, baptized by an
apostolic successor into the Church of England.

But to make another start toward the end of our story. The English
people, like the majority of mankind, are a good enough people in a
general way, and in a general way, like those of most nations, their
soldiers are brave enough. Good people, yet they have had their bad
rulers--the great father, for example; and their brave soldiers have had
their cowardly leaders--for example, General Proctor; concerning whom
we must now say something--a very little; the least possible.

Having with unsoldierly dispatch cleared his red skirts of the disputed
territory, grown at least too hot for comfort, this Proctor--a fat
poltroon--was now in hurried retreat through the forest-wilds of Canada
West, at the head, not the rear, of an army composed of about nine
hundred British regulars and two thousand Indian allies under the
leadership of Tecumseh. On, in swift pursuit, with a stretch of about a
half day's march between, came General Harrison--a gaunt hero--at the
head, not the rear, of an army consisting of two companies of United
States regulars and about three thousand volunteers, nearly all of whom
were tall, stalwart Kentuckians, under the leadership of General Shelby,
the venerable Governor of Kentucky. No Indian allies. In the van of the
pursuing army, at the head of his regiment of mounted riflemen, one
thousand strong, the very flower of green Kentucky's chivalry, rode
Colonel Richard M. Johnson, afterward made Vice-president of the United
States by his grateful countrymen, because--rumpsey-dumpsey--Dick had
killed Tecumseh.

And there in the van, at the head of his company of mounted riflemen,
mounted on a splendid Kentucky bay, and rigged out in his dashing
backwoods uniform, rode Captain Bushrod Reynolds, whom we left
twenty-four years ago in the Paradise a sturdy urchin of nine, and still
a candidate for breeches and boots. Yes, there he rode, a tall, athletic
man, in the prime of his days, frank-faced, clear-eyed, bold-browed, and
with a nose that had gradually ripened from the pug into the Roman, as
he had ripened in years and experience, just as we predicted when
drawing his portrait where he sat on the topmost rail of a scraggy
worm-fence, watching the squirrels and crows. Nor was it true that he
had become a married man and a man of family, and a captain too--all
pretty much as the far-seeing Burl had prophesied at the same early
period.

At prese