THE WAR CLOUD.

Fair and peaceful to all seeming were the prospects of humanity and the world when the doors of the Hyde Park Exhibition were closed for the last time, and while its materials were being removed to be erected in more than their pristine beauty on the summit of one of the finest heights which environ the sloping basin on which the British metropolis is built. But a cloud, it might be no bigger than a man’s hand, but pregnant with ill, was on the horizon. The Exhibition closed a long era of peace in Europe and the world, an era which had been marred, so far as we were concerned, only by wars in our most distant Oriental dependencies; and, so far as the Continent was concerned, only by the aggressions of the potentates who constituted the Holy Alliance, by the revolutionary movements of 1848, and their sanguinary repression in the year following. Against the hopes of all, and the belief of most, good men and women, the Exhibition inaugurated one of the most martial terms of time which have formed a part of purely modern history. A year had hardly gone by ere Napoleon effected his coup d’État, that fertile source of future evils—evils which are by no means yet exhausted. Then came the Russian War, which cost us in England a hundred thousand lives and at least a hundred millions of pounds. We had hardly celebrated, and rejoiced over, and illuminated our dwellings and public buildings in celebration of, the Peace of Paris, ere in India we had to put forth the utmost might of our imperial power to vindicate our “Raj” over Moslem and Hindoo, and to avenge the foul deeds done at Cawnpore. When Prince Albert was, in the mystery of providential rule, stricken down in his prime, Italy and Austria were just beginning to recover from the effects of the contests waged between trained troops at the Voltorno and by the Garibaldian guerillas in the Valteline. The first message which was conveyed by the new-laid Atlantic cable was a message of good-will from the grand-daughter of George III. to him who sat in the seat of the rebel Washington. The first experimental cable had hardly been destroyed by the potency of old ocean, churlish and jealous of the invasion of his domain, ere that great contest broke out across the Atlantic, which brought about the abolition of slavery throughout the United States. Hardly had our young Prince brought home his bonny bride ere the subjects who owed her father allegiance were called upon to hold their own against the mighty force wielded by a power, of which the queenly diadem must ere long be worn by England’s dear and best-beloved daughter. The Danish War was hardly concluded ere the aggressor, returning victorious from his northern confines, turned his face to the south, and inflicted a catastrophe quite as telling and decisive upon that ancient dynasty, which has been more frequently allied with England in the great martial embroglios of the past than any other power of Europe.

We have said that Napoleon’s coup d’État of December, 1852, sounded the tocsin of that period of war which has lasted without sensible intermission from then until now. With that coup d’État Victoria found herself by an accident somewhat closely allied. Some time after the close of the parliamentary session of 1851, all England was startled by the sudden announcement of the resignation by Lord Palmerston of the seals of the Foreign Office, which he held in the first Administration of Lord John Russell. On the meeting of Parliament in 1852, questions were at once addressed to the Treasury Benches in both Houses soliciting explanations of the circumstances. In the Lower House the querist was Sir Benjamin Hawes. Lord John Russell declared his perfect readiness to answer the question which had been put to him by Sir Benjamin Hawes, though he said he could not do so without entering into some details. These “details” were in the main as follows:—He commenced with a full and frank acknowledgment of the energy, the ability, and the extensive knowledge of the interests of England in all parts of the world which preeminently distinguished Lord Palmerston, and said that he the more regretted, on that account, that circumstances had occurred which prevented his acting any longer with him as a colleague. He laid down at starting what he conceived to be the correct doctrine as to the position which a Secretary of State holds as regards the Crown in the administration of foreign affairs. He held that when the Crown, in consequence of a vote of the House of Commons, places its constitutional confidence in a minister, that minister is, on the other hand, bound to afford the Crown its full liberty—a liberty which the Crown must possess—of saying that the minister no longer possesses its confidence. This was the general doctrine; but it so happened that with regard to Lord Palmerston individually, the precise terms were laid down, in 1850, in a communication on the part of Her Majesty with respect to the transaction of business between the Crown and the Foreign Secretary. Lord John said he had been the organ of that communication, and therefore assumed its responsibility. Its chief passage thus ran:—

Lord John went on to say that, in his view, Lord Palmerston had violated this explicit understanding, at least in two instances—one of a comparatively trifling, but the other of a most important character—since the conclusion of the session of the year previous (1851). The former had reference to some incautious remarks which were said to have fallen from the lips of the Foreign Secretary on the occasion of receiving a deputation of sympathisers with Hungary. The other related to Napoleon’s coup d’État of the 2nd of December previous. The instructions given to our Ambassador at Paris by the Queen’s Government were to abstain from all interference with the internal affairs of France. Lord John had been informed of an alleged conversation between Lord Palmerston and the French Minister in London, the tenor of which was repugnant to those instructions. He had therefore at once written to him, but his communication had been treated with disdainful silence. Meanwhile Lord Palmerston, without the knowledge of his colleagues, wrote a despatch to Lord Normanby, our Minister at Paris, in which, however, he evaded the question whether he approved the act of the President. He considered altogether that Lord Palmerston had put himself in the place and assumed the prerogative of the Crown; that he had “passed by” the Crown, while he gave the moral approbation of England to the acts of Louis Napoleon, in direct opposition to the policy which the Government had hitherto pursued. Under these circumstances, he had no alternative but to declare that, while he was Prime Minister, Lord Palmerston could not hold the seals of office; for he had “forgotten and neglected what was due to the Crown and his colleagues.”

On the 27th of March, 1854, the following message from the Crown was read to the Peers by the Lord Chancellor. It explains itself. Nor is it necessary for us to re-write here a single line of one of the brightest and freshest pages of the recent history of England. We had long been “drifting into war,” to use Lord Clarendon’s memorable phrase, and at last the die was irrevocably, though reluctantly, cast.

Alma, Balaklava, and Inkerman had been fought and won, and the horrid winter in the trenches had not yet passed away. These days and nights of constant fighting had left us many fell remembrances of their grievous coming and going. The Eastern hospitals, at Scutari and within the lines of our camp, were choke-full of the wounded. Some few who could bear the pain of transit were brought home, and no one in England was more solicitous of their welfare and wise and kindly tending than England’s Queen. Her visits to the hospitals were as welcome as they were frequent.

On the 8th of March, 1855, the Queen, accompanied by Prince Albert, and by the Duke of Cambridge, the Prince of Wales, and Prince Alfred, visited the military hospitals at Fort Pitt and Brompton, Chatham. Fort Pitt was then the only general military hospital in England. As this hospital and that of Brompton contained together only 361 patients, it could not be considered that the royal visit was elicited by the peculiar calamities of the place. But the immense extent of the hospitals in the East, and the sufferings of the poor wounded soldiers lying within these vast lazar-houses, had raised in the breast of all England a feeling of pity and horror. In this feeling the Queen most deeply participated. While her visit to the only hospital in this country in which the sufferers by the war were received, was a gratification to her own kindly sympathies, and most cheering and solacing to the inmates, it could not fail to convey to the thousands of sufferers in the East, and to the kinsmen and kinswomen whose hearts bled for them at home, that no heart was fuller of pity than that of her under whose flag they had fought and fallen.

The whole of the wounded who were in a condition to leave their beds were drawn up in chairs on the lawn, each having written upon it a card containing the name and services of the occupant, the nature of his wounds, and where they were received. The Queen passed along the line, saying a few kind words to those sufferers who particularly attracted her notice, or to those whose services were specially commended. She visited every ward, except that containing fever cases. A few days after, the Queen reviewed some cavalry and artillery at Woolwich. After the review, she visited the hospital, and saw the wounded artillery-men who had returned from the Crimea. Nor were these isolated exhibitions of sentiment or emotion. Upon every occasion during the continuance of the war, the Queen showed the most heartfelt sympathy with her brave soldiers; visited their hospitals and transport ships; received the wounded at her palace, and suggested and liberally assisted in the establishment of permanent means of relief for them and their families. A beautiful letter of the Queen, which was accidentally made public about this time, showed that in the privacy of domestic life Her Majesty never forgot these sufferers. Indeed, she complained that she was not kept sufficiently informed of the needs of those who had returned wounded to their country.

It was equally the Queen’s duty and pleasure to reward conspicuous merit, as it was to do all that lay within the limits of her human and regal power to soothe the pangs of woe. One scene in which she discharged this high queenly function will never be forgotten by those who were privileged to witness it. The Queen determined to present with her own hand, to the officers of the Crimean army, and to a portion of the non-commissioned officers and privates, who had returned to their country disabled by their wounds, the medals which they had so dearly won. This act of grace and kindness deeply touched a sentiment that rested deep in the bosom of the nation, that had, indeed, there rested ever since—nay, long before—Elizabeth thrilled the heroic hearts of her people at Tilbury by saying, “I myself will be your general and judge, and the rewarder of every one of your victories in the field.”

The presentation took place on the 18th of May, 1855. A royal dais was erected in the centre of the parade of the Horse Guards, and the public offices which surround it were filled up with galleries for the royal family and nobility. Within an area enclosed by barriers, were the intended recipients of the decorations. Without was a dense mass of spectators. When the Queen had reached the ground, the Guards, who had hitherto been in line, were formed four deep, and through the intervals thus opened the Crimean heroes passed, and in a few moments the Queen stood face to face with them. Each then passed singly, receiving his medal at the hands of Her Majesty, who presented them with a grace and kindness which brought tears to many an eye long unused to their effusion. The first to receive his medal was the Duke of Cambridge, who was enthusiastically received. Then followed other General officers, then the staff, and then in order, without distinction of regimental rank, came cavalry, artillery, engineers, and the line.

The sight was one of the most thrilling ever seen in our metropolis, or in our times. The gaunt and pallid forms, scarred features, and maimed and mutilated limbs, brought home to the heart of the least sympathetic the ravages of war, and the cost and guerdon of bravery. Many of those who hobbled upon crutches, or walked painfully with the assistance of a stick, wore upon their arms the emblems of mourning for some brother or near relative, now reposing by the waters of the Euxine or the Bosphorus. To each one of the wounded, whether officer or private, the Queen said some kind word or asked some kindly question of him. Many of the poor fellows were quite overcome by the tenderness of her compassion. Those officers whose wounds rendered them unable to walk, were wheeled past in Bath chairs. Sir Thomas Troubridge, who lost both feet at Inkerman, and who has since died, was the first of these. The Queen, leaning over his chair, handed him his medal with the most gracious gesture, and conferred upon him the post of aide-de-camp to herself. Captains Sayer and Currie, who were also wheeled past, received similar sympathy.

After the soldiers, came 450 sailors and marines, under Admiral Dundas, who was the first to be decorated. The ceremony over, the non-commissioned officers and men of all services dined in the riding-school, where they were visited by the Queen, her husband, and their children.

Closely and intimately allied with the intense warlike feeling which prevailed throughout the period which we have been traversing, was the rise, or rather the revival from our grandfathers’ times, of the Volunteer movement, in the winter of 1858-9. This very notable phenomenon of modern days was entirely of spontaneous origin and popular outgrowth. At first the authorities looked but coldly upon it—wisely so, we think—until it evinced inherent elements of vitality and reality of purpose, and until it appeared that it was something more than a mere passing impulse. It was not until the 15th of May, 1859, that a circular from the Secretary for War gave to the movement official sanction, in the form of an authoritative permission by the Queen for the formation of volunteer corps. Ere a twelvemonth had elapsed, 70,000 men had enrolled themselves in England and Scotland; and before the end of the summer of 1860, that number had swollen into 170,000. In many other and more emphatic modes the Queen graciously accorded her own personal sanction and her warm and approving recognition to the movement. At a special levÉe, held in March, 1859, all volunteer officers had the opportunity of being presented. At the first meeting at Wimbledon of the National Rifle Association, in July, 1860, Her Majesty founded an annual prize, in value £250. At the same meeting she fired the first shot, discharging a rifle, which had been carefully adjusted to a target 400 yards distant. The cheers of the assembled thousands welcomed the impact of the bullet within a quarter of an inch of the bull’s eye, and one of many Swiss gentlemen, who were present as competitors, felicitously remarked that Queen Victoria was now la premiÈre carabiniÈre de l’Angleterre.

The 23rd of June in this year was a still greater day for the volunteer army, and for the country, for it proved how earnestly the riflemen had devoted themselves to training and to discipline. Her Majesty having expressed her desire to review the young force on that day, arrangements were made by the War Office, whereby every corps that had attained a certain excellence might be represented by its efficient members. The numbers and strength of the corps that presented themselves for inspection caused great surprise. Not only London and Westminster, and the densely populated metropolitan counties, sent ample contingents, but the energies of the railway companies were taxed to the utmost to bring up bodies of men from the west of England, the Midlands, Lancashire, Yorkshire, and East Anglia—even from distant Northumbria. The authorities ultimately found that they would have to make arrangements for placing 20,000 men in review order. The review became a national spectacle, a general holiday was arranged, and an immense assemblage, provincial as well as metropolitan, was assembled in Hyde Park. The Queen’s stand was placed in the centre of a long line of galleries erected for the accommodation of about 17,000 privileged spectators, its situation being indicated by the Royal Standard planted before it. At different hours of the morning, the provincial corps, some of which must have travelled all night, were landed at the railway termini—the Durham Artillery, which had travelled farthest, being the first to reach King’s Cross. The river steam-boats landed their freights at convenient piers: the suburban bodies mustered at their appointed stations. The whole operation of marching the respective battalions and brigades, amalgamated as agreed on, was performed with unerring precision and perfect ease, thanks to the intelligent zeal of the men and the clear heads of their officers. By two o’clock, 21,000, formed in one long line, extended completely across the park. The space of time which intervened between the successive arrivals of the corps and the commencement of the review, offered one of the most picturesque spectacles witnessed in our days.

Exactly at four o’clock the Queen arrived on the ground in an open carriage. Accompanying her were the King of the Belgians, the Princess Alice, and Prince Arthur. The Prince Consort and the Prince of Wales were on horseback. The Queen was attended by a magnificent following of general officers, aides-de-camp, staff officers, foreign military men of distinction, and the Lords-Lieutenant of the counties which furnished contingents to the force on the ground. There were also in attendance on the Sovereign the Duke of Cambridge and Mr. Sidney Herbert, the official heads of the army. Remarkable amongst the group was Field-Marshal Lord Combermere, who had counted no fewer than seventy years of military duty. As the cortÈge swept on to the ground the volunteers stood to arms, their bands playing the National Anthem. The scene now presented was in truth a magnificent one. On one side, from north to south, stood the thick lines of the volunteers, their somewhat sombre ranks varied by masses of dark uniforms, with here and there a mass of scarlet, the whole thrown into relief by the background of the trees of Kensington Gardens. From west to east, dense lines of people extended, many being raised head over head by the most precarious and illusory elevations. From north to south, at the eastern end of the park, and facing the line of volunteers, a glittering line of military uniforms of officers and the gay dresses of ladies who accompanied them gave a varied and rich fringe to the human masses of the Élite of the land who occupied the galleries above them. The green space so enclosed was dotted and animated by the bright scarlet, glittering cuirasses, snowy plumes, and jet-black steeds of the Life Guardsmen, who kept the ground.

The Queen, followed by the whole of her brilliant Court, drove to the extreme left of the volunteer line, and thence slowly passed along the whole front to where the extreme right came close up to the lofty houses at Albert Gate. Then turning, she drew up on the open ground, the Royal Standard proudly waving above her. The bands of the Household Brigade being placed opposite her, the volunteers now began to defile past, between Her Majesty and the bands. The march was commenced by the mounted corps, few in number, but admirably equipped and with remarkably fine horses. The infantry were headed by the Artillery Company, to whom, as the oldest volunteer body existing, not only in England but in Europe, the priority has always been accorded. For an hour and a half corps after corps marched past, until the long succession was closed by a regiment from Cheshire. When the whole had passed, and all had returned to their original positions, the whole line advanced in columns of battalions, and, by signal, cheered Her Majesty with vociferous earnestness. After expressing her high satisfaction with what she had seen, the Queen left the ground about six o’clock. Before eight o’clock all the volunteers had been marched out of the park, and there remained within its gates only meagre remnants of the enormous crowd of spectators.

The opinions of competent authorities on the creditable manner in which this experimental review passed off were of the highest character. The Commander-in-Chief issued a general order, by command of the Queen, in which His Royal Highness spoke in the highest terms of the efficiency displayed by the various corps, and of Her Majesty’s appreciation of the loyalty and devotion exhibited by the volunteer movement. Later in the season the Queen, when on her customary autumnal route to Balmoral, reviewed in the Queen’s Park, at Edinburgh, the volunteers of her northern kingdom, to the number of 12,000.