Wellington used to say that too much was made of it, and that one would imagine that the British Army had never fought a battle before.  It was a characteristic speech, but it must be admitted that the British Army never had, as a matter of fact, for many centuries fought a battle which was finally decisive of a great European war.  There lies the perennial interest of the incident, that it was the last act of that long-drawn drama, and that to the very fall of the curtain no man could tell how the play would end—­“the nearest run thing that ever you saw”—­that was the victor’s description.  It is a singular thing that during those twenty-five years of incessant fighting the material and methods of warfare made so little progress.  So far as I know, there was no great change in either between 1789 and 1805.  The breech-loader, heavy artillery, the ironclad, all great advances in the art of war, have been invented in time of peace.  There are some improvements so obvious, and at the same time so valuable, that it is extraordinary that they were not adopted.  Signalling, for example, whether by heliograph or by flag-waving, would have made an immense difference in the Napoleonic campaigns.  The principle of the semaphore was well known, and Belgium, with its numerous windmills, would seem to be furnished with natural semaphores.  Yet in the four days during which the campaign of Waterloo was fought, the whole scheme of military operations on both sides was again and again imperilled, and finally in the case of the French brought to utter ruin by lack of that intelligence which could so easily have been conveyed.  June 18th was at intervals a sunshiny day—­a four-inch glass mirror would have put Napoleon in communication with Gruchy, and the whole history of Europe might have been altered.  Wellington himself suffered dreadfully from defective information which might have been easily supplied.  The unexpected presence of the French army was first discovered at four in the morning of June 15.  It was of enormous importance to get the news rapidly to Wellington at Brussels that he might instantly concentrate his scattered forces on the best line of resistance—­yet, through the folly of sending only a single messenger, this vital information did not reach him until three in the afternoon, the distance being thirty miles.  Again, when Blucher was defeated at Ligny on the 16th, it was of enormous importance that Wellington should know at once the line of his retreat so as to prevent the French from driving a wedge between them.  The single Prussian officer who was despatched with this information was wounded, and never reached his destination, and it was only next day that Wellington learned the Prussian plans.  On what tiny things does History depend!

IX.