and should not miss the view from Dunbar's Knob.
Less than one mile eastward of Chalk Hill, beside a brook which bears Braddock's name, beneath a cluster of solemn pines, lies the dust of the sacrificed Braddock. If there is any question as to whether his body was interred at this spot, there is no question but that all the good he ever did is buried here. Deserted by those who should have helped him most, fed with promises that were never kept, defeated because he could not find the breath to cry "retreat" until a French bullet drove it to his throat—he is remembered by his private vices which the whole world would quickly have forgotten had he won his last fight. He was typical of his time—not worse.
In studying Braddock's letters, preserved in the Public Records Office, London, it has been of interest to note that he never blamed an inferior—as he boasted in the anecdote previously related. His most bitter letter has been reproduced, and a study of it will make each line of more interest. His criticism of the Colonial
