some oats that were plucked before Hougoumont, where grow not only
oats, but flourishing crops of grape-shot, bayonets, and legion-of-honor
crosses, in amazing profusion.

Well, though I made a vow not to talk about Waterloo either here or
after dinner, there is one little secret admission that one must make
after seeing it. Let an Englishman go and see that field, and he NEVER
FORGETS IT. The sight is an event in his life; and, though it has been
seen by millions of peaceable GENTS--grocers from Bond Street, meek
attorneys from Chancery Lane, and timid tailors from Piccadilly--I will
wager that there is not one of them but feels a glow as he looks at the
place, and remembers that he, too, is an Englishman.

It is a wrong, egotistical, savage, unchristian feeling, and that's
the truth of it. A man of peace has no right to be dazzled by that
red-coated glory, and to intoxicate his vanity with those remembrances
of carnage and triumph. The same sentence which tells us that on earth
there ought to be peace and good-will amongst men, tells us to whom
GLORY belongs.