No.Neither that illustrious England nor that august Germany enter into the problem of Waterloo.Thank Heaven，nations are great，independently of the lugubrious feats of the sword.
Neither England，nor Germany，nor France is contained in a scabbard.
At this epoch when Waterloo is only a clashing of swords，above Blucher，Germany has Schiller；above Wellington，England has Byron.
A vast dawn of ideas is the peculiarity of our century，and in that aurora England and Germany have a magnificent radiance.
They are majestic because they think.The elevation of level which they contribute to civilization is intrinsic with them；it proceeds from themselves and not from an accident.The aggrandizement which they have brought to the nineteenth century has not Waterloo as its source.
It is only barbarous peoples who undergo rapid growth after a victory.
That is the temporary vanity of torrents swelled by a storm.
Civilized people，especially in our day，are neither elevated nor abased by the good or bad fortune of a captain.
Their specific gravity in the human species results from something more than a combat.
Their honor，thank God！their dignity，their intelligence，their genius，are not numbers which those gamblers，heroes and conquerors，can put in the lottery of battles.
Often a battle is lost and progress is conquered.There is less glory and more liberty.
The drum holds its peace；reason takes the word.
It is a game in which he who loses wins.Let us，therefore，speak of Waterloo coldly from both sides.Let us render to chance that which is due to chance，and to God that which is due to God.
What is Waterloo？
A victory？
No.The winning number in the lottery.
The quine[11]won by Europe，paid by France.
[11]Five winning numbers in a lottery.
It was not worth while to place a lion there.
Waterloo，moreover，is the strangest encounter in history.Napoleon and Wellington.
They are not enemies；they are opposites.Never did God，who is fond of antitheses，make a more striking contrast，a more extraordinary comparison.
On one side，precision，foresight，geometry，prudence，an assured retreat，reserves spared，with an obstinate coolness，an imperturbable method，strategy，which takes advantage of the ground，tactics，which preserve the equilibrium of battalions，carnage，executed according to rule，war regulated，watch in hand，nothing voluntarily left to chance，the ancient classic courage，absolute regularity；on the other，intuition，divination，military oddity，superhuman instinct，a flaming glance，an indescribable something which gazes like an eagle，and which strikes like the lightning，a prodigious art in disdainful impetuosity，all the mysteries of a profound soul，associated with destiny；the stream，the plain，the forest，the hill，summoned，and in a manner，forced to obey，the despot going even so far as to tyrannize over the field of battle；faith in a star mingled with strategic science，elevating but perturbing it.Wellington was the Bareme of war；Napoleon was its Michael Angelo；and on this occasion，genius was vanquished by calculation.On both sides some one was awaited.
It was the exact calculator who succeeded.
Napoleon was waiting for Grouchy；he did not come.Wellington expected Blucher；he came.
Wellington is classic war taking its revenge.
Bonaparte，at his dawning，had encountered him in Italy，and beaten him superbly.The old owl had fled before the young vulture.
The old tactics had been not only struck as by lightning，but disgraced.
Who was that Corsican of six and twenty？
What signified that splendid ignoramus，who，with everything against him，nothing in his favor，without provisions，without ammunition，without cannon，without shoes，almost without an army，with a mere handful of men against masses，hurled himself on Europe combined，and absurdly won victories in the impossible？
Whence had issued that fulminating convict，who almost without taking breath，and with the same set of combatants in hand，pulverized，one after the other，the five armies of the emperor of Germany，upsetting Beaulieu on Alvinzi，Wurmser on Beaulieu，Melas on Wurmser，Mack on Melas？
Who was this novice in war with the effrontery of a luminary？
The academical military school excommunicated him，and as it lost its footing；hence，the implacable rancor of the old Caesarism against the new；of the regular sword against the flaming sword；and of the exchequer against genius.On the 18th of June，1815，that rancor had the last word.and beneath Lodi，Montebello，Montenotte，Mantua，Arcola，it wrote：
Waterloo.
A triumph of the mediocres which is sweet to the majority.
Destiny consented to this irony.
In his decline，Napoleon found Wurmser，the younger，again in front of him.
In fact，to get Wurmser，it sufficed to blanch the hair of Wellington.
Waterloo is a battle of the first order，won by a captain of the second.
That which must be admired in the battle of Waterloo，is England；the English firmness，the English resolution，the English blood；the superb thing about England there，no offence to her，was herself.It was not her captain；it was her army.
Wellington，oddly ungrateful，declares in a letter to Lord Bathurst，that his army，the army which fought on the 18th of June，1815，was a'detestable army.'
What does that sombre intermingling of bones buried beneath the furrows of Waterloo think of that？
England has been too modest in the matter of Wellington.
To make Wellington so great is to belittle England.
Wellington is nothing but a hero like many another.
Those Scotch Grays，those Horse Guards，those regiments of Maitland and of Mitchell，that infantry of Pack and Kempt，that cavalry of Ponsonby and Somerset，those Highlanders playing the pibroch under the shower of grape-shot，those battalions of Rylandt，those utterly raw recruits，who hardly knew how to handle a musket holding their own against Essling's and Rivoli's old troops，——that is what was grand.