 | Wolfert's roost |  |
THE FIELD OF WATERLOO.
I have spoken heretofore with some levity of the contrast
that exists between the English and French character; but it
deserves more serious consideration. They are the two great
nations of modern times most diametrically opposed, and most
worthy of each other's rivalry; essentially distinct in their characters,
excelling in opposite qualities, and reflecting lustre on
each other by their very opposition. In nothing is this contrast
more strikingly evinced than in their military conduct. For
ages have they been contending, and for ages have they crowded
each other's history with acts of splendid heroism. Take the
Battle of Waterloo, for instance, the last and most memorable
trial of their rival prowess. Nothing could surpass the brilliant
daring on the one side, and the steadfast enduring on the other.
English infantry. They were seen galloping round those serried
walls of men, seeking in vain for an entrance; tossing their arms
in the air, in the heat of their enthusiasm, and braving the whole
front of battle. The British troops, on the other hand, forbidden
to move or fire, stood firm and enduring. Their columns
were ripped up by cannonry; whole rows were swept down at a
shot: the survivors closed their ranks, and stood firm. In this
way many columns stood through the pelting of the iron tempest
without firing a shot; without any action to stir their blood, or
excite their spirits. Death thinned their ranks, but could not
shake their souls.
A beautiful instance of the quick and generous impulses to
which the French are prone, is given in the case of a French
cavalier, in the hottest of the action, charging furiously upon a
British officer, but perceiving in the moment of assault that his
adversary had lost his sword-arm, dropping the point of his sabre,
and courteously riding on. Peace be with that generous
warrior, whatever were his fate! If he went down in the storm
of battle, with the foundering fortunes of his chieftain, may the
turf of Waterloo grow green above his grave!—and happier far
would be the fate of such a spirit, to sink amidst the tempest,
unconscious of defeat, than to survive, and mourn over the
blighted laurels of his country.
In this way the two armies fought through a long and bloody
day. The French with enthusiastic valor, the English with cool,
inflexible courage, until Fate, as if to leave the question of superiority
still undecided between two such adversaries, brought up
the Prussians to decide the fortunes of the field.
It was several years afterward, that I visited the field of
Waterloo. The ploughshare had been busy with its oblivious
labors, and the frequent harvest had nearly obliterated the vestiges
of war. Still the blackened ruins of Hoguemont stood, a
monumental pile, to mark the violence of this vehement struggle.
Its broken walls, pierced by bullets, and shattered by explosions,
showed the deadly strife that had taken place within;
when Gaul and Briton, hemmed in between narrow walls, hand
to hand and foot to foot, fought from garden to court-yard, from
court-yard to chamber, with intense and concentrated rivalship.
Columns of smoke towered from this vortex of battle as from a
volcano: “it was,” said my guide, “like a little hell upon earth.”
Not far off, two or three broad spots of rank, unwholesome green
still marked the places where these rival warriors, after their
fierce and fitful struggle, slept quietly together in the lap of their
common mother earth. Over all the rest of the field, peace had
resumed its sway. The thoughtless whistle of the peasant
floated on the air, instead of the trumpet's clangor; the team
slowly labored up the hill-side, once shaken by the hoofs of rushing
squadrons; and wide fields of corn waved peacefully over the
soldiers' grave, as summer seas dimple over the place where
the tall ship lies buried.
To the foregoing desultory notes on the French military
character, let me append a few traits which I picked up verbally
in one of the French provinces. They may have already appeared
in print, but I have never met with them.
At the breaking out of the revolution, when so many of the
old families emigrated, a descendant of the great Turenne, by
the name of De Latour D'Auvergne, refused to accompany his
relations, and entered into the republican army. He served in
all the campaigns of the revolution, distinguished himself by his
valor, his accomplishments, and his generous spirit, and might
have risen to fortune and to the highest honors. He refused,
however, all rank in the army, above that of captain, and would
receive no recompense for his achievements but a sword of honor.
Napoleon, in testimony of his merits, gave him the title of Premier
Grenadier de France (First Grenadier of France), which
was the only title he would ever bear. He was killed in Germany,
at the battle of Neuburg. To honor his memory, his
place was always retained in his regiment, as if he still occupied
it; and whenever the regiment was mustered, and the name of
De Latour D'Auvergne was called out, the reply was: “Dead
on the field of honor!”
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