evidently surpassed the Mexican artillery in both mechanical and personal qualities. The officers had exhibited the finest courage, esprit de corps and skill. An army supposed to outnumber ours three to one had been scattered, and a prestige of the utmost value at home, in Mexico and in Europe, had been gained.[1]
Regarding Taylor, thoughtful officers did not feel enthusiastic, however. The General had shown himself slow, unskilful, wanting in penetration and foresight, and poorly grounded professionally. Nine tenths of the regular officers felt that no talents had been displayed by him, even in the battles. He had shown, said Meade, "perfect inability to make any use of the information" given him. In the opinion of another excellent officer he seemed "utterly, absurdly incompetent to wield a large army." He had failed to realize the difficulties of his position; had undervalued the enemy; and, as Bliss admitted, had had "no conception" of the Mexican preparations. This last fact dimmed his credit, even for courage, in the minds of discerning critics. But, after all, his resolution had been superb and inspiring. He had succeeded; and among us Americans "Nothing succeeds like success." The reports written for him read admirably. Terse remarks of his, often tinged with soldierly humor, delighted the general taste at home, and mere questions of tactics or strategy signified in comparison rather less than zero. Besides, he was so democratic — no military stiffness, no West Point "aristocracy" about him. A tidal wave of popularity rose in his favor, and soon Thurlow Weed of New York, the Warwick of the Whig party, came out for him as Presidential candidate. A com — mission as brevet major general and other official honors did not fail to arrive.[2]
At Mexico the news of these events produced utter amazement and consternation. The public, reported the British minister, had been assured "in the most inflated tone that victory would follow the steps of the Mexican Army and that annihilation and dishonour would be the portion of their enemies." Even General Vega, a man of sense, had predicted a victory that would end the war. Now, alas, the cards had fallen badly. "Profound and bitter sorrow," as it privately admitted, was the feeling of the government. Down like a
