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If I cannot have my war at my own doors, and hear the bands and the cannon I have paid for, I must at least have sensational battle-fields Actiums and Waterloos and Marengos. What is the use of war if it does not even serve to reduce our surplus population?

He believed on, in spite of them and fortune. I never found out precisely what the business cost him; nobody dared inquire, and he burned all the accounts; but at length the last day's poll was taken, and amid cheers, yells, and a newly-begun row, Levison Stopford, Esq., was declared duly elected. Men cannot have Waterloos of their own every day.

These bumps and tragedies and Waterloos draw the strings of the soul tighter and tighter, nearer and nearer to God's great concert pitch, where the discords fade from our lives and where the music divine and harmonies celestial come from the same old strings that had been sending forth the noise and discord.

It was the common characteristic of the victors that they could not win decisive battles in the sense of earlier wars, and of the vanquished that they evaded the expected Sedans and Waterloos.

"Wasn't it Napoleon who said one couldn't make an omelet without breaking eggs?" "And yet his omelet was not a success," I reflected aloud. "Whose is, Mr. Sedgwick? We all have our Waterloos. Love, ambition, the search for wealth none of them satisfy. But though none of us find happiness we yet seek. That is human nature." I shot a question at him abruptly.

He had to deal, then, with a heterogeneity as pronounced as that which confronted Napoleon; but he was not of the stuff for which you prepare Waterloos. No one dreamed that he would treat the world other than as such a heterogeneity. His relations expected to be made the Jeromes, Eugenes, and Murats of the Hollands, Spains, and Sicilies to hand.

To you the question may be nothing more than a gambling excitement as to the final outcome of your aërial squabble: but to the poor men who had to bear the wrongs, Inquisitions, rack-rents, Waterloos, unspeakable horrors, it was hard earnest, you know! Oh the wretchedness the deep, deep pain of that bungling ant-hill, happily wiped out, my God! My sweetheart Clodagh ... she was not an ideal being!