FullReads

That privates should obey, and that they should be smartly punished if they disobey, this one can understand very well. But to say obey for ever and ever–to say that Private John Styles is, by some physical disproportion, hopelessly inferior to Cornet Snooks–to say that Snooks shall have honors, epaulets, and a marble tablet if he dies, and that Styles shall fight his fight, and have his twopence a day, and when shot down shall be shovelled into a hole with other Styleses, and so forgotten; and to think that we had in the course of the last war some 400,000 of these Styleses, and some 10,000, say, of the Snooks sort–Styles being by nature exactly as honest, clever, and brave as Snooks–and to think that the 400,000 should bear this, is the wonder!

Suppose Snooks makes a speech. “Look at these Frenchmen, British soldiers,” says he, “and remember who they are. Two-and-twenty years since they hurled their King from his throne and murdered him” (groans). “They flung out of their country their ancient and famous nobility–they published the audacious doctrine of equality–they made a cadet of artillery, a beggarly lawyer’s son, into an Emperor, and took ignoramuses from the ranks–drummers and privates, by Jove!–of whom they made kings, generals, and marshals! Is this to be borne?” (Cries of “No! no!”) “Upon them, my boys! down with these godless revolutionists, and rally round the British lion!”

So saying, Ensign Snooks (whose flag, which he can’t carry, is held by a huge grizzly color-sergeant,) draws a little sword, and pipes out a feeble huzza. The men of his company, roaring curses at the Frenchmen, prepare to receive and repel a thundering charge of French cuirassiers. The men fight, and Snooks is knighted because the men fought so well.

But live or die, win or lose, what do THEY get? English glory is too genteel to meddle with those humble fellows. She does not condescend to ask the names of the poor devils whom she kills in her service. Why was not every private man’s name written upon the stones in Waterloo Church as well as every officer’s? Five hundred pounds to the stone-cutters would have served to carve the whole catalogue, and paid the poor compliment of recognition to men who died in doing their duty. If the officers deserved a stone, the men did. But come, let us away and drop a tear over the Marquis of Anglesea’s leg!

As for Waterloo, has it not been talked of enough after dinner? Here are some oats that were plucked before Hougoumont, where grow not only oats, but flourishing crops of grape-shot, bayonets, and legion-of-honor crosses, in amazing profusion.

Well, though I made a vow not to talk about Waterloo either here or after dinner, there is one little secret admission that one must make after seeing it. Let an Englishman go and see that field, and he NEVER FORGETS IT. The sight is an event in his life; and, though it has been seen by millions of peaceable GENTS–grocers from Bond Street, meek attorneys from Chancery Lane, and timid tailors from Piccadilly–I will wager that there is not one of them but feels a glow as he looks at the place, and remembers that he, too, is an Englishman.

It is a wrong, egotistical, savage, unchristian feeling, and that’s the truth of it. A man of peace has no right to be dazzled by that red-coated glory, and to intoxicate his vanity with those remembrances of carnage and triumph. The same sentence which tells us that on earth there ought to be peace and good-will amongst men, tells us to whom GLORY belongs.