ancients, in which one part of a large army might be engaged, whilst a
distant portion of the same army knew nothing of it; but a battle
commencing (if indeed it were ever fought at all) with the _firing of
cannon_, which, would have announced pretty loudly what was going on.

It is no less uncertain whether or no this strange personage poisoned
in Egypt an hospital—full of his own soldiers, and butchered in cold
blood a garrison that had surrendered. But not to multiply instances;
the battle of Borodino, which is represented as one of the greatest
ever fought, was unequivocally claimed as a victory by both parties;
nor is the question decided at this day. We have official accounts on
both sides, circumstantially detailed, in the names of supposed
respectable persons, professing to have been present on the spot; yet
totally irreconcilable. _Both_ these accounts _may_ be false; but
since _one_ of them _must_ be false, that one (it is no matter _which_
we suppose) proves incontrovertibly this important maxim: that _it is
possible for a narrative—however circumstantial—however steadily
maintained—however public, and however important, the events it
relates—however grave the authority on which it is published—to be
nevertheless an entire fabrication!_

Many of the events which have been recorded were probably believed
much the more readily and firmly, from the apparent caution and
hesitation with which they were at first published—the vehement
contradiction in our papers of many pretended French accounts—and the
abuse lavished upon them for falsehood, exaggeration, and gasconade.
But is it not possible—is it not, indeed, perfectly natural—that the
publishers even of known falsehood should assume this cautious
demeanour, and this abhorrence of exaggeration, in order the more
easily to gain credit? Is it not also very possible, that those who