Democratic Standard

THE FIELD OF WATERLOO.

BY WASHINGTON IRVING

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 the 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 one side, and the steadfast endurance on the other. The French cavalry broke like waves on the compact squares of the English infantry. They were galloping round those serried walls of men, seeking in vain for entrance, tossing their arms in the air in the heat of their enthusiasm, and braving the whole front of the battle. The British troops, on the other hand, forbidden to move or fire, stood firm and enduring. The columns were ripped up by cannonry whole rows were swept down at a shot: the survivors closed their ranks, and 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.

Beautiful instance of the quick and generous impulse 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 the assault that his adversary had lost the sword arm, dropped the point of his sabre and courteously rode 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, and unconscious of defeat, than 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 cold inflexible courage—until fate, as if to leave the question of superiority till undecided between two such adversaries, brought up the Prussians to decide the fortunes of the field.

It was several years afterwards 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 the Hougomont stood a monumental pile, to mark the violence of the 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 rivalry. Columns of smoke fumed from this vortex of battle as from a volcano. It was, said my guide, "a hell on 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 in the mother earth. Over all the rest of the field peace had resumed its sway. The thoughtless whistle of the peasant floated in the air instead of the trumpet's clangor, the team slowly labored up the side once shaken by the hoofs of rushing squadrons, and wide fields of corn waved peacefully over the soldiers' graves, as summer seas dimple over the place where many a tall ship lies buried.