IT is a bleak November day in the year 1852. Vast multitudes, most of them in the garb of mourning, throng the streets of London, and stand for hours waiting for a great funeral procession to pass by. The muffled bells of the churches are tolling a knell, cannon are booming their last farewells, buildings are draped with black, the flags fly at half-mast, and all business is suspended. Now you see the long procession approaching, soldiers with reversed arms leading the way, and marching with slow, reluctant step to the roll of drums and the solemn wail of the “Dead March.” Behind them come men representing all the rank, talent, and dignity of Great Britain, as well as the distinguished mourners which foreign sovereigns have sent to represent them on the solemn occasion. Many of the older spectators barely stifle their sobs as a riderless steed is led by, with reversed jack-boots in the stirrups. He who has bestridden this war-charger was well known to them. They remember all his greatness in the past; they recall him as a familiar figure in the streets and in Parliament. But, hush! here is the towering car upon which lies all that remains of him. Every head is bared, and in deep, solemn silence the sad pageant passes. “All is over and done: Render thanks to the Giver, England, for thy son. Let the bell be toll’d. Render thanks to the Giver, And render him to the mould. Under the cross of gold That shines over city and river, There he shall rest for ever, Among the wise and the bold.” Side by side with that Mighty Seaman, “saviour of the silver-coasted isle,” they bury the Great Duke “to the noise of the mourning of a mighty nation.” Who was this Great Duke, and why does “sorrow darken hamlet and hall” at his passing? Let the story of his life and fame be told. Arthur Wellesley, afterwards Duke of Wellington, was born in 1769, less than four months before Napoleon. His father was the Earl of Mornington, an Irish peer, and Dublin still shows the house, 24 Upper Merrion Street, where he was born. In 1787, when eighteen years of age, Wellesley became an ensign in the army, but was at first quite undistinguished, and was, indeed, considered dull, idle, and rather frivolous. Not until 1793, when he was appointed to the command of his regiment, did he show that he had found the vocation in which he was to win such renown.