It is famous for the destruction of an enemy intended to capture Fort Dequesne, crush the extending power of France, and control the Indians on our Western border. Here, Washington fought, and Braddock fell. The battle was fought on the afternoon of the 9 th of July, 1765. Seventy years have passed away, and yet the crumbling bones of men and horses are seen in every field for a mile in circuit. For many years, they were shrouded by a mourning wilderness of shadowy woods, but his has yielded to the busy axe, and the plough is annually driven amongst the skulls of the slain and the bones of the brave.
Rich harvests wave over field fertilized by the blood and bodies of a thousand unburied men.
The partridge whistles, and the reaper sings on the spot, where the cries of mortal anguish told the dread revelry of battle. Twas her that the wildwhoop of fierce savages quelled the rallying cry of Europe's warriors. Twas here that they drove the ruthless tomahawk deep in the crushed skull of the vanquished, and with yelling joy, tore the scalp from the head of the feeble and wounded, the dead and the dying. The retreating survivors carried their wounded general with them until he died. He was buried about forty miles from the battle ground, in the centre of the road his advancing army had cut.