I’m going where there are no cells
To suffer in and die!”
THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO.
This soul-stirring account of the historic battle where thrones and empires were staked, is from the pen of the great French author whose famous descriptions are unsurpassed by those of any other writer. In reciting this piece every nerve must be tense, and soul and body must be animated by the imaginary sight of the contending armies. Your utterance should be somewhat rapid, the tones of your voice round and full, the words of command given as a general would give them on the field of battle, and you must picture to your hearers the thrilling scene in such a way that it may appear to be almost a reality. Otherwise, this very graphic description will fall flat, and the verdict of your audience will be that you were not equal to the occasion.
The sky had been overcast all day. All at once, at this very moment—it was eight o’clock at night—the clouds in the horizon broke, and through the elms of the Nivelles road streamed the sinister red light of the setting sun.
Arrangements were speedily made for the final effort. Each battalion was commanded by a general. When the tall caps of the Grenadiers of the Guard with their large eagle plates appeared, symmetrical, drawn up in line, calm in the smoke of that conflict, the enemy felt respect for France. They thought they saw twenty victories entering upon the field of battle with wings extended, and those who were conquerors thinking themselves conquered recoiled; but Wellington cried: “Up, Guards, and at them!”
The red regiment of English Guards, lying behind the hedges, rose up; a shower of grape riddled the tricolored flag. All hurled themselves forward, and the final carnage began. The Imperial Guard felt the army slipping away around them in the gloom and the vast overthrow of the rout. There were no weak souls or cowards there. The privates of that band were as heroic as their general. Not a man flinched from the suicide.