Discolour.”
King Henry V.
Many a summer has passed away since the spring of manhood saw me on the Agueda—and the sear of middle age finds me recalling the brief but brilliant reminiscences of that “crowded hour of glorious strife” which followed. Time has sprinkled my hair with “wisdom’s silver”—the blood, which once the slightest impulse hurried from the heart, flows temperately—“wild youth’s past”—and I now look back with painful pleasure to one brief era of a life, for which, could it be lived again, I would cheerfully forego years of calm and spiritless enjoyment.
Is not this an ungrateful declaration of thine, Mr. O’Halloran? With every human blessing that can render existence happy, hast thou not been munificently gifted? Thou hast never known the stringent pressure of necessity—thou hast not felt the withering agony of unrequited love—no false friend has abused thy confidence—no lovely woman “stooped to folly,” and made thee blush for her inconstancy. Hast thou not a home?—the pledge of holy love has lisped upon thy knee—the smiles of beauty which never beamed upon another, have brightened at thy presence. What wouldst thou more? Upon my conscience, Mr. Hector O’Halloran, thou art a most unreasonable Irish gentleman.
I said, that I looked^ back upon this epoch of my life with “painful pleasure.”—Well, that association of opposites he who has passed the meridian of existence can easily understand; for in the story of a life, pain and pleasure are generally found close companions. The pulse quickens when Vittoria, Sanroren, and San Sebastian pass in “shadowy review”—but the heart sickens when I recall the memory of him, at whose side I witnessed the enthusiastic heroism of that noble brigade, to whom he so often pointed out the path to victory. In long and cherished remembrance will that honoured name be held. To a lion’s heart he united a woman’s gentleness—the soldier followed him through love—his rivals admired and praised him. Why did he not die in the blaze of battle, where the noblest soldiers upon earth contended for a doubtful victory?—Why did not his glorious spirit wing its flight “from cumbring clay,” in that wild mountain pass, in which it gained its immortally?—Why, on “red Waterloo” did he not find a lifting grave? Alas! it was otherwise appointed and one of the noblest soldiers whom Britain ever claimed, perished by an ignoble hand. *
The middle of May found the allies, in perfect unity of purpose and admirable efficiency, ready to open the campaign, and orders had been already transmitted to General Murray and the Spanish commanders on the eastern coast, to commence initial operations. Gradually, and in a manner not to occasion alarm in the French cantonments; the allied divisions were concentrated and advanced, and the supporting Spanish corps were put in march to co-operate. Bad weather, heavy rains, and an accident to the pontoon-train, delayed the opening of the campaign. It was but for a few days. On the 16th, Graham threw his infantry and artillery across the Douero: Hill moved forward to Bejar; and on the 22d, Lord Wellington marched with his right wing towards the Tonnes; and the practicability of the noblest conception that ever a great military genius matured, was now to be proven. “A grand design,” and grandly it was executed! For high in heart and strong of hand, Wellington’s veterans marched to the encounter; the glories of twelve victories played about their bayonets; and he, the leader, so proud and confident, that in passing the stream which marks the frontier of Spain, he rose in his stirrups, and waving his hand, cried out—“Farewell, Portugal!” **
* It was said—I know not with what accuracy—that Major-
General Ross was shot by a sneaking scoundrel ambushed in a
tree.
** Napier.
To oppose the fiery movements of the allied general, the enemy should have been combined, and in readiness; but they were equally unprepared and unsuspicious that an advance would be attempted. Napoleon’s orders to concentrate on the Tonnes, had been fatally neglected; and no preparation had yet commenced to evacuate the capital, if such a step should become necessary. Joseph was at issue with his generals; the latter on bad terms with each other; and, strange as it might appear, in a country laid open to unmerciful contributions, subordinate officers were acquiring wealth, while the king was without a guinea, and his major-general (Jourdan) actually subsisting upon credit. Every commander seemed to think and act for himself. Joseph issued orders, but none obeyed them—some general asserted that Lord Wellington would attempt to turn the French right;—others declaring that he would march direct on Madrid. One would have it that the north would be his field of operation,—another maintained that it would be the south, and in concert with Sir John Murray. All were referring to what might be the future, when the initial movements were already made; and Wellington was over the Esla, before, it was known in the enemies’ cantonments that a division had been even put in march!
None, save a military reader, can estimate this wonderful and successful operation. A part of Sir Thomas Graham’s corps traversed a distance of more than two hundred miles, its route running through the Tras as Montes, the wildest district imaginable. Over a rugged surface—hitherto unknown to any save the shepherd or muleteer—forty thousand men, with artillery, and all the equipages of war, were passed and placed in safety on the further banks of a river unopposed—not a French general believing that even a cloud was collected, when the tempest had already burst!
Merely waiting one day at Toro, to unite his left with the Gallician army, and enable the rear of his own divisions to close up, the allied general pushed rapidly for the Carion, his own troops beautifully in hand, and either flank protected by Spanish regulars and partidas. Too late, Joseph Buonaparte felt the danger of his position;—when the danger was discovered, it was irremediable; for with the certain stride of victory Wellington marched forward. The Pisuerga and the Arlanzan were passed, to use the language of an historian, “easily as if they contained no water”—and Burgos, that once had foiled his efforts, perished by the same hands which formerly had held it so successfully.