On the continent, the conscriptive system then in operation was virtually the same, although under different provisions and modifications. The greater European powers could always bring a force to the field numerically imposing—but that all-important requisite to carry out war—namely, the métallique, was wanting. Men without money are mere automatons—they have no motive capability,—and before a continental brigade could make an opening march, England had to furnish them with what is figuratively, but correctly called—“the sinews.”

Did France escape the iron pressure of the times that all besides upon the continent felt so sensibly? Her trade had been for years annihilated—and, unscrupulous as the means resorted to were by which her empty coffers might be filled, the end now could not be realized. Plunder, territorial or fiscal—the annexation of a state, or the imposition of a forced loan—all these from a too frequent repetition, had failed at last. Her neighbours, who formerly had been her El Dorado, were neither in temper nor situation to be longer made available to meet her necessities. Schoolmen say “ex nihilo nihil fit,”—Napoleon found the truth of that admitted adage,—and “beautiful France” was required to look to her fair self for her resources.

But however, and by what means, money might have been procured, to meet exigencies which towards the end of the war daily became more stringent, a more fearful difficulty occurred, because it was not remediable—not only the wealth, but the physique of the country was exhausted—and the eternal drains made upon the French population shewed the natural consequences which all must have foreseen. Thousands after thousands of her best and bravest had crossed the frontier never to return—and anticipated conscriptions produced in a levy of raw youth but indifferent food for powder. When addressing the council of state on his return from his disastrous campaign in Germany, this fatal truth escaped,—and on this occasion Napoleon, descending from his former affectation of Roman dignity, betrayed the exhaustion of the country. His language was common-place and passionate, and his disjointed harangue hurried from his dangers to his designs. “Wellington,” said he, “is in the south—the Russians threaten the northern frontier—Austria the south-eastern,—yet, shame to speak it, the nation has not risen in mass to repel them! Every ally has abandoned me: the Bavarians have betrayed me!—Peace? no peace till Munich is in flames! I demand of you 300,000 men; I will form a camp at Bordeaux of 100,000, another at Lyons, a third at Metz: with the remnant of my former levies, I shall have 1,000,000 of men in arms. But it is men whom I demand,—full-grown men; not these miserable striplings who choke my hospitals with sick, and my highways with carcases. Give up Holland? rather let it sink into the sea! Peace, it seems, is talked of when all around ought to re-echo with the cry of war!”

No wonder, therefore, when after his most singular and successful evasion from Elba, that all save those nameless men, on whom war bestows an evanescent consequence, sincerely desired the state of tranquillity which followed so quick upon the hundred days’ émeute. Europe, as Napoleon used to say, when “peace was on his lips and deadly intents raging in his bosom”—required repose. All felt the necessity and admitted it—and for more than a quarter of a century, the external relations of the continental powers have since continued amicable.

There were times, however, when this peaceful state of things was threatened with interruption—but happily the temperate policy of the prudent countervailed the rashness of those desperate men, who, in a settled order of things, have no position in society. Occasionally, the thunder grumbled—but the gathering clouds dispersed again. A revolution was effected—and not a bloodless one—and yet the rest of Europe looked calmly on. As at Algiers, Navarino, and elsewhere, the great powers found it necessary sometimes to put forth their strength—but generally, these operations were in connection. France has carried on a petty and inglorious contest in Polynesia, and a more unprofitable one in Africa;—and Russia, with neither credit nor success, made vain attempts upon the Circassian mountaineers—England the while looked calmly on; her attitude was dignified—the lion couched—but woe betide any who provoked his spring! The absurd and unjust demands of her transatlantic neighbours—“a little more than kin, and less than kind”—were temperately but emphatically negatived. The idle threats of a feeble power—feeble from conflicting interests, and inert from its overgrowth, were heard with full contempt—Yankee orators thundered her delenda—but England smiled, and merely asked them to pay their debts—for she well knew that, like stubble fired, a demagogue’s fury blazes, scintillates, and becomes smoke.

And did Britain thus remain unmoved in the abundant conviction of her own security?—No—she despised impotent threatenings, as strongly as she repudiated impudent demands. She knew that to America, war would produce annihilation. The thunderbolt was lying at her foot—and the hand was ready to launch it. The first angry shot discharged would have covered the ocean with her fleets—and in a few brief months, nothing under stars and stripes would have been seen upon the Atlantic—a ruined trade and servile war must have resulted—and the States would have been as a consequence partitioned.

A radical’s course of action, in or out of Parliament, is the same. His business is not to see what is right, but if possible to discover what is wrong—and if he can’t find it, he must fancy it. No one can deny that the Admiralty—Whig and Tory, without distinction, are blundering eternally—but as the resources of England seem illimitable, failures are rendered nugatory—and errors, when remediable, heedless of the expense uselessly occasioned, are corrected. Every candid and unprejudiced officer will admit that Britain had never a navy before, to be compared with that which she now possesses—and on careful examination, it will be found that her military establishment is still more perfect.

Never did a great power spring from military insignificance to acknowledged superiority, so rapidly as Great Britain. In 1805, she was a by-word among nations—in 1815, her martial character was first in European estimation, although ten brief years before it had held the lowest place.[324] Like ore unsought for, talent, as gold when in the mine, often continues for centuries in abeyance, until circumstances evoke it. As in individuals, so also national capabilities may be accidentally developed—and what England was ignorant of possessing, the Peninsula was first fated to disclose.

* * * * *

To a far more limited extent than that which had been felt in France—England found that the deteriorating effects of twenty years’ war were making themselves apparent upon her own population. The necessity of dragging beardless boys from home to fill her hospitals did not exist—but an immense bounty, and a lowered standard in recruiting, proved that the Moloch of the battle-field made demands which with difficulty could be answered.[325] In her militia she had an admirable reserve to fall back upon—their élite volunteered freely for the line—and hence, the strength of regiments in the field was maintained by constant drafts of disciplined soldiers. As the war progressed, the efficiency of the Peninsular divisions as steadily advanced—until Wellington might say, as he did, with truth, that the army with which he crossed the Pyrenees was “the most perfect machine that ever had been constructed, and one with which he could do any thing and go anywhere.”—Glorious be the memory of these matchless soldiers!