nal and graphic writer, delineating the battle of Waterloo, remarked: Here a general of division fell; near by, brigades with their commanders perished; soon the grand old Imperial Guard, that had never known defeat, hurled its front ranks into a yawning chasm of earth that its rear might pass over to meet, upon the fixed bayonets of the hollow squares of Wellington, a no less certain fate.
And all this, why?
A cowboy said to a general on one bright Sunday morning: Sire, take this road.
Blucher, seventy-three years old, fired with the spirit of war and revenge, falling from his horse, but mounting again with the alacrity of youth, presses upon the scene, while Wellington prays that he or night would come.
Waterloo was won by the accident of a well-directed route.
Malvern Hill was doubtless a drawn battle because the Quaker road was misunderstood.
It was a fearful ordeal to pass from under the cover of the hills that fringed the Crew field, and face the enemy.
I could easily