terested supporters, or political opponents. In neither case are they to be depended on. Private friendship, or individual admiration, will colour highly on the one side; while party virulence, or personal dislike, will distort to utter deformity on the other. Historians reciprocate accusations of this bias in good set terms, and without ceremony. A noble contemporary, whose literary labours in the same walk are many and popular, pronounced of Sir Wm. Napier's work, that it was a good French history of the Peninsular war; and Napier has said of Southey's, that it would be difficult to apply to a more copious source of error. In all probability, some future Tacitus or Napier will give the next generation but one, "A History of the Life and Times of Arthur, Duke of Wellington," in a tone of clear, uncompromising truth, which shall endure while the language lasts, as a text-book for the youth of England to study from as they admire. We feel quite satisfied that when this book is written, the character it describes will stand on a more lofty pinnacle even than it does at present; tested by time and reflection, and like gold purified by fire, it will obtain additional value from the ordeal of increasing investigation. In the meanwhile, we hail with avidity and thankfulness, all that falls from the pens of those who knew and associated with him; who either served under his command, or enjoyed his personal confidence. From all we learn something new, and that something we should regret if it were lost. Poetry, too, has been summoned to do honour to the mighty dead; but we cannot say that the tuneful Nine, although invoked by many, have responded warmly to the call- either Parnassus is slumbering or deserted. The present age is too deeply immersed in speculative science, in philosophical and theological theories, in calculations of worldly profit and loss, to become absorbed or enthusiastic in the higher regions of poetical imagination. Nothing in this way, in our humble

opinion, has gone beyond mediocrity, scarcely reaching the level of Addison's panegyric on Marlborough, which, judged by comparison, cannot rate at an exalted standard, and has but one passage of pretension-the well-known simile of the angel. We scarcely think the whole composition, even if we were to throw in the mass of the late effusions on the Duke of Wellington, worth the single impromptu epigram (by a writer whose name is not given), on hearing that the Duchess of Marlborough had offered £500 for the best poem on the Duke's life and actions. We never heard that he received the reward, although we certainly think his ready compliment deserved it. Even money, the universal talisman, the veritable aurum palpabile itself, cannot always awaken the fire of genius. Several years ago, the lessee of the Haymarket Theatre offered £500 for the best prize comedy. The pay was liberal, and the competitors many. The appointed committee selected the best specimen that offered, but the public set no seal on the decision. The play soon died, and never returned the manager the

money it had cost him. When the real "Rejected Addresses" for the opening of Drury-lane were published, not one possessed a spark of poetry, or a single claim to consideration. Amongst the tributary odes and elegies on the Duke of Wellington, there are, of course, some two or three better than the rest; but none that will enhance the reputation of the writers, or the glory of the deceased. Shakspeare speaks of a "bad epitaph" as a very undesirable appendage. A commonplace memorative poem is not more to be coveted. Heroic deeds demand, and should create exalted verse; but although the names and actions of Achilles, Hector, and Agamemnon are much indebted to the majestic muse of Homer, it is surely better for departed greatness to remain unsung, than to be laboriously threnodised by harps that sound faintly, and without the swell of lofty inspiration.

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Let us indulge the hope that Apollo may, hereafter, place his lyre in the hands of some future Virgil, Tasso, Milton, or Byron; and assist him to wreath a poetical chaplet in honour of the great Duke, which shall embellish and crown the long labours of the historian and biographer.

Mr. Larpent's journal consists of a series of letters written from headquarters, to which he was attached by his office, to his step-mother in England, solely for private information, and without any view to future publicity. The style is easy and familiar, exhibiting neither effort nor pretence at laboured effects, sometimes even homely and tautological, but we think the editor has done wisely in leaving the letters untouched and unrevised. He observes with truth, in a short preface, that the simplicity of the style, and the minute details, throw over the journal a charm of truth and reality, which a more studied composition would not have possessed. In their present state, the letters carry internal evidence of conveying impressions as they arose, and of detailing events as they occurred. The writer had no time to polish his sentences, or arrange them according to critical rules. The book reads freshly and agreeably, and we feel satisfied that the author invents nothing to give it a more attractive colouring. There are many who have accustomed themselves to think and read of war as of a grand melodramatic spectacle, composed almost entirely of " pride, pomp, and circumstance;" who lose sight of the groans, the tears and suffering, the crime, the license, and devastation; who hear and see only the imposing flourishes of trumpets, the thrilling sounds of triumphal marches, the glittering of variegated uniforms, and the loud pealing of artillery, with the waving of banners, and the shouts of excited multitudes. The perusal of these volumes will abate their admiration, and qualify their enthusiasm. There is enough of glory; but the true features of the appalling drama are here faithfully depicted, with the accompaniments of misery and privation-inflicted and endured to an extent, which may impress on all who look only on the surface, and suffer themselves to be carried away by

names, the fearful responsibility of aggressive war, the crime of inordinate ambition, and the evils thereby entailed on present and future generations. During the six years of the Peninsular struggle, there perished, in round numbers, and their bones lie bleaching on the hills of Spain, Portugal, and France, 40,000 British soldiers, and more than 400,000 Spaniards, Portuguese, and Frenchmen, including peasants, their wives and children, and other unoffending inhabitants. Nearly half a million souls, who otherwise might have lived and died in peaceful avocation and utility, and all for what?

"To swell one bloated chief's unwholesome reign, And fertilise the field that each pretends to gain."*

Mr. Larpent joined the army in Spain at a critical time, during the somewhat hurried retreat from Burgos, when a great triumph had been followed by a temporary and unexpected reverse. The defection or disobedience of the Spanish generals, particularly Ballasteros, had enabled the French to unite the armies of the south, centre, and north, under Soult, forming one overwhelming mass, which Lord Wellington, from inferior numbers, was unable to meet, and was, therefore, obliged to relinquish his occupation of Madrid, and retire towards the northern frontiers of Portugal, retaining no immediate advantages from his great victory of Salamanca, beyond the raising of the siege of Cadiz, and the abandonment of Andalusia by the enemy. It is by no means evident that the capture of Burgos would have enabled the English general to hold his ground, although it would have given him a firm appui for his left, and might have sustained an advanced position. But as in the previous cases of Ciudad Rodrigo and Badajoz, it became necessary to snatch the fortress from the enemy by a given date, or not at all. The ordinary siege means, as usual, were deficient, and the irregular approaches by sap proved to be unavailing. The allied army was forced to retire, closely pursued by the French, who picked up many stragglers, but lost more than one favourable opportunity, and finally did nothing, with a powerful force, well concentrated, and

commanded by their ablest marshal. The increasing activity of the war, with the vicissitudes of service, engendered many irregularities, and courtsmartial became frequent. The Duke of Wellington, anxious that these should be conducted with as close a consistency as possible to established rules, although in many respects the military code dispenses with the formalities of civil practice, had applied for a regular legal practitioner to fill the important post of judge advocate - general to the army under his command. Mr. Larpent was appointed to the office in 1812, and continued from the time of his arrival to manage all the courts-martial that occurred, and to move with the head-quarters, until the last detachment returned to England from Bordeaux, in 1814. It had become highly necessary that a professional lawyer, with competent experience, should be appointed to this duty, which had often been discharged by regimental officers, recommended by a certain readiness with the pen, by private interest, or by a confused smattering of the technicalities gathered from a slight perusal of such scanty volumes on military jurisprudence as were at that time accessible. These unqualified functionaries soon began to talk of Grotius, Puffendorff, Vattel, and Coke upon Littleton, as solemnly as if they had kept their terms in Lincoln's Inn or the Temple, in the regular form, and had worn wig and gown on many circuits. But they made strange mistakes, and scanty justice was sometimes administered by the tribunals they undertook to instruct in the way in which they should go. Once within our own experience we heard a general officer, as president of a court-martial, in a case nearly approaching life and death, lay down, under the suggestion of his military counsel, that it was not necessary for the prosecutor to substantiate the charge, but that the prisoner must first establish his innocence. The court would have proceeded on this learned showing, had not a very young member ventured modestly to suggest, that they were directly and ingeniously inverting the fundamental principle of all English law, which holds every supposed criminal innocent until his alleged guilt is proved. Military tribunals are good courts of honour, and discharge their duties conscientiously,

but they are sometimes pressed for time, are not very susceptible of legal quibbles, and a little careless as to minute particulars. Our readers will remember the conclusive logic of the Black Douglas in the "Fair Maid of Perth," when, sitting on the trial of Sir John Ramorny and Dwining for the murder of the Duke of Rothsay. The Lord Balveny descended to tell him that the criminals were already executed. "Then there is no further use in the trial," said the Earl, "how say you, good men of inquest, were these men guilty of high treason—ay or no?" "Guilty" exclaimed the obsequious inquest, with edifying unanimity, "we need no further evidence."

Mr. Larpent arrived at head-quarters, at Rueda, on the 5th November, 1812, and was immediately introduced to the Great Captain, who received him very courteously, and forthwith transmitted to him fifty cases against officers, to be examined as to the sufficiency of evidence. He soon appears to have obtained the good opinion of Lord Wellington, and to have been admitted to as much of his confidence as he usually communicated to those subordinates who satisfied without tormenting him. He had a great dislike to all officials who gave unnecessary trouble, and made a great fuss about nothing. Mr. Larpent speedily discovered the clear decisive character of his commander, the control he exercised by the supremacy of mind and quick decision, and the total absence of "humbug" in all the arrangements at head-quarters. On more than one occasion, at dinner, the conversation turned on the celebrated letters of "Vetus," in the Times, which were then causing much remark, and were considered by many the most pungent and ably written political essays since the days of Junius. The general purport of these letters was a wholesome and well-deserved condemnation of the ministry for allowing the Spanish war to languish for want of adequate supplies, while the grand resources of the nation were exhausted in the fatal and fruitless expedition to Walcheren. We have often wondered they were not re-published in a separate volume, not only from the interest of the subject, but from their undoubted pretensions as literary efforts of no ordinary mind. We are not aware that the author has ever been ascertained,

but many thought, and it was commonly reported then and after, that they were written by Lord Wellesley, from the warm eulogiums they contained on his brother, and the corroborating circumstance that about this time he retired from the ministry, in disgust at the wavering dispositions of the cabinet, and the incompetence of some of his colleagues. If Lord Wellesley wrote the letters of "Vetus," Lord Wellington was certainly igno rant of the fact. Mr. Larpent says:

"A few days since, at dinner at Lord Wellington's, he got upon the subject of 'Vetus' (the subject had been introduced before). He said he thought he knew the author, and that he had been in India-not Mackintosh as reported here. He then went on to say he did not think much of Vetus's' letters; that many of his facts as to this country were quite without foundation; that neither Vetus,' nor the O. P.'s, nor Lord Wellesley knew anything about the war here, and what could or could not be done; that he fully believed Government had done all they could; that the men who did come could not have been here sooner, and perhaps had better have come still later. More cavalry he could not have employed had he had them at Lisbon, for want of transport for food; that when he advanced formerly to Talavera, he left several thousand men at Lisbon, because he could not supply them if with the army. In short, he said, Lord Wellesley knew nothing about the matter, and that he had no reason to be dissatisfied with the Government at home. All this made several of us stare. I am told Lord Wellington was very angry with Lord Wellesley for his resignation, and hardly spoke to any one for some days after he had heard the fact."

It was commonly said that Sir John Moore was sacrificed because he had no parliamentary or cabinet interest, and that Lord Wellington, on the contrary, owed much to both, and particularly to the commanding influence of his brother. It is quite clear that Lord Wellesley retired from office at the exact crisis, when his abilities and influence would have been more valuable than ever to Lord Wellington. But the latter was now strong enough to rest exclusively on his own name and pretensions, which obtained for him full power, such as no delegated

English general had ever exercised since Cromwell received commission from the Long Parliament.

Mr. Larpent gives great credit to Sir George Murray, and seems to consider him as, next to the Duke, the foremost man of the army. There can be no doubt he was an excellent quartermaster-general, and that the office requires a clear head, and an executive genius; but Sir G. Murray never had the good fortune to be tried in a separate command; his qualities, therefore, as an efficient leader not having been tested, are scarcely open to discussion. Many said he was to the Duke what Berthier was to Napoleon, and that neither of the great modern captains could have got on without his right hand. Those who were better informed smiled at both conclusions, and knew how far they were removed from the fact. In some respects it was no very desirable compliment to be compared to Berthier. He damaged long years of faithful service by rather a hurried adieu of his old master and friend at Fontainebleau, and was regarded by his brother generals and marshals as a plodding official drudge, who never originated an idea, or suggested a remedy for a disaster.

Mr. Larpent tells some amusing anecdotes of the gallant General Robert Craufurd, who commanded the light division, and fell at the storming of Ciudad Rodrigo. Like Sir David Baird, he was never happy except when under fire, and had no business to lead a storming party, which might have been more fitly consigned to a brigadier or a regimental colonel. English generals often throw away their lives as subaltern officers, in a manner which has occasioned much animadversion, and some jeers amongst our enemies. It is seldom necessary for the leader of a division to act the part of a grenadier, although there are times and places when example ensures victory. Cæsar in the battle against the Nervii, and again at Munda, Alexander at Granicus and Oxydracè, Bonaparte at Lodi and Arcola, Wolfe at Quebec, and Wellington at Waterloo, were cases

where the personal exposure of the commander-in-chief contributed materially to the result. But the immolation of Craufurd at Ciudad Rodrigo in 1812, was as gratuitious and unnecessary as that of the veteran Sale at Moodkee in 1845, where he had nothing to do, and where his proper place as quarter-master general was anywhere but where his courage carried him. Craufurd with all his brilliant qualities was dangerous, and not so implicitly to be trusted as Lord Hill, of whom the Duke said, "he is immovable and steady as a rock; whatever I tell him to do, I am sure it will be done to the letter." Mr. Larpent says of this dashing officer

"I have heard a number of anecdotes of General Craufurd. He was very clever and knowing in his profession all admit, and led on his division to the day of his death in most gallant style; but Lord Wellington never knew what he would do. He constantly acted in his own way, contrary to orders; and as he commanded the advanced division, at times perplexed Lord Wellington considerably, who never could be sure where he was. On one occasion, near Guinaldo, he remained across a river by himself—that is, only with his own division-nearly a whole day after he was called in by Lord Wellington. He said he knew he could defend his position. Lord Wellington, when he came back, only said, 'I am glad to see you safe, Craufurd.' The latter replied,

Oh, I was in no danger, I assure you.' But I was, from your conduct,' said Lord Wellington. Upon which Craufurd observed, He is dh crusty to-day!' Lord Wellington knew his merits and humoured him. It was surprising what he bore from him at times."

Craufurd in 1810, when Massena invaded Portugal, kept his single corps for two months within a march or two of the French army, laid the country under contribution for his support, intercepted the French foraging parties, and, finally, fought 40,000 men for a whole day on the Coa, with the river at his back, and carried off his division, inflicting on the enemy a heavier loss than he sustained. His

tactics were faulty, but his gallantry was excessive; and the action, though an error, was a brilliant episode which astonished the enemy not a little.

Sir W. Napier, whose praise is the more valuable, as not being easily obtained or indiscriminately bestowed, says of Craufurd, in conjunction with

Picton, that both were officers of mark and pretension, but adds, that they were insubordinate to their superiors and harsh in command. Had Craufurd lived, he would undoubtedly have risen to higher distinction and much more exalted rank, but he lacked the coolness to manage a great battle, and the head to plan a complicated campaign.

Spain is a difficult country to make war in, and many reputations have been withered in the attempt. Henry IV. of France, who was not only a daring soldier, but a skilful general, declared that it was hopeless to carry on military operations in that country, for that small armies would be beaten, and large ones starved. Now, the Duke of Wellington carried on war in Spain for six years, with small armies and large ones, and without being either beaten or starved. It is true he suffered much from the imbecility of native cabinets, the incompetence of the Spanish generals, and the constant poltroonery of the regular troops; until he declared, with bitterness of spirit, after the fruits of Talavera were wrested from him, "I have fished in many troubled waters, but Spanish waters I will never fish in again."

In May, 1813, the British army broke up from the frontiers of Portugal, which Lord Wellington looked on for the last time; and then commenced that brilliant march which found him in the following year, after a series of victories and perpetual fighting, in possession of Toulouse and Bordeaux, and in a fair way of realising Lord Liverpool's prognosticated march to Paris, so long looked upon and laughed at as an idle chimera. The invasion of the sacred territory of France was to be the signal of utter and irretrievable ruin to the invaders, who, on the contrary, often found themselves more kindly received, and treated with a more cordial welcome, than on the supposed friendly soil of Spain. Lord Wellington was at one time more apprehensive of his allies in his rear than of the enemy in his front, and was by no means confident that he should not be compelled to fight his way back through the people he had liberated. The French relinquished Burgos without a struggle, and retired behind the Ebro. Dubreton abandoned his impregnable castle, and by offering no opportunity