in the fury of their great charge. Right in
front is the path along which came Milhaud's Cuirassiers and
Kellerman's Lancers, and Friant's Old Guard, in turn, to fling
themselves in vain on the obstinate squares and thin red line of the
British. To the right is Hougoumont, the orchard walls still pierced
with loopholes made by the Guards. A fragment of brick, blackened with
the smoke of the great fight, is one of the treasures of the present
writer. Victors and vanquished alike have passed away, and, since the
Old Guard broke on the slopes of Mont St. Jean, British and French have
never met in the wrestle of battle. May they never meet again in that
fashion! But as long as nations preserve the memory of the great deeds
of their history, as long as human courage and endurance can send a
thrill of admiration through generous hearts, as long as British blood
beats in British veins, the story of the brave men who fought and died
at their country's bidding at Waterloo will be one of the great
traditions of the English-speaking race.

Of Wellington's part in the great fight it is difficult to speak in
terms which do not sound exaggerated. He showed all the highest
qualities of generalship, swift vision, cool judgment, the sure insight
that forecasts each move on the part of his mighty antagonist, the
unfailing resource that instantly devises the plan for meeting it.
There is no need to dwell on Wellington's courage; the rawest British
militia lad on the field shared that quality with him. But in the
temper of Wellington's courage there was a sort of ice-clear quality
that was simply marvellous. He visited every square and battery in
turn, and was at every point where the fight was most bloody. Every
member of his staff, without exception, was killed or wounded, while it
is curious to reflect that not a member of Napoleon's staff was so much
as touched. But the roar of the battle, with its swift chances of life
and death, left Wellington's intellect as cool, and his nerve as
steady, as though he were watching a scene in a theatre. One of his
generals said to him when the fight seemed most desperate, "If you
should be struck, tell us what is your plan?" "My plan," said the
Duke, "consists in dying here to the last man." He told at a
dinner-table, long after the battle, how, as he stood under the
historic tree in the centre of his line, a Scotch sergeant came up,
told him he had observed the tree was a mark for th