the deep and deserted sands of Ostend.
In that six weeks what a change had taken place! When I left England,
Buonaparte was the terror of the world--Europe was arming against
him, and his threatening hosts were ready to overwhelm it again with
ruin. When I returned, these tremendous armies were defeated and
scattered--the victorious troops of England were in the capital of
France; and Buonaparte himself, fallen from the highest imperial throne
of the universe to the lowest abyss of fortune, was a prisoner on board
a British ship of war, and a suppliant to the mercy of my country!
Events so extraordinary and improbable, and changes so sudden and so
wonderful, seemed to outrun the rapidity of imagination itself, and
to exceed the limits of possibility. The past seemed like a dream.
Scarcely, on retrospection, could we believe it to be real, or be
convinced that the scenes we had witnessed, since our departure from
England, had not been the illusions of fancy, or the "baseless fabric
of a vision." They bore more resemblance to the shifting and imaginary
scenes represented on the stage, than to events which had actually
happened on the great theatre of the world. It had indeed been a great
and a bloody tragedy, and it had been our lot to witness it from the
first to the last scene. It began at our entrance, it finished at our
departure from Brussels. The news of Buonaparte having attacked the
Prussians reached Brussels at the very moment of our arrival--the news
of his surrender to the British was received the night before we left
it.
In that six weeks the work of an age had been accomplished; an usurper
had been dethroned; a monarch had been restored; a kingdom had been
lost and won; a war had begun and ended; peace had revisited the world;
and justice--strict, impartial justice--had descended upon the head of
the guilty. And all this was the work of England!
Yet it has been asked--and I have often heard the question slightingly
repeated by my own countrymen--"And what, after all, has England gained
for years of war and bloodshed but glory?" I might answer that she has
gained security, peace, and prosperity for the world, and for herself,
besides, the highest place among nations: but granting that she had
only gained glory--what, I ask in return, could she gain that is
equivalent to it? What is there on earth to be compared to it?
"Is aught on earth so precious and so dear
As Fame or Honour? or is aught so bright
And beautiful as Glory's beams appear,
Whose goodly light than Phoebus' lamp doth shine more clear?"
_Faerie Queen._
Glory is the highest, the most lasting good. Without it, extent of
empire, political greatness, and national prosperity, are but a name;
without it, they can have no security, and can command no respect;
without it all other possessions are worthless and despicable--unstable
and transitory. Fortune may change; arts may perish; commerce may
decay; and wealth and power, and dominion and greatness may pass
away--but glory is immortal and indestructible, and will last when
empires and dynasties are no more.
What gives nations honour and renown in future times but the glory
they have acquired? What exalted Greece and Rome to their proud
pre-eminence among the nations, and transmitted the lustre of their
name to the remotest time? Why does the traveller still traverse
distant countries, to explore with hallowed respect their mouldering
temples, and linger with silent awe amidst the ruins of the Parthenon,
or on the site of the Capitol? Why does generation after generation
contemplate with veneration the plains of Marathon, and the heights of
Leuctra? Why do they still retrace with enthusiasm the deeds of their
departed heroes, and the long catalogue of their ancient glories?--It
is to these ancient glories that they owe their present interest and
importance. The nations of the East were possessed of unbounded wealth,
magnificence, and power--and were long the seats of commerce, of the
arts of life, and of learning, when the western world was immersed in
ignorance and barbarism.--Yet their antiquities are unexplored--their
history neglected--their very existence almost forgotten; for they have
left no proud remembrance, no ray of glory, to immortalise their name.
If it had been extent of empire, or superiority of wealth, that gave
nations lasting greatness, Persia would have enjoyed that veneration
which is now paid to Athens. If it had been conferred by antiquity, or
by being the birth-place of the arts and sciences, Egypt would have
stood upon that pedestal of fame which Rome now fills.
Yes! England has nobly fought, triumphantly conquered and well has she
been rewarded! She has gained that unalienable, imperishable prize,
which neither time nor fortune, nor fate--nor any earthly power can
ever wrest from her. She has won the immortal meed! Generations yet
unborn shall pride themselves on being the descendants of those who
fought and conquered in the righteous cause of Justice, Honour, and
Independence, on the plains of Spain, and on the glorious field of
Waterloo; and feel the throb of generous enthusiasm and of virtuous
patriotism, when they retrace the bright history of their country's
achievements.
With these sentiments deeply impressed upon my mind; with the proud
consciousness, that highly as the fame of England had stood in all
ages, she had now attained an unparalleled height of greatness and
glory; that the ancient triumphs of Cressy, Poictiers, and Agincourt,
in one age, of Ramillies, Malplaquet, and Blenheim, in another, had
been surpassed in those of Salamanca, Vittoria, and Waterloo, in our
own; that her name would descend to the latest times as unrivalled
in arms, invincible by land and by sea, and pre-eminent, not only in
valour, but in faith and honour--in justice, mercy, and magnanimity,
and in public virtue--I returned to my country after all the varying
and eventful scenes through which it had been my lot to pass, more
proud than when I left it of the name of
AN ENGLISHWOMAN.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 5: The Emperor Charles V., in disparagement of the capital
City of his rival, used to delight in saying, "Je peux mettre tout
Paris dans _mon Gand_." Ghent, on the Continent, is always spelt and
pronounced Gand, the same as _gant_, glove.]
[Footnote 6: I write it not grammatically, but as they pronounced it,
with a strong emphasis on the last letter.]
[Footnote 7: It was not expected at that time that Belgium would be the
theatre of war, but that the Allies would advance into France.]
[Footnote 8: Afterwards, on our return to Brussels, I observed an
inscription on one of these fountains, purporting, that the Czar, Peter
the Great, having drunk too freely of wine, fell into its waters. The
day and year are mentioned. It was, I think, about a century ago.]
[Footnote 9: [The 32nd and 44th should be added.--ED.]]
[Footnote 10: Consisting of the 28th, 32nd, 79th, 95th, a battalion of
the 1st, or Royal Scots, the 42nd, 92nd, and the 2nd battalion of the
44th, and a battalion of Hanoverians. It was the first division which
arrived, and, during the principal part of the day, it was the only
part of the British army engaged.]
[Footnote 11: Since writing the above, I have found that the names of
these officers were Lieutenant-General Bourmont and Colonel Clouet.
[_See_ Appendix, A.]]
[Footnote 12: Ney, in his own account of this battle, says, "in spite
of my exertions, in spite of the intrepidity and devotion of my troops,
my utmost exertions could only maintain me in my position till the
close of the day." He then complains grievously of having had _only_
three divisions to fight against the British, and boasts of what he
_would have done_ if he had had five.--_Vide Marshal Ney's Letter._]
[Footnote 13: Subsequently, the news of the defeat and retreat of the
Prussians obliged the Duke of Wellington also to retreat, to keep open
the communications with Blucher.]
[Footnote 14: Not even imagination could form an idea of the dreadful
sufferings that the unfortunate soldiers of the French and Prussian
armies, who were wounded in the battles of the 15th and 16th of June,
were condemned to endure. It was not until nearly a week afterwards
that surgical aid, or assistance of any kind, was given to them. During
all this time they remained exposed to the burning heat of the noonday
sun, the heavy rains, and the chilling dews of midnight, without any
sustenance except what their importunity extorted from the country
people, and without any protection even from the flies that tormented
them. Numbers had expired; the most trifling wounds had festered, and
amputation in almost every instance had become necessary. This, and
every other necessary operation, was hastily and negligently performed
by the Prussian surgeons. The description I heard of this scene of
horror, from some respectable Belgic gentlemen who were spectators of
it on the Wednesday following, is too dreadful to repeat.]
[Footnote 15: This was, I find, only a proof of my ignorance; I
afterwards learnt that wooden palisades add greatly to the strength of
fortifications.]
[Footnote 16: Afterwards Marquis of Anglesey]
[Footnote 17: At one time, as we afterwards learned, the Duke had
scarcely a single aide-de-camp left to dispatch with orders. All around
him fell dead, or wounded. His preservation was miraculous. As he
himself reverentially declared after the battle, "The finger of God was
upon me."]
[Footnote 18: No doubt the gallantry of every British regiment was
equally praiseworthy, but few had such opportunities of displaying it.
And we naturally enough heard of the exploits of the brave Highland
regiments which had nearly been cut to pieces, and the remains of
which, all wounded, had reached Antwerp.]
[Footnote 19: [_See_ Appendix, B.]]
[Footnote 20: The road from Brussels to the field of battle was not
for some time considered safe, on account of the number of deserters
who had taken shelter in the woods, and issued forth, sometimes alone,
and sometimes in a gang, to rob passengers and plunder the defenceless
cottages and farm-houses of the surrounding country. Neither property
nor life certainly could be considered safe at the mercy of these armed
desperadoes; but I never heard of any well-authenticated murder that
they committed: and from all the inquiries I made, I believe that most
of the horrible stories we heard of their enormities were entirely
devoid of truth; and that the mischief, even in the way of plunder,
they did, was very much exaggerated. Even at the time we went to the
field, great apprehensions were entertained by many people of these
lawless deserters. Large parties of these were brought in two or three
times a week, during our stay in Brussels. They consisted of Belgic,
Nassau, and Brunswick soldiers. There was some difficulty in procuring
proper places of confinement for them. They were generally sent to
the neighbouring Maisons de Force; what eventually was to be their
punishment, or what has been their fate, I have never been able to
learn.]
[Footnote 21: It is remarkable that every village in this part of the
country has a French name, except Waterloo, which is pronounced by the
natives--according to the fashion of the London Cockneys--_Vaterloo_;
the letter W being the exclusive property of the British people--with
the exception of the aforesaid Cockneys, who resign all claim to it.]
[Footnote 22: Cæsar's celebrated _bulletin_, "Veni, vidi, vici," was
more concise, but not quite so unassuming.]
[Footnote 23: La Haye Sainte (the holy hedge). It gives its name to the
farm-house of La Haye Sainte. I could not hear from any of the country
people why it was distinguished by the epithet "Sainte." They did not
seem to have any tradition respecting it.]
[Footnote 24: An order had been issued not to fire at the enemy's
field-pieces, but at the troops. However, during the latter part of
the action, a young officer of artillery, out of patience with the
destruction caused among his men, and particularly with the loss of
Captain Bolton, his friend and brother officer, from the fire of some
guns opposite, levelled his cannon at them, and had the satisfaction
to see the French artillerymen, and officers who commanded them, fall
in their turn. At that moment he was accosted suddenly by the Duke
of Wellington, whom he had no idea was near--"What are you firing at
there?" The artillery officer confessed what he was about. "Keep a
good look out to your left," said the Duke, "you will see a large body
of the enemy advancing just now--fire at them." They soon perceived
a tremendous number of the Imperial Guards, the _élite_ of the army,
advancing with great order and steadiness to attack the British. The
moment they appeared in view, the officer to whom the Duke had spoken,
directed against them such a tremendous and effective fire, that they
were mowed down by ranks. This gallant young officer had volunteered
his services, and was one of the brigade attached to the second
division of our army.]
[Footnote 25: It is, however, a remarkable fact, and does additional
honour to the resolute, invincible constancy of British soldiers, that
nearly all the officers, and the whole of the privates of the British
army, were ignorant that there was any expectation of the arrival of
the Prussians. Indeed, many of them never knew till after the battle
was over that they had joined.]
[Footnote 26: In this part of Belgium, the wheat had this year grown to
full five feet in height, and rye upwards of six feet: great quantities
of the latter are grown, for it answers to the liberal definition of
oats by Dr. Johnson, and is the food of men in England, and of horses
in Flanders; nay, it is actually baked into bread for their use, and
regularly given them at the inns where they stop to bait. Several
soldiers of the Highland regiments who had got into a field of this
gigantic rye on the 16th, were shot without even being able to see
their enemy.]
[Footnote 27: Buonaparte slept at the farm of Caillon, near
Planchenoit.]
[Footnote 28: These memorable beech-trees, pierced through and through
with balls, have been since all cut down by the owner of Château
Hougoumont!!!]
[Footnote 29: In other pits the corpses of the French had also been
burned. About eight thousand of the French army fell in the attack of
Hougoumont.]
[Footnote 30: That Buonaparte pretended to believe those troops to be
French, although he must have known the contrary, is unquestionably
true. Marshal Ney, in his account of the battle, states that he
received a message from the emperor, brought by General Labedoyère, to
inform him "that the French corps under Marshal Grouchy had arrived
in the field, and attacked the left wing of the British and Prussians
united. General Labedoyère rode along the lines, spreading this
intelligence through the whole army."--Vide _Marshal Ney's Letter_.
[_See_ Appendix, C.]]
[Footnote 31: This statement too is confirmed by Marshal Ney, who
said, "that Buonaparte had entirely disappeared before the end of the
battle." Let it be remembered that Ney's letter was written exactly a
week after the battle, while Napoleon was still emperor, and still in
Paris, and, if his statement was not true, a thousand witnesses could
have contradicted it.]
[Footnote 32: The Duke himself reverentially said afterwards, "The
finger of God was upon me."]
[Footnote 33: It was near seven o'clock when this circumstance
happened. The Prussians had not appeared. The regiments which he led to
the charge were the 71st, the 52nd, and the 95th. He also repeatedly
rallied the Belgic regiments, and sometimes vainly exerted himself to
make them face the enemy.]
[Footnote 34: [_See_ Appendix, D.]]
[Footnote 35: It was with a heart saddened by feelings which did him
honour, that the Duke of Wellington returned from the battle. The
letters which he wrote to the relations of the distinguished officers
who had fallen, prove how truly he felt what he sorrowfully said, that
"there is nothing more melancholy than a victory--except a defeat." I
cannot resist inserting the following simple and affecting extract from
one of his letters, written on the morning after the battle. "I cannot
express to you," he writes, "the regret and sorrow with which I look
around me, and contemplate the losses which I have sustained. They have
quite broken me down. The glory resulting from such actions, so dearly
bought, is no consolation to me."
The extract in the text is taken "From Circumstantial Details Relative
to the Battle of Waterloo," which was written by the author to explain
"A Panoramic Sketch of the Field of Battle," by her sister, both of
which were published by J. Booth, London, in August, 1815, for the
benefit of the Waterloo Fund.]
[Footnote 36: It is on the left of the road in going towards Waterloo,
behind the farm-house of La Haye Sainte. But this tree, which ought to
have been for ever sacred, has been CUT DOWN!!!]
[Footnote 37: Some soldiers' wives were, however, actuated by better
motives, and, like the matrons of Hensberg, in times of old, seemed
to think their best treasures were their husbands. Many of them
rushed forward and carried their wounded husbands off the field at
the hazard of their own lives. The wife of a sergeant in the 28th was
severely wounded in two places by a shell, which struck her as she
was carrying off her wounded husband. This anecdote was related to me
by an eye-witness of the circumstance. The woman (respecting whom I
inquired since my return to England) has, I understand, been allowed
a pension from Chelsea Hospital. I heard of several similar instances
of heroic conjugal affection; and I myself saw one poor woman, the
wife of a private in the 27th, whose leg was dreadfully fractured by
a musket-ball in rescuing her husband. When struck by the ball she
fell to the ground with her husband, who was supposed to be mortally
wounded, but she still refused to leave him, and they were removed
together to the rear, and afterwards sent to Antwerp. The poor man
survived the amputation of both his arms, and is still alive. The
woman, who was then in a state of pregnancy, has, since her return to
this country, given birth to a child, to which the Duke of York stood
godfather.]
A TRIBUTE
TO THE
MEMORY OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.
WRITTEN THE DAY AFTER HIS FUNERAL.
19th November, 1852.
The great Arthur, Duke of Wellington, whose latest achievements in
war form the subject of the preceding pages, is no more. Long, long
will the nation mourn the greatest, the most irreparable loss it ever
sustained. The last sad and solemn scene has passed away. That great
and wondrous man, who was its stay, its pride and glory, has been borne
to his honoured tomb, amidst those splendid obsequies and funeral pomps
with which his grateful country vainly sought to evince her unbounded
admiration, her devoted love, and her profound veneration, for him who
was her deliverer and preserver; to whom she owed her unprecedented
triumphs in war--her prolonged blessings in peace.
"His funeral pall has been borne by nations--not by the nations he
enslaved, but the nations he liberated;--the truncheons of eight
armies have dropped from his grasp, and they were borne in the funeral
procession by the companions and allies of his arms and victories."[38]
But, nobler far, he was followed to the grave by the blessings and the
tears of millions; and he, alone, amidst all the great generals and
conquerors of the earth, merits the proud eulogium, that he was at once
a true patriot and a benefactor to his species.
Eloquence has vainly exhausted itself in enumerating his merits and
services; but words are powerless to speak his praises. They are
felt in the hearts of the people of England. Never did a chieftain,
a conqueror, a hero, descend to the tomb so universally honoured and
lamented. All ranks, all ages, all parties, unite in one unanimous
sense of sorrow and bereavement. Every man seems to feel that he,
personally, has lost a benefactor, a protector--almost a parent. And as
the light of the sun is not missed until it is withdrawn, so even his
value was not perhaps fully felt until he was lost.
But he is gone! "Quenched is that light which was the leading star to
guide every Briton on the path of duty and honour."[39] His name is
surrounded by a pure halo of glory--not that ordinary vulgar glory
which is the meed of the mere conqueror. No! the "hero of a hundred
fights," who never knew defeat, sought not, valued not such glory;
nay, more, he despised it; he never even named "its very name."[40]
His watchword was Duty, and the path of duty, honour, and patriotism,
he trod. What a striking contrast did his career present to that of
Napoleon, who sought that vain, false glory, through fields of fire
and carnage, crushing the nations beneath his iron yoke, to aggrandise
his selfish ambition, and reign the despot of a devastated world! How
striking is the fact, that at the very time when, by the mysterious
decree of Providence, a Buonaparte was sent to desolate and enslave
the world, a Wellesley was given to save and deliver it!--the one, the
Destroyer; the other, the Preserver. They seemed like the Incarnate
Principles of Evil and of Good; but the Good triumphed: the conqueror
and deliverer of distracted and bleeding Europe became its Pacificator;
and through long years of peace and prosperity the nations which he
saved from tyranny and ruin, have had reason to bless the name of
Wellington.
Will it yet be permitted to one British heart--simply "An
Englishwoman," who witnessed the most eventful scenes of his glorious
campaigns, and proudly watched from first to last his high unblemished
career--to offer, with the deepest veneration, a humble tribute of high
and holy admiration upon the tomb of that hero whom, through life, her
heart has worshipped.