agent in extending the most tremendous system of conquest of which the world has afforded an example since the destruction of the Roman Empire, when he was recalled to assist in restoring effete dynasties, propping ancient thrones, reviving abuses grown hoary with age, and resisting a system of conquest, which although right enough in India, was thought not to be exactly the thing in Europe. There may appear to be some incongruity between the nature of his employment in India, and the nature of his employment in Europe. But there is one reconciling feature which stands out conspicuously in both. In each instance he acted in utter disregard of the wishes of the conquered people; in each he forced upon them a government they utterly abhorred. Few men can be found at this day, bold enough to maintain that the French people entertained a very great affection for the Bourbons, and since the events of 1857, the world has learned pretty well what to think of that deep attachment to the British Government which English writers used to tell us the Hindoos universally felt. These remarks are merely designed to explain the reason why, in our opinion, the work of Brialmont has received so little notice from the press, and not as the commencement of an extended commentary. Having noticed, in the author's account of the campaign of Waterloo, several incidents which place the conduct of Wellington on that occasion in a different light from any in which we had hitherto seen it, we use the title of his book merely as an introduction to our main subject, which is the campaign in question.

The Duke of Wellington is never spoken of, by English writers of any class, but in terms of the most extravagant eulogy. That he did great things is true, but we can conceive of nothing which a mere mortal could do, sufficiently great to justify the hyperboles of which he has constantly been the subject. Upon comparing the catalogue of his exploits with those of other generals, such as Turenne, Eugene, Marlborough, and the great Frederic, we fail to see the enormous superiority which we are told is so very apparent. Before the campaign of Waterloo, most assuredly, his achievements bore no comparison whatever to those of Napoleon. As compared with those of General Lee, they seem, including even Waterloo, absolutely insignificant.

General Lee, with a force not so large as the Anglo-Portuguese regular army which Wellington had under him when he encountered Massena in 1809-not half so large as his whole force if the Portuguese militia be taken into the account in the space of twenty-eight days, in three battles, killed and wounded more men than Wellington ever killed and wounded during his whole career, from Assaye to Waterloo, both inclusive. In one of these battles Lee killed and wounded more men by 9000, than the French army lost, including prisoners, in the whole campaign of Waterloo, and the pursuit to the gates of Paris. In the same battle he killed and wounded more men than Wellington, Blucher, and Napoleon, all three together, lost in killed and wounded in the battle of Waterloo, by 5000 men. In the second of these battles he killed and wounded the same number that both the opposing armies lost in the battle of Waterloo; and in the third he killed and wounded more by 7000 than the French alone lost in the battle of Waterloo. In the three battles together, Lee killed and wounded more men, by at least 30,000, than the Allies and French lost in the whole campaign, including prisoners. The force with which Lee operated never amounted, at one time, to 50,000 men; the force with which Wellington and Blucher acted was, even according to English estimates, 190,000 strong. The force to which Lee was opposed was, from first to last, 240,000 strong; the force to which Wellington and Blucher were opposed was but 122,000 strong. When Massena invaded Portugal in 1810, Wellington had 30,000 British troops, and 25,000 Portuguese regulars, who, in the battle of Busaco, according to Wellington's own account, 'proved themselves worthy to fight side by side with the British veterans,' besides 40,000 admirable Portuguese militia. He had Lisbon for his base, with a British war fleet riding at anchor, and innumerable vessels of other descriptions plying between the port and England, and bringing the most abundant supplies of arms, provisions, and munitions of war. He had surrounded the port with the most tremendous system of fortifications known in modern times, and his task was to defend the strongest country in Europe. In Lee's case, his enemy had possession of the sea, and could and did land a powerful army to attack the very basis

of his operations, while he was fighting another of still greater strength in front. It is probably not altogether just to Wellington to institute this comparison. If his deeds look but commonplace beside the achievements of this campaign, so do all others. The history of the world cannot exhibit such a campaign as that of Lee in 1864.

Wellington's deeds will always be a subject of pride and exultation at home; but abroad, the only title to popular remembrance his name will enjoy, will be derived from its association with that of Napoleon, in the last act of his military life. His deeds in the Peninsula and in India, have already begun to be remembered with that faint sort of recollection which is bestowed upon the deeds of Marlborough and Turenne; but the name of Napoleon keeps the memory of Waterloo fresh in the minds of the whole race of mankind. There are few of our readers who do not recollect the noble apostrophe of Byron to the fallen monarch in the third canto of Childe Harold.

'Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou,
She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name
Was ne'er more bruited in men's minds than now,
That thou art nothing but the jest of Fanre,' &c.

These lines, written during the first year of Napoleon's short but painful captivity in St. Helena, are singularly expressive of the contemporary sentiment with regard to him. He had burst upon the world amidst the throes of a revolution, which had had no parallel in the records of the past, as a volcano is thrown to the surface of the ocean by the convulsions of an earthquake. Like that grandest and most appalling of material phenomena, as long as he continued in full activity, he had attracted the undivided gaze of all who were within the range of vision, comprehending in his case the inhabitants of the whole civilized world. When his career had closed forever, and he remained a helpless captive in the hands of his implacable foes, as if to complete the parallel, in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean they had selected for his prison the summit of an extinguished volcano, the aptest type of his own wretched and ruined fortunes. Though escape was next to impossible, it was natural that the nations, to whom his name had been so long a terror, should

'hold their breath for a time,' and that he should become more constantly the subject of their thoughts and conversation, than he had been in the day of his most prosperous fortunes. Long before his death, the change in European sentiment with regard to him, had already become so great as to attract the attention of statesmen. Chateaubriand, alluding to it, said, that his grey coat and cocked hat, hung up in any quarter of Europe, would produce a revolution. Surely no human being, of whom we have any account, ever so profoundly affected the imagination of mankind. This was the fact while he was among the living, and is still more emphatically the fact now that he is dead. It was proved, while he was living, by the desire, amounting in many cases almost to madness, to catch a glimpse of his person; by the frantic haste with which travellers from all parts of the continent rushed to Paris, at the imminent risk, as they supposed, of being detained in captivity, as soon as they learned that he had returned from Elba; by the crowds from the most remote parts of England, Scotland, Wales, and Ireland, that swarmed into Portsmouth, when it became known that he was a prisoner there on board the Bellerophon; by the appearance presented in the harbor, literally paved with boats to such an extent that the space between the shore and the ship, which lay a mile off, could be passed over dry-shod; by the pertinacity with which strangers who landed at St. Helena, and the sailors belonging to the men-of-war which cruised around the island, constantly endeavored, in spite of the severe penalties annexed, to evade the regulations that they might catch a glimpse of him from the garden walls, when he was taking his evening walk. Since his death, by the unbounded circulation of cheap prints and statuettes of him among the lower classes throughout Europe, and to a great extent in America; by the eagerness with which every man who ever saw him, or heard the tones of his voice, is listened to by all descriptions of persons when he speaks of the fact; by the devotion with which the slightest memorial of him is treasured up by those who are so happy as to possess it; but, above all, by the prodigious number of books which have been published about him, and the readiness with which the booksellers find purchasers for them all. We have seen the

number of these books estimated as high as ten thousand, and although this is a manifest exaggeration, it at least in some degree proves to what a prodigious extent he is the hero of the popular imagination. The merit of these works is as various as the character and occupations of their authors. They are written for every conceivable purpose, and under the inspiration of every possible motive. And yet they all seem to be received with the same degree of favor by the public. The mere name of Napoleon in the title page is enough to sell the worst book, and temporarily to rescue from oblivion the most transcendent blockhead of an author.

It is entirely, we are disposed to think, from its association with the last act of Napoleon's amazing career, that Waterloo is at this moment, to the majority of mankind, the most interesting spot upon the face of the earth. The plain of Marathon, the dome of St. Peter's, the Pyramids of Egypt, the city of Jerusalem, the very site upon which it is supposed that once stood the Temple of Solomon and its successor, far less deeply affect the imagination or move the interest of the general traveller. It is not merely because it was the scene of a great battle, where thousands were slaughtered; for were that all, there are within a circuit of fifty miles, taking this as a centre, quite as many fields as full of interest as Waterloo. Flanders, indeed, is covered with fields of battle; it has been for centuries the 'cockpit of Europe.' 'No matter where they quarrel,' say the Belgians, they always come here to fight it out.' If the skeletons of those who fell in battle, and are buried beneath the soil of Belgium, from the time when it was invaded by the 'first bald Cæsar,' to its last invasion by Napoleon - could be dug up, a solid pavement for the whole country might be made of the bones; could their skulls be arranged in the form of a pyramid, the pile would overtop the loftiest spire of the loftiest church in Brussels or Antwerp. Could the blood that has been shed in that terrible neighborhood be collected into a lake, it would float the proudest navy of modern times. Within a few hours' journey of Waterloo, lie Senef, and Ramilies, and Oudenarde, and Malplaquet, and Genappe, and Fleurus. But the traveller cares for none of these things. The world knows little and cares less for the