The
victory which we were carrying down to the provinces on _this_
occasion was the imperfect one of Talavera--imperfect for its results,
such was the virtual treachery of the Spanish general, Cuesta, but not
imperfect in its ever-memorable heroism. I told her the main outline of
the battle. The agitation of her enthusiasm had been so conspicuous
when listening, and when first applying for information, that I could
not but ask her if she had not some relative in the Peninsular army. Oh
yes; her only son was there. In what regiment? He was a trooper in the
23d Dragoons. My heart sank within me as she made that answer. This
sublime regiment, which an Englishman should never mention without
raising his hat to their memory, had made the most memorable and
effective charge recorded in military annals. They leaped their horses
--_over_ a trench where they could; _into_ it, and with the result of
death or mutilation, when they could _not_. What proportion cleared the
trench is nowhere stated. Those who _did_ closed up and went down upon
the enemy with such divinity of fervour (I use the word _divinity_ by
design: the inspiration of God must have prompted this movement for
those whom even then He was calling to His presence) that two results
followed. As regarded the enemy, this 23d Dragoons, not, I believe,
originally three hundred and fifty strong, paralysed a French column
six thousand strong, then ascended the hill, and fixed the gaze of the
whole French army.
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