SERGEANT YOUNG19
  I wonder, I wonder how Stourcastle is looking this summer night, and
  all the old folks there!

  SECOND HUSSAR

  You was born there, I think I’ve heard ye say, Sergeant?

  SERGEANT YOUNG

  I was.  And though I ought not to say it, as father and mother are
  living there still, ’tis a dull place at times.  Now Budmouth-Regis
  was exactly to my taste when we were there with the Court that
  summer, and the King and Queen a-wambling about among us like the
  most everyday old man and woman you ever see.  Yes, there was plenty
  going on, and only a pretty step from home.  Altogether we had a
  fine time!

  THIRD HUSSAR

  You walked with a girl there for some weeks, Sergeant, if  my memory
  serves?

  SERGEANT YOUNG

  I did.  And a pretty girl ’a was.  But nothing came on’t.  A month
  afore we struck camp she married a tallow-chandler’s dipper of Little
  Nicholas Lane.  I was a good deal upset about it at the time.  But
  one gets over things!

  SECOND HUSSAR

  ’Twas a low taste in the hussy, come to that.—Howsomever, I agree
  about Budmouth.  I never had pleasanter times than when we lay there.
  You had a song on it, Sergeant, in them days, if I don’t mistake?

  SERGEANT YOUNG

  I had; and have still. ’Twas made up when we left by our bandmaster
  that used to conduct in front of Gloucester Lodge at the King’s Mess
  every afternoon.

    [The Sergeant is silent for a minute, then suddenly bursts into
    melody.]

  SONG “BUDMOUTH DEARS”

  I

       When we lay where Budmouth Beach is,
       O, the girls were fresh as peaches,
       With their tall and tossing figures and their eyes of blue
              and brown!
            And our hearts would ache with longing
            As we paced from our sing-songing,
       With a smart CLINK! CLINK! up the Esplanade and down

  II

            They distracted and delayed us
            By the pleasant pranks they played us,
       And what marvel, then, if troopers, even of regiments of renown,
            On whom flashed those eyes divine, O,
            Should forget the countersign, O,
       As we tore CLINK! CLINK! back to camp above the town.

  III

            Do they miss us much, I wonder,
            Now that war has swept us sunder,
       And we roam from where the faces smile to where the faces frown?
            And no more behold the features
            Of the fair fantastic creatures,
       And no more CLINK! CLINK! past the parlours of the town?

  IV

            Shall we once again there meet them?
            Falter fond attempts to greet them?
       Will the gay sling-jacket20 glow again beside the muslin gown?—
            Will they archly quiz and con us
            With a sideways glance upon us,
      While our spurs CLINK! CLINK! up the Esplanade and down?

    [Applause from the other hussars.  More songs are sung, the night
    gets darker, the fires go out, and the camp sleeps.]

  THE SAME, FROM THE PUEBLA HEIGHTS

    [It is now day; but a summer fog pervades the prospect.  Behind
    the fog is heard the roll of bass and tenor drums and the clash
    of cymbals, with notes of the popular march “The Downfall of Paris.”

    By degrees the fog lifts, and the Plain is disclosed.  From this
    elevation, gazing north, the expanse looks like the palm of a
    monstrous right hand, a little hollowed, some half-dozen miles
    across, wherein the ball of the thumb is roughly represented by
    heights to the east, on which the French centre has gathered; the
    “Mount of Mars” and the “Moon” [the opposite side of the palm] by
    the position of the English on the left or west of the plain;
    and the “Line of Life” by the Zadorra, an unfordable river running
    from the town down the plain, and dropping out of it through a
    pass in the Puebla Heights to the south, just beneath our point
    of observation—that is to say, toward the wrist of the supposed
    hand.  The left of the English army under GRAHAM would occupy the
    “mounts” at the base of the fingers; while the bent finger-tips
    might represent the Cantabrian Hills beyond the plain to the north
    or back of the scene.

    From the aforesaid stony crests of Puebla the white town and
    church towers of Vitoria can be descried on a slope to the right-
    rear of the field of battle.  A warm rain succeeds the fog for a
    short while, bringing up the fragrant scents from fields, vineyards,
    and gardens, now in the full leafage of June.]

  DUMB SHOW

  All the English forces converge forward—that is, eastwardly—the
  centre over the ridges, the right through the Pass to the south, the
  left down the Bilbao road on the north-west, the bands of the divers
  regiments striking up the same quick march, “The Downfall of Paris.”

  SPIRIT OF THE YEARS

       You see the scene.  And yet you see it not.
       What do you notice now?

  There immediately is shown visually the electric state of mind that
  animates WELLINGTON, GRAHAM, HILL, KEMPT, PICTON, COLVILLE, and other
  responsible ones on the British side; and on the French KING JOSEPH
  stationary on the hill overlooking his own centre, and surrounded by
  a numerous staff that includes his adviser MARSHAL JOURDAN, with,
  far away in the field, GAZAN, D’ERLON, REILLE, and other marshals.
  This vision, resembling as a whole the interior of a beating brain
  lit by phosphorescence, in an instant fades back to normal.

  Anon we see the English hussars with their flying pelisses galloping
  across the Zadorra on one of the Tres-Puentes in the midst of the
  field, as had been planned, the English lines in the foreground under
  HILL pushing the enemy up the slopes; and far in the distance, to the
  left of Vitoria, whiffs of grey smoke followed by low rumbles show
  that the left of the English army under GRAHAM is pushing on there.

  Bridge after bridge of the half-dozen over the Zadorra is crossed by
  the British; and WELLINGTON, in the centre with PICTON, seeing the
  hill and village of Arinez in front of him [eastward] to be weakly
  held, carries the regiments of the seventh and third divisions in a
  quick run towards it.  Supported by the hussars, they ultimately
  fight their way to the top, in a chaos of smoke, flame, and booming
  echoes, loud-voiced PICTON, in an old blue coat and round hat,
  swearing as he goes.

  Meanwhile the French who are opposed to the English right, in the
  foreground, have been turned by HILL; the heights are all abandoned,
  and the columns fall back in a confused throng by the road to
  Vitoria, hard pressed by the British, who capture abandoned guns
  amid indescribable tumult, till the French make a stand in front
  of the town.

  SPIRIT OF THE PITIES

       What’s toward in the distance?—say!

  SEMICHORUS I OF RUMOURS [aerial music]

            Fitfully flash strange sights there; yea,
       Unwonted spectacles of sweat and scare
            Behind the French, that make a stand
            With eighty cannon, match in hand.—
       Upon the highway from the town to rear
            An eddy of distraction reigns,
            Where lumbering treasure, baggage-trains,
       Padding pedestrians, haze the atmosphere.

  SEMICHORUS II

            Men, women, and their children fly,
            And when the English over-high
       Direct their death-bolts, on this billowy throng
            Alight the too far-ranging balls,
            Wringing out piteous shrieks and calls
       From the pale mob, in monotones loud and long.

  SEMICHORUS I

            To leftward of the distant din
            Reille meantime has been driven in
       By Graham’s measure overmastering might.—
            Henceforward, masses of the foe
            Withdraw, and, firing as they go,
       Pass rightwise from the cockpit out of sight.

  CHORUS

            The sunset slants an ochreous shine
            Upon the English knapsacked line,
            Whose glistering bayonets incline
       As bends the hot pursuit across the plain;
            And tardily behind them goes
            Too many a mournful load of those
            Found wound-weak; while with stealthy crawl,
            As silence wraps the rear of all,
       Cloaked creatures of the starlight strip the slain.

  THE SAME.  THE ROAD FROM THE TOWN

    [With the going down of the sun the English army finds itself in
    complete possession of the mass of waggons and carriages distantly
    beheld from the rear—laden with pictures, treasure, flour,
    vegetables, furniture, finery, parrots, monkeys, and women—most
    of the male sojourners in the town having taken to their heels
    and disappeared across the fields.

    The road is choked with these vehicles, the women they carry
    including wives, mistresses, actresses, dancers, nuns, and
    prostitutes, which struggle through droves of oxen, sheep, goats,
    horses, asses, and mules— a Noah’s-ark of living creatures in
    one vast procession.

    There enters rapidly in front of this throng a carriage containing
    KING JOSEPH BONAPARTE and an attendant, followed by another vehicle
    with luggage.]

  JOSEPH [inside carriage]

  The bare unblinking truth hereon is this:
  The Englishry are a pursuing army,
  And we a flying brothel!  See our men—
  They leave their guns to save their mistresses!

    [The carriage is fired upon from outside the scene.  The KING leaps
    from the vehicle and mounts a horse.

    Enter at full gallop from the left CAPTAIN WYNDHAM and a detachment
    of the Tenth Hussars in chase of the King’s carriage; and from the
    right a troop of French dragoons, who engage with the hussars and
    hinder pursuit.  Exit KING JOSEPH on horseback; afterwards the
    hussars and dragoons go out fighting.

    The British infantry enter irregularly, led by a sergeant of the
    Eighty-seventh, mockingly carrying MARSHAL JOURDAN’S baton.  The
    crowd recedes.  The soldiers ransack the King’s carriages, cut
    from their frames canvases by Murillo, Velasquez, and Zurbaran,
    and use them as package-wrappers, throwing the papers and archives
    into the road.

    They next go to a waggon in the background, which contains a large
    chest.  Some of the soldiers burst it with a crash.  It is full of
    money, which rolls into the road.  The soldiers begin scrambling,
    but are restored to order; and they march on.

    Enter more companies of infantry, out of control of their officers,
    who are running behind.  They see the dollars, and take up the
    scramble for them; next ransacking other waggons and abstracting
    therefrom uniforms, ladies raiment, jewels, plate, wines, and
    spirits.

    Some array them in the finery, and one soldier puts on a diamond
    necklace; others load themselves with the money still lying about
    the road.  It begins to rain, and a private who has lost his kit
    cuts a hole in the middle of a deframed old master, and, putting
    it over his head, wears it as a poncho.

    Enter WELLINGTON and others, grimy and perspiring.]

  FIRST OFFICER

  The men are plundering in all directions!

  WELLINGTON

  Let ’em.  They’ve striven long and gallantly.
  —What documents do I see lying there?

  SECOND OFFICER [examining]

  The archives of King Joseph’s court, my lord;
  His correspondence, too, with Bonaparte.

  WELLINGTON

  We must examine it.  It may have use.

    [Another company of soldiers enters, dragging some equipages that
    have lost their horses by the traces being cut.  The carriages
    contain ladies, who shriek and weep at finding themselves captives.]

  What women bring they there?

  THIRD OFFICER

            Mixed sorts, my lord.
  The wives of many young French officers,
  The mistresses of more—in male attire.
  Yon elegant hussar is one, to wit;
  She so disguised is of a Spanish house,—
  One of the general’s loves.

  WELLINGTON

            Well, pack them off
  To-morrow to Pamplona, as you can;
  We’ve neither list nor leisure for their charms.
  By God, I never saw so many wh—-s
  In all my life before!

    [Exeunt WELLINGTON, officers, and infantry.  A soldier enters with
    his arm round a lady in rich costume.]

  SOLDIER

  We must be married, my dear.

  LADY [not knowing his language]

  Anything, sir, if you’ll spare my life!

  SOLDIER

  There’s neither parson nor clerk here.  But that don’t matter—hey?

  LADY

  Anything, sir, if you’ll spare my life!

  SOLDIER

  And if we’ve got to unmarry at cockcrow, why, so be it—hey?

  LADY

  Anything, sir, if you’ll spare my life!

  SOLDIER

  A sensible ’ooman, whatever it is she says; that I can see by her
  pretty face.  Come along then, my dear.  There’ll be no bones broke,
  and we’ll take our lot with Christian resignation.

    [Exeunt soldier and lady.  The crowd thins away as darkness closes
    in, and the growling of artillery ceases, though the wheels of the
    flying enemy are still heard in the distance.  The fires kindled
    by the soldiers as they make their bivouacs blaze up in the gloom,
    and throw their glares a long way, revealing on the slopes of the
    hills many suffering ones who have not yet been carried in.
    The last victorious regiment comes up from the rear, fifing and
    drumming ere it reaches its resting-place the last bars of “The
    Downfall of Paris”:—

  Transcriber’s Note:  There follows in musical notation four bars
       from that song in 2/4 time, key of C—

                 \\E EF G F\E EF G F\E EC D DB\C \\

  A FETE AT VAUXHALL

    [It is the Vitoria festival at Vauxhall.  The orchestra of the
    renowned gardens exhibits a blaze of lamps and candles arranged
    in the shape of a temple, a great artificial sun glowing at the
    top, and under it in illuminated characters the words “Vitoria”
     and “Wellington.”  The band is playing the new air “The Plains
    of Vitoria.”

    All round the colonnade of the rotunda are to be read in the
    illumination the names of Peninsular victories, underneath them
    figuring the names of British and Spanish generals who led at
    those battles, surmounted by wreaths of laurel  The avenues
    stretching away from the rotunda into the gardens charm the eyes
    with their mild multitudinous lights, while festoons of lamps
    hang from the trees elsewhere, and transparencies representing
    scenes from the war.

    The gardens and saloons are crowded, among those present being the
    KING’S sons—the DUKES OF YORK, CLARENCE, KENT, and CAMBRIDGE—
    Ambassadors, peers, and peeresses, and other persons of quality,
    English and foreign.

    In the immediate foreground on the left hand is an alcove, the
    interior of which is in comparative obscurity.  Two foreign
    attachés enter it and sit down.]

  FIRST ATTACHE

  Ah—now for the fireworks.  They are under the direction of Colonel
  Congreve.

    [At the end of an alley, purposely kept dark, fireworks are
    discharged.]

  SECOND ATTACHE

  Very good: very good.—This looks like the Duke of Sussex coming in,
  I think.  Who the lady is with him I don’t know.

    [Enter the DUKE OF SUSSEX in a Highland dress, attended by several
    officers in like attire.  He walks about the gardens with LADY
    CHARLOTTE CAMPBELL.]

  FIRST ATTACHE

  People have been paying a mighty price for tickets—as much as
  fifteen guineas has been offered, I hear.  I had to walk up to the
  gates; the number of coaches struggling outside prevented my driving
  near.  It was as bad as the battle of Vitoria itself.

  SECOND ATTACHE

  So Wellington is made Field-Marshal for his achievement.

  FIRST ATTACHE

  Yes.  By the by, you have heard of the effect of the battle upon
  the Conference at Reichenbach?—that Austria is to join Russia and
  Prussia against France?  So much for Napoléon’s marriage!  I wonder
  what he thinks of his respected father-in-law now.

  SECOND ATTACHE

  Of course, an enormous subsidy is paid to Francis by Great Britain
  for this face-about?

  FIRST ATTACHE

  Yes.  As Bonaparte says, English guineas are at the bottom of
  everything!—Ah, here comes Caroline.

    [The PRINCESS OF WALES arrives, attended by LADY ANNE HAMILTON
    and LADY GLENBERVIE.  She is conducted forward by the DUKE OF
    GLOUCESTER and COLONEL ST. LEDGER, and wears a white satin train
    with a dark embroidered bodice, and a green wreath with diamonds.

    Repeated hurrahs greet her from the crowd.  She bows courteously.]

  SECOND ATTACHE

  The people are staunch for her still!... You heard, sir, what
  Austrian Francis said when he learnt of Vitoria?—“A warm climate
  seems to agree with my son-in-law no better than a cold one.”

  FIRST ATTACHE

            Ha-ha-ha!
  Marvellous it is how this loud victory
  Has couched the late blind Europe’s Cabinets.
  Would I could spell precisely what was phrased
  ’Twixt Bonaparte and Metternich at Dresden—
  Their final word, I ween, till God knows when!—

  SECOND ATTACHE

  I own to feeling it a sorry thing
  That Francis should take English money down
  To throw off Bonaparte.  ’Tis sordid, mean!
  He is his daughter’s husband after all.

  FIRST ATTACHE

  Ay; yes!... They say she knows not of it yet.

  SECOND ATTACHE

  Poor thing, I daresay it will harry her
  When all’s revealed.  But the inside o’t is,
  Since Castlereagh’s return to power last year
  Vienna, like Berlin and Petersburg,
  Has harboured England’s secret emissaries,
  Primed, purse in hand, with the most lavish sums
  To knit the league to drag Napoléon down....
  [More fireworks.]  That’s grand.—Here comes one Royal item more.

    [The DUCHESS OF YORK enters, attended by her ladies and by the
    HON. B. CRAVEN and COLONEL BARCLAY.  She is received with signals
    of respect.]

  FIRST ATTACHE

  She calls not favour forth as Caroline can!

  SECOND ATTACHE

  To end my words:—Though happy for this realm,
  Austria’s desertion frankly is, by God,
  Rank treachery!

  FIRST ATTACHE

            Whatever it is, it means
  Two hundred thousand swords for the Allies,
  And enemies in batches for Napoléon
  Leaping from unknown lairs.—Yes, something tells me
  That this is the beginning of the end
  For Emperor Bonaparte!

    [The PRINCESS OF WALES prepares to leave.  An English diplomatist
    joins the attachés in the alcove.  The PRINCESS and her ladies go
    out.]

  DIPLOMATIST

  I saw you over here, and I came round.  Cursed hot and crowded, isn’t
  it?

  SECOND ATTACHE

  What is the Princess leaving so soon for?

  DIPLOMATIST

  Oh, she has not been received in the Royal box by the other members
  of the Royal Family, and it has offended her, though she was told
  beforehand that she could not be.  Poor devil!  Nobody invited her
  here.  She came unasked, and she has gone unserved.

  FIRST ATTACHE

  We shall have to go unserved likewise, I fancy.  The scramble at the
  buffets is terrible.

  DIPLOMATIST

  And the road from here to Marsh Gate is impassable.  Some ladies have
  been sitting in their coaches for hours outside the hedge there.  We
  shall not get home till noon to-morrow.

  A VOICE [from the back]

  Take care of your watches!  Pickpockets!

  FIRST ATTACHE

  Good.  That relieves the monotony a little.

    [Excitement in the throng.  When it has subsided the band strikes
    up a country dance, and stewards with white ribbons and laurel
    leaves are seen bustling about.]

  SECOND ATTACHE

  Let us go and look at the dancing.  It is “Voulez-vous danser”—no,
  it is not,—it is “Enrico”—two ladies between two gentlemen.

    [They go from the alcove.]

  SPIRIT OF THE YEARS

       From this phantasmagoria let us roam
       To the chief wheel and capstan of the show,
       Distant afar.  I pray you closely read
       What I reveal—wherein each feature bulks
       In measure with its value humanly.

    [The beholder finds himself, as it were, caught up on high, and
    while the Vauxhall scene still dimly twinkles below, he gazes
    southward towards Central Europe—the contorted and attenuated
    ecorche of the Continent appearing as in an earlier scene, but
    now obscure under the summer stars.]

       Three cities loom out large: Vienna there,
       Dresden, which holds Napoléon, over here,
       And Leipzig, whither we shall shortly wing,
       Out yonderwards.  ’Twixt Dresden and Vienna
       What thing do you discern?

  SPIRIT OF THE PITIES

            Something broad-faced,
       Flat-folded, parchment-pale, and in its shape
       Rectangular; but moving like a cloud
       The Dresden way.

  SPIRIT OF THE YEARS

            Yet gaze more closely on it.

  SPIRIT OF THE PITIES

       The object takes a letter’s lineaments
       Though swollen to mainsail measure,—magically,
       I gather from your words; and on its face
       Are three vast seals, red—signifying blood
       Must I suppose?  It moves on Dresden town,
       And dwarfs the city as it passes by.—
       You say Napoléon’s there?

  SPIRIT OF THE YEARS

                 The document,
       Sized to its big importance, as I told,
       Bears in it formal declaration, signed,
       Of war by Francis with his late-linked son,
       The Emperor of France.  Now let us go
       To Leipzig city, and await the blow.

    [A chaotic gloom ensues, accompanied by a rushing like that of a
    mighty wind.]