Books: Iron Duke

WELLINGTON—Philip Guedalla—Harper ($4).

One of the most typical great men England ever produced, Arthur Wellesley, first Duke of Wellington (1769-1852) survives “as little more than the instrument of a single victory and the gruff hero of a dozen anecdotes.” Biographer Guedalla, in 536 coruscating pages, has rubbed the rust off the Iron Duke, polished him till he shines.

Born the fourth son of Irish nobility, Arthur was sent to Eton, where he failed to distinguish himself even on the playing-fields. But he throve in the army, won his spurs in India, was promoted fast. In the Peninsular War he made his reputation, showed that French troops were not invincible. Gradually, methodically he drove Napoleon’s armies back to France. A painstaking rather than a brilliant soldier, he worked his men almost as hard as he worked himself. To the daily questions: what time would the staff move and what was there to be for dinner?—his answer was invariable: “At daylight; cold meat.” His men trusted him, admired him at a distance; called him “that long-nosed b—r that beats the French.” The admiration was not mutual. Wellington’s frequently-expressed opinion of Tommy Atkins: “The scum of the earth, the mere scum of the earth. . . . The English soldiers are fellows who have all enlisted for drink. . . . The man who enlists into the British army is, in general, the most drunken and probably the worst man of the trade or profession to which he belongs, or of the village or town in which he lives.” As fighters, however, he thought them unequaled. Never at a loss for words to express a low opinion, Wellington once remarked to his aide as his generals left a council of war: “They may not frighten the enemy, but by God, sir, they frighten me!”

After Waterloo (“a damned serious business—a damned nice thing—the neatest run thing you ever saw in your life. . . . By God! I don’t think it would have been done if I had not been there.”) nothing was too good for Wellington. Already a Duke, he had every conceivable honor, all possible emoluments heaped on him. He became Prime Minister, was even made Chancellor of Oxford. He could do no wrong. Once out shooting (being a General, not a sniper) “he shot a dog, then a keeper, and finally an aged cottager who had been rash enough to do her washing near an open window.” When the victim cried to her mistress that she was wounded: “My good woman,” she replied, “this ought to be the proudest moment of your life. You have had the distinction of being shot by the great Duke of Wellington!”

But as the bogeyman Napoleon faded from memory and young Reform lifted its head, old diehard Tory Wellington lost his popularity. Twice his windows were broken by a mob; on Waterloo’s anniversary he was trailed home by hooting hoodlums. The Duke, impervious to mobs, merely thought the country was going to the dogs. But before he died at 83, public opinion had swung round again: he was universally respected and, as only a public character can be, beloved.

The Author. Philip Guedalla, 42, after a brilliant career at Oxford (where he was President of the Union and “took a first” in Modern History), went to London to practice law and politics. His itch for history was too much for him; in 1923 he dropped everything else to scratch with both hands. Of a proper historian he says: “He must reconstruct the past, set old breezes stirring once again, and—most elusive miracle of all—bring the dead back to life.” After reading Wellington you will admit that Guedalla knows his business, has done his duty. Almost painfully witty in conversation, in writing he-is refreshingly so. Other books: The Second Empire, Masters & Men, Fathers of the Revolution, Palmerston, Bonnet & Shawl.

Wellington is the December choice of the Literary Guild.