which an inquirer might find the solid claims on which these honours rested. But if we examine the Peninsular war as a whole, and endeavour to arrive at the master mind of its success, -if we strive for one idea that may be the key to its unparalleled glory, we shall find our mature admiration chiefly fixed on the year 1810. This year was not celebrated by any of the more distinguished victories; it is somewhat barren of brilliant achievements, such as figure in the imagination of youthful warriors; we are not kept alive by any large proportion of impetuous cavalry charges, by the thunderings of artillery, or oceans of blood and spoil. Wellington does not figure therein as wildly exciting his troops to finish all by one bold stroke of physical courage; but we see him marking out the design of a war with artistic skill; we see the real mental labour which converts a great general, from the Homeric type of a mere animal fighter, into the student, into the hard-working moral philosopher, the acute politician, the severe economist, the practical man of science. The common idea of success in war is associated with its great and stimulating conclusions, rather than with those days and nights of toil, anxiety, and mental trial, which in military, as well as in civil and political honours, must precede the glorious result.

Few mere literary men, with no other occupation but that of writing, with the quietness of a study at their command, with every appliance to facilitate their labours, have yet actually written so much within the time as Wellington wrote during the Peninsular war. His Despatches place him in the first ranks of literature, and the Chancellorship of Oxford was not unworthily held, even on this ground, without any immediate reference to the practical use of musket and bayonet. Besides, however, this great literary application, which thus made pen and ink the means of expression for his genius, we also notice in him a peculiar tendency to form his military operations by an elaborate intellectual process, rather than by a certain brute instinct, which is sometimes attributed to men like Napoleon.

The Duke was generally seen with a map; his greatest designs were the result of studying maps, for which sources of information he acquired an irresistible craving. This marks his engineering talent, as his despatches mark his literary. Again, his management of the allied forces, and of the political authorities of Spain and Portugal, point to his genius in diplomacy as being no unimportant element of success, while his continued practical estimation of the moral qualities and physical necessities of all, with whom he had to do, place him before us as most distinguished for that kind of moral philosophy which is the basis of common sense. All these qualities are, however, the com

ponent parts of that genius for military affairs, in their extended application, which it is obvious he possessed. But if we were asked for the Duke's idiosyncracy, that peculiarity of disposition which gave shape and point to his genius, which

created his individual self such as our inward consciousness feels him to have been, though we may never have the ability to express in words the sympathetic impression which one soul inwardly makes on another, we should say, that he was preeminently crafty, watchful, and patient. We are not afraid of the first word being taken as if intended to be derogatory, because we feel its truth and appropriateness so strongly, that, as the Duke was a great man, so must the word crafty, even if only to suit him, be used in a dignified sense, not inconsistent with its old and true meaning. He was watchful also, with a peculiar stretch of that idea. He reminds one of the mechanical watchfulness of a metal spring, which in its very nature maintains an unceasing pressure, and cannot possibly fail to close in with, and overbear the resisting weight, on the first symptom of weakness. As long as that power of resistance is of a certain strength, the steel is content to remain without any demonstration of its force, but once let it give way, and an advance is gained which will require tenfold energies to push back. He was also patient, not only as a necessary element of his crafty and watchful character, but as possessing a wonderful ability to resist for any length of time the moral pressure of everybody else in the world, and of every thing that was external to his own self-confidence and self-reliance.

The retreat to Torres Vedras illustrates these qualities in so remarkable a manner, that, as that design was undoubtedly the key of his own success in the Peninsula, so would we claim its great features as peculiarly characteristic of the Duke's whole genius. But who that has watched the Duke's face and manner, even as they have been subjects of daily observation within our own immediate recollection, can fail to associate with him the idea of a certain amusing craftiness? Again, it was part of his very existence in the public mind, to imagine him always watchful, and ready to act with immediate promptness in any emergency that might bring him forth; while his moral patience and power of resisting mere external pressure, such as public opinion, was proverbial. The greatest proof of this may be seen in his constant readiness to concede what was really due to such pressure, in any political crisis. If he had felt conscious that he was driven, he would never have yielded his early prejudices in the way he did on several occasions of his political career. The different parties and feelings which he had to manage, were all external in his own mind to any idea of com

pulsion, as applied to himself, and were simply to be disposed of and taken into consideration, like the parts of an army, with reference to the general object in view. He had a wonderful power of testing the real value of any clamour that was about him. When he saw substance and reality in it, he took it into consideration, but if not, his contempt for it was very near the point of junction between the sublime and the ridiculous.

But let us now illustrate the Duke's character by the selected period of the retreat to Torres Vedras. History, we think, can produce no equal to the moral strength and lofty self-reliance manifested in that campaign; we can imagine no triumphant success of long-conceived strategy, or a greater power of abiding one's time, and waiting the opportunity, than are here brought to light.

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Taking this one year, let us see what his position was at its commencement. In 1809 he had landed on the crags of Portugal with an army of about 30,000 men. The English army enjoyed then no prestige of success as opposed to European forces, for our strength was thought to be concentrated in the navy. Sir Arthur Wellesley was ridiculed by Napoleon as a Sepoy general, and against this taunt he had but little to oppose. He had been to the Netherlands, but it was only to share in the annoyance of an already retreating expedition. In 1808 he had also visited the same coasts on which he now stood, but he had gone home again in disgust at the imbecility and arrogance of those superior to him in command. Meanwhile the calamity of Sir John Moore had thrown a shade on our military prospects, and had naturally left the impression that the French legions were more than a match for us. Indeed, it is not sufficiently known how entirely the whole subsequent character of the English army was established in and by the Peninsular war. There was no confidence in it at home, before that time, and there was no terror inspired by its name when in action abroad. Sir Arthur Wellesley no doubt felt from his experience in India that he had it in him to face an European army, as well as an Asiatic, but he could not impress the world with this conviction, before he had thoroughly proved it. Even victories that now figure on regimental emblazonments were at the time made the instruments of his annoyance. Vimiera was the scene of his gallantry during his first Portuguese expedition, but his disgust at the circumstances connected with it was the immediate cause of his return home.

In 1809, however, he landed with the entire command over himself and his army. He marched against his foe, as if bent on mischief; and at Douro and Talavera he obtained immortal victories. But after thus showing himself, and letting the enemy taste of what the English leopards' were made, he

would seem to have felt an overpowering conviction, that, for the present, he could advance no further. Those victories, therefore, were not followed up by the usual accessories of conquest, but rather, to casual observers, by the consequences of defeat. Into the merits of this campaign we do not however enter, but have only alluded to its history in order to understand the state of the case at the commencement of 1810.

Wellesley was at this time, therefore, retrograding rather than advancing. After the first burst of his success, the many difficulties of his position crowded round him. His long sight and diligent forethought had convinced him that his dangers were too imminent to allow of any hasty measures. Yet, conceive the advantage which this apparent hesitation gave to his calumniators at home, his disaffected allies on the continent, and his enemies at the scene of war. A man of power and courage can, however, do much when he feels that his employers, who have the final control over his actions, are really trusting him and cordially supporting him. But this was not the case in Wellesley's position toward the parliament of England. Lord Liverpool wished and treated him well, but the Opposition was so venomous and powerful, that, venting as they did all their spleen against the conduct of the war, it was uncertain how long the Government would be able to bear up against any apparent want of success. When the want of activity was thus likely to be the precursor of a sudden recal, what temptation was there to risk something, even against the warnings of mature judgment? Sir Arthur, however, had this honour, that as long as he was in command he sincerely did his best, trusting to Providence for his continuance in it. He would not be hurried, even by that universal spur to activity, the danger of personal sacrifice. Most wantonly was he taunted in the English parliament with the uselessness of his proceedings, and though honours were conferred on him by the Crown and a majority of the House, yet still these sweets were mingled with much bitterness from the insults of the Opposition. Douro and Talavera sound to us as but the emblems of military success, but we have referred to the debates of the time, as reported in the newspapers, and think it cannot but interest our readers to know how such victories were actually spoken of by some statesmen at home. From the Times newspaper of January 24th, 1810, we copy the following extracts. Seeing, however, the very paper itself, its small size, and worn appearance, gives a more vivid impression of its being cotemporaneous with the events themselves, than we can convey on new pages to our readers; but nevertheless they are the veritable words used on the 23d of January, 1810.

The royal speech had complimented the victor of Talavera, to which an amendment was proposed.

'House of Lords.—Earl Grey said, when he came down to the house on that day of their humiliation and disgrace, he never was so surprised as at the tone of the speech he had heard. To call for unbounded approbation where the most unqualified censure was due, bespoke a degree of confidence which he could hardly have expected, even from the present ministers. To hear panegyrics on the battle of Talavera, and compliments to Lord Wellington, after the disasters and disgrace that our armies experienced in Spain, was what he never could have conceived. He gave ministers some credit, however, for the chastised and humble tone in which they spoke, contrasted with the lofty language of the speech. It showed they had some compunction for the injuries and disgrace they had brought upon the country. With respect to the campaign in Spain, it was impossible not to speak of it but in terms of condemnation.'

House of Commons.-Lord Gower: The failure of the campaign in 1808 in Spain, seemed to have no other consequence than to induce ministers to risk its repetition. What was the result of this experience (Sir John Moore's)? only to confirm our ministers in their infatuation (hear)! only to induce them to send fresh forces to a country where we had failed before, and to a government with which no previous arrangement had been made. Even the pompous embassy of Lord Wellesley proved abortive,-that embassy which promised so much and performed so little (hear, hear)— returned, after a battle which was followed by a retreat, a victory which was followed by all the calamitous consequences of a defeat.'

The amendment proposed was this:

"The House sees, with sorrow and indignation, expeditions undertaken in which our resources were lost, and our troops sacrificed in enterprises the consequences of which were most injurious, producing no other effect than the exposure of our councils to the derision of our enemies: That now the House demands, as the only atonement to an injured and insulted people, that the most rigorous inquiry into such disgraceful expeditions should be instituted.'

The Hon. Mr. Ward, in a strong condemnation of ministers for the Spanish expeditions, used the following words:

If the generals of former times, the Cadogans, Athlones, and Marlboroughs, had acted upon the same principle as Lord Wellington, France would long since have been mistress of the world, and England must have sunk under the weight of her victories. But they had acted upon far other principles, and the consequence of their victories led to far different results. It was a well-known observation of an historian respecting King William, that though he might suffer a defeat, he always took care that it could not lead to any ruinous consequence. The plan of our modern generals was far different; for though a defeat at Talavera would have been utter destruction, the victory did not advance our object one step further. He was ready to ascribe every credit to the individual valour of the British troops, but he must lament the absence of the art of that great man, who could prevent a retreat from being ruinous, and rendered even victories unavailing. He could not account for the conduct of the government in sending the expedition to Spain, unless upon that mischievous principle of keeping the disposable force of the country in action,-upon the folly, infatuation, and madness of being stirring, and doing something; a conduct which resembled the desperate phrenzy of a losing gamester, rather than the deliberate determination of reason,-the monstrum nullá virtute redemptum.”