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ing twilight gave us a clearer prospect than the fading radiance which had thus far illumed the march-we could look across an open country on the left to the farm-house, where we knew Col. Richardson was stationed, and to the blood-stained valley beyond, whose upper reaches were now to be the arena of a larger conflict. But it was after sunrise when the van of General Tyler's column came to the edge of the wooded hill overlooking those reaches. The sun had risen as splendid as the sun of Austerlitz. Was it an auspicious omen for us, or for the foe? Who could foretell? The scenery was too beautiful and full of nature's own peace, for one to believe in the possibility of the tumult and carnage just at hand, or that among those green oak forests lurked every engine of destruction which human contrivance has produced, with hosts of an enemy more dangerous and subtle than the wild beasts which had once here made their hiding-places. Then, too, it was Sunday morning. Even in the wilder
found out that all the men were not slaughtered, that all the artillery was not taken, and that regiments which presented a miserably broken appearance on the morning after the battle, soon filled up their ranks as the runaways came in. The affair was a fight and a scamper, the scamper being unquestionably the worst part of it. The consequence of the disaster will be lamentable, no doubt, chiefly by protracting the war, and exciting intenser passions on both sides; but to describe it as an Austerlitz, is a blunder only possible to those who sacrifice accuracy to a taste for grandiloquence. After such a disaster, recrimination naturally rules the hour. The great question is, Whom shall we hang? Of course a victim will be found, even if justice itself expires in the effort to make its own award. The gentleman who is likeliest to figure as culprit-in-chief is Gen. Patterson, who commanded the troops at Harper's Ferry, and whose special business it was to give an account of Gen. John
own was taken amidst loud cheers, and with it Napoleon's travelling carriage, private papers, hat, and sword. Let me remind the reader that this was the panic flight, not of volunteers, who that day heard the roar of hostile cannon for the first time; nor of young men fresh from their offices, counting-rooms, workshops, and farms; but of veterans seamed with the scars of a hundred battles; some of whom had followed the victorious eagles of the greatest of modern commanders from Cairo to Austerlitz. The English press, with scarce an exception, finds in the recent panic at Bull Run not merely a theme for the bitterest taunts, but the completion of the proof that the bubble of democracy has burst., as if a drawn battle, or, if you please, an ignominious rout, suffered by an army of raw volunteers at the commencement of a war, proved any thing one way or another, in reference to the comparative stability of different forms of government. What bubble burst when Charles Edward, on the