THE LATE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

New Zealand Spectator and Cook's Strait Guardian, Volume IX, Issue 780, 22 January 1853, Page 4

THE LATE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

We are enabled to announce that the Duke has left a will, though the content! of it a* yet remain undisclosed. It is dated as far back *s 1818, and was found at Coutts' Bank. The existence of this document was, we believe, unknown even to those most nearly connected with the Duke, who, though of late years he had ordered several wills to be prepared, yet never could make up his mind to execute them. The Duke appears to have always avoided the subject of his own death, and the arrangements connected with it. Those who knew him best hardly ever remember to have heard him talk of such matters : and, in illustration of this feature in his character, a curious -fact may be mentioned. Svery one knows that he received, in tbt course of his long and distinguished life,. many presents of immense value, and that Apsley-house is filled ivitb a great variety of objects, the interest attached to which can hardly be overrated. This collection, as personal property, was, of course, exposed to the risk of dispersion after the Duke's death, and, with a view to its preservation, an act of Parliament was obtained, enabling his Grace, within a space of two years, to make heirlooms of such objects as he wished to see inalienably attached to his title and estates. Singularly enough, it was not till the last day of the time thus granted that he signed the documents requisite to make the act available. The body remains at Walmer Castle, and, indeed, there seems no good reason for hastening the removal to Apsley-house, tt probably, two months, and perhaps a still longer period, may elapse before the public funeral takes place. Although, of course, it is desirable that a ceremonial of the kind should be concluded with as little delay as possible, the amount of preparation which it involves, -the number of people to be consulted in regulating the details, and the magnitude of the scale on which the whole affair is to be conducted, all render time necessary. Though Kelson fell in October, and was brought home to England without delay, it was the Bth of Januaiv before bis funeral took place, and even then the arrangements were in many points extremely defective. Nor is it surprising that such should be the case, for public ceremonials of this description art of extremely rare occurrence, and the authorities, to 'whose management they are entrusted, have in consequence little personal experience to guide them. It is also to be borne in mind that a State funeral is a matter in which so many people interfere, and the chief regulation of which devolves upon officers little qualified for such a duty. The Lord Chamberlain holds his situation by a temporary tenure, and the Earl Marshal's office is hereditary in the family of the Duke of Norfolk. Both may be quite capable of drawing out programmes according to the strictest rules of etiquette, but neither have much idea of the exact limits to precedence and heraldic proprieties in the midst of a great public manifestation. The people require to be considered as well as the due ordering of the solemnities, and in tbis respect it is to be hoped that the funeral of Wellington will be an improvement upon that of Nelson. In the mean time, beyond the fact that the Duke's obsequies will be performed at the public expense, and in inch a manner as to give the whole nation an opportunity of evincing its gratitude for his services, and its reverence for his memory, nothing is decided. Every arrangement is in abeyance until the return of the Earl of Derby from Scotland ; and even after his arrival, some days will probably be occupied before the course of procedure is so far settled that the extensive preparations neceesary for the funeral pomp may be proceeded with. One of the first questions that must be decided is the proper place for the interment, and upon this point there already exists much speculation. Of conrse there prevails an almost complete una nimity of opinion that the Duke should be buried either at St. Paul's or Westminster Abbey, but the feeling is divided as i« wbicjh edifice should I

be selected. The Abbey, with its thousand h!«. toric associations, appears to some the most fitting resting-place after a life so famous. The majority, however, give the preference to the Great Metropolitan Cathedral, assigning reasons for their choice which appear convincing. They say that a funeral procession from Apsley-house into the heart of London affords facilities for a public manifestation which never could be secured along the route to Westminster ; that the great area of St. Paul's will accommodate fonr or five times more people than the Abbey ; that on all occasions of a national character it has tsken the precedence ; and, finally, that there would be an affecting propriety in laying Wellington by the side of Nelson under that gigantic dome, so grandly adapted to enshrine two snch heroes. St. Paul's certainly has an undeniable advantage over the Abbey in respect to space. In the latter on Coronation days there is only room for 5,000 people, while the former would hold from 15,000 to 20,000 with great ease. The tomb of Nelson stands so directly in the centre of the Cathedral, that anything dropped from the ball at the top of the dome would fall directly upon it. The coffin is walled in with granite, and surmounted by a sarcophagus of black marble, designed by Cardinal Wolsey for himself, but which remained unused for centuries, until placed in its present position. On the south side, the space near the tomb is occupied by the graves of some of Nelson's relatives and thai of Lord Collingwood, but the north side is still vacant, and there the Great Duke might be laid with an amount of splendour adequate to express the veneration of his | country. It is impossible to convey an adequate idea of the anxiety which is being manifested throughout the country to attend the funeral. In all the towns which He along the Great Northern Railway and other lines, information is being most eagerly sought with regard to the removal of the body to London, and there can be no doubt that, had it been determined to convey it to Apsley-boase, the metropolis would have been visited by crowds of persons thronging together to witness the lyingin •state. It is to be hoped that this ardent longing to pay homage to the great man who has left us will not be disappointed, but that by the selection of some suitable place, such ai Westminster Hall, and other arrangements, the nation which has sofferfd the loss may be able to past by the remains of the deceased.

'Although the sudden death of the Duke h«i taken the public by surprise, it is evident that " the press" were prepared for the event-- the elaborate biographies of the deceased which appeared in some of the leading journals on the following morning showing, both from their lanrrfh rtnrt tlirir minntenMi that tli#>a.

derations of men have passed away between the first exploits of his arms and the last counsels of his age, until, by a lot unexampled in history, the man who had played the most conspicuous part in the annals of more than a half a century became the last survivor of his contemporaries, , and carries with him to the grave all living memory of his own achievements. To what a century, to wbtt 5 country, to what achievements was that life successfully dedicated ! For its prodigious duration, for the multiplicity of contemporary changes and events, far outnumbering the course of its days and years — for the invariable and unbroken stream of success which attended it from its commencement to its close — from the first flash of triumphant valour in Indian war to that senatorial wisdom on which the Sovereign and nation hung for counsel to its latest hour — for the unbending firmness of character which bore alike all labour and «1I prosperity — and for unalterable attachment to the same objects, the same principles, the same duties, undisturbed by the passions of youth, and unrelaxed by the honours and enjoyments of peace and age — the life of the Duke of Wellington stands alone in history. In war, in politics, and in the common transactions of life, the Duke of Wellington adhered inflexibly to the most precise correctness in word and deed. His temperament abhored disguises and despised exaggerations. The fearlessness of his actions was never the result of speculative confidence or fooUhardy presumption, bat it lay mainly in a just perception of the true relation in which he stood to his antagonists in the field or in the senate. The greatest exploits of his life — such as the passage of the Douro, followed by the march on Madrid, the battle of Waterloo, and i 1 the passing the Catholic Relief Bill— were per-

• formed under no circumstances that could inspire - enthusiasm. Nothing hot the coolness of tht i player could have won the mighty stakes upon a ; catt apparently so adverse to his success. Other i commanders have attained the highest pitch of j glory when they disposed of the colossal resource* : of the empires, and headed armies already flushed 1 w th the con 9 ueit of the worW « Thi Duke of • Wellington found no such encouragement in any s part of his career. At no time were the mean* r at his disposal adequate to the ready and certain t execution of his designs. His steady progress in s the Peninsular campaigns went on against a cori rent of fortune, till that current was itself tamed . by perseverance and resolution. K« had a clear b and complete perception of the dangers he eni countered, but he saw and grasped the latent » power which baffled those dangers and surmounted , resistance apparently invincible. That is prel cisely tbe highest degree of courage— for it is I courage, conscious, enlightened, and determined. His superiority over other men consisted ra~ i ther in the perfection of those qualities which hr I pre-eminently possessed than in tbe variety or I extent of his faculties. These powers, whichi were unerring when applied to defioite and ctr- " tain factt, sometimfs failed in the appreciation of - causes, which bad not hitherto come under tb«ir , observation. It is, perhaps, lets to be wondered i that the soldier and the Statesman of. 1815, bora I and bred in the highest school of Tdry politics, • should have miscarried in his opinion of those ) eventful time* which followed the accession of William IV., tbaa tbat the defeated opponent of Reform in 1831 should have risen into tbe patriot senator of 1846 and 1851. Yet tbe administration of 1828, in which the Duke of Weilington occupied the first and most responsible place, passed the Catholic Emancipation Act, and thereby gave the signal for a rupture in the Tory party, never afterwards entirely healed, and struck the heaviest blow on a system which the growing energies of tbe nation resented and condemned. Resolute to oppose what be conceived to be popular clamour, no man ever recognised with mort fidelity the claims of a free nation to the gradual development of its interest! and its rights ; nor were his services to the cause of libert^ and improvement the less becanse they usually consisted of bending the will or disarming the prejudices of their fiercest opponents. Attached by birth, by character, and by opinion, to tbe order and the cause of tbe British triitbcracy, th* Duke of Wellington knew that the true power of that race of nobles lies, io this age of the world, in theit inviolable attachment to constitutional principles, and their honest recognition of popular rights. Although his dotmnil resolution and his military experience qualified him better thin other men to be the champion of resistance to popular turbulence and sedition, as he showed by bit preparation in May, 1832, and in April, .1848, yet wiidom and forbearance were ever the handmaidens of hit cottrige, and, while most firmly determiner] to defend, if necessary, tbe authority of the atate, he was the first to set an example of conciliatory sacrifice to the reasonable claims of the nation. He was tbe Catullus of our senate, after having been our Ca»ar in tbe field; and, if tbe commonwealth of England bad ever saluted one of her citisens with the Roman title of Farens Patriss, that touching honour would have been added to tbe peerage and baton of Arthur Wellesley, by the respectful gratitude and faith of the people. Though singularly free from every trace of pant, bis mind was no stranger to the sublime ■ influence of religious troth, and he was assiduous in the observances of the pnblic ritual of tbe church of England. At times, even in the extreme period of his age, some accident would betray the deep current of feeling which he never ceased to entertain towards all tbat was chivalrons and benevolent. His charities were un- ' ostentatious but extensive, and he bestowed his influence throughout life upon an incredible number of persons and things which claimed his notice and solicited his aid. Every social duty, every solemnity, every ceremony, every merrymaking, found him ready to take his part. He bad a smile for tbe youngest child, a compliment for the prettiest face, an answer to tbe readiest tongue, and a lively incident of life, which it seemed beyond the power of age to chill. Wie« time had somewhat relaxed the sterner mould of his manhood, its effects were chiefly indicated by an unabated taste for the amusements of fashionable society, incongruous at times with the dignity of extreme old age, and the recollection* of so virile a career. But it seemed a part of the Duke's character that everything that presented itself was equally welcome, for he had become a part of everything, and it was foreign to his nature to stand aloof from any occurrence to which lis presence could contribute. He Seems never to have felt tbe flagging spirit or tbe reluctant step of indolence or ennui, or to have recoiled from Anything that 'remained to be done ; and this complete performance of every doty, however small, as long as life remained, was the same quality which had carried him in triumph through his campaigns, and raised him to be one of tbe chief Ministers of England and an arbiter of the fate of Europe. It has been said tbat in the most active and illustrious lives there comet at last some inevitable hdur of melancholy and of satiety. Upon the Duke of Wellington that hour left no impression, and probably it never shed its influence over faint ; for he never rested on his former achievements or his length of days, bet marcbed'onwards to the end, still heading tbeyouthful generations which bad sprung into life around him, and scarcely leas intent on their pursuits than they are themselves. It was a finely balanced mind to have worn to bravely and so well. When men in after times shall look back to the annals of England for examples of energy and public virtue among those who have raised this country to her aution on earth, no name will remain more conspicuous or more unsullied than that of Arthur Wellesley, tbe Great Duke of Wellington. The actions of his life were extraordinary, but his character was equal to his actions. He was the very type and model of an Englishman ; and though men are prone to invst tbe Worthies of former ages with a dignity and merit they commonly withhold from their contemporaries, we can select none from tbe long array of our nobles who, taken lor all and all, cm claim a rivalry with him who is gone from 'amongst us, an inheritor of imperishable fame.