THE CHAMPION OF HIS COUNTRY

When young Nevil Beauchamp was throwing off his midshipman’s jacket for a holiday in the garb of peace, we had across Channel a host of dreadful military officers flashing swords at us for some critical observations of ours upon their sovereign, threatening Afric’s fires and savagery.  The case occurred in old days now and again, sometimes, upon imagined provocation, more furiously than at others.  We were unarmed, and the spectacle was distressing.  We had done nothing except to speak our minds according to the habit of the free, and such an explosion appeared as irrational and excessive as that of a powder-magazine in reply to nothing more than the light of a spark.  It was known that a valorous General of the Algerian wars proposed to make a clean march to the capital of the British Empire at the head of ten thousand men; which seems a small quantity to think much about, but they wore wide red breeches blown out by Fame, big as her cheeks, and a ten thousand of that sort would never think of retreating.  Their spectral advance on quaking London through Kentish hopgardens, Sussex corn-fields, or by the pleasant hills of Surrey, after a gymnastic leap over the riband of salt water, haunted many pillows.  And now those horrid shouts of the legions of Caesar, crying to the inheritor of an invading name to lead them against us, as the origin of his title had led the army of Gaul of old gloriously, scared sweet sleep.  We saw them in imagination lining the opposite shore; eagle and standard-bearers, and gallifers, brandishing their fowls and their banners in a manner to frighten the decorum of the universe.  Where were our men?

The returns of the census of our population were oppressively satisfactory, and so was the condition of our youth.  We could row and ride and fish and shoot, and breed largely:  we were athletes with a fine history and a full purse:  we had first-rate sporting guns, unrivalled park-hacks and hunters, promising babies to carry on the renown of England to the next generation, and a wonderful Press, and a Constitution the highest reach of practical human sagacity.  But where were our armed men? where our great artillery? where our proved captains, to resist a sudden sharp trial of the national mettle?  Where was the first line of England’s defence, her navy?  These were questions, and Ministers were called upon to answer them.  The Press answered them boldly, with the appalling statement that we had no navy and no army.  At the most we could muster a few old ships, a couple of experimental vessels of war, and twenty-five thousand soldiers indifferently weaponed.

We were in fact as naked to the Imperial foe as the merely painted Britons.