here for uhhhhhh

And yet, despite its advantages in population, agricultural production, and armaments manufacturing, the United States failed to conquer Canada. Barbuto answers:

The reasons reside on several levels and run the gamut of wise and poor decisions, glaring omissions, the strengths and weaknesses of personalities and polities, and luck.

At the strategic level, the outcome of the campaign was influenced by three factors: the inability of the American government to harness and focus its extensive resources, American strategic confusion, and a flexible and efficient British strategy.

Canadians tend to emphasize their fierce resistance to the US invasion (which is not unreasonable, given their experiences with their aggressive and meddling southern neighbor over the past 250 or so years), but Barbuto demonstrates that there was considerable sympathy to the US within Canada, at least at first. Pro-American settlers were silenced in part by martial law, and attempts to weed out disloyality, but the invaders squandered any goodwill with their repeated depredations. "When American forces managed to remain in Canada for any length of time, their tactic of destroying mills, and thus the food supply of civilians and soldiers alike, was counterproductive," Barbuto writes, "By 1814, [US General Jacob] Brown received little assistance from the populace."

(In)famously, the Treaty of Ghent restored the status quo antebellum, making a mockery of the years of suffering and sacrifices from all sides, but for a long time the assumption was that the war would conclude with uti possidetis, maintaining captured territories. (Somehow, this still didn't inspire incompetent American leadership on the Niagara peninsula).

req'd by @ryn347

best i could draw, chief

All is dust.

Art by me

Fashion plate from La Belle Assemblée, unsigned.

Description from page 61:

PARISIAN DRESSES.

No. 8. Cloth Great Coat, in the Hussar style.

No. 9. A Morning Dress.

No. 10. Cambric Bonnet, satin neckhandkerchief, trimmed with Marten-skin.

No. 11. Complete Full Dress.

Decorative table plate laid with twelve faience egg quarters, 1755

Faience, glazed, overglaze painting. 4 cm; D.: 23 cm

Holding Up A Titan

The primarch of the Word Bearers had fallen. His armour, once red and engraved with scripture, was an ashen husk of charred plate. Cracked and weeping skin showed around the patchwork spread of bleeding burns. Not a patch of skin was left untouched. He didn’t rise from his knees. He didn’t lift his head. He did nothing at all. ‘He’s dead.’ Ellas spoke softly. ‘Fire again.’ Delantyr breathed the words. ‘Fire again.’ ‘You bled the core,’ Kei replied. ‘We’re plasma-starved.’ ‘Fire the suppressing tracers. Three bursts.’ Ardentor’s anti-infantry bolters spat their tracer fire at the prone primarch. The first burst chewed glass, spraying fragments everywhere. The second two punched home in the scorched armour, blasting the fallen Emperor’s son onto his back – a vessel of cooked, punctured meat. ‘We just killed a primarch.’ Kei swallowed. ‘We just killed a primarch.’ Delantyr’s grin showed almost every tooth he had. ‘Crush him. Leave them nothing to bury.’ Ardentor walked. Its backwards-jointed legs hammered down on the steaming, downsloping glass, breaking it underfoot as it staggered down into the crater. When it reached the primarch’s body, Ellas raised the right claw-foot, and steered both control levers to slam the limb back down. The Warhound shook, unbalanced with one leg in the air. Great gears in the war machine’s knee and hip protested with rough, mechanical coughs. ‘Get the leg down,’ Delantyr ordered. ‘Finish it.’ Ellas gave the control levers another wrenching shove. ‘Something’s obstructing us.’ Kei lifted his targeting visor again, looking out of the Warhound’s left eye-windshield. He took a slow breath, and glanced back at his princeps. ‘My princeps? The World Eaters in the ruins… They’re cheering.’ The bleeding demigod had torn his way through the ground, giving voice to his resurrection with a bellow nothing short of ursine. Gore sheeted him, painting him in dark, rich red wetness. He threw his axes away, ruined and never to be wielded again, and breathed freedom into his lungs. It smelled of melted glass and felt like sunburn. ‘Lorgar.’ He spat blood as he said the name, rising to his feet at last. The Word Bearer lifted a scalded hand, not for aid, but in warning. Angron had no time to lift his mutilated brother, sprawled at his feet. The sun went dark, as dark as night falling in an instant. He turned, raising his arms, and took a god-machine’s weight on his shoulders. Every muscle in his body locked tighter than the iron trying to crush him. Drool stringed through his metal teeth, skinned knuckles white as he defied the will of a Titan. He gave a bear’s roar as the foot lowered another half-metre. Sinews crackled in his shoulders. His broken boots skidded back on the patch of unglassed rock; something cracked in his spine, something else cracked in his left knee. The compression of his bones sounded like twigs breaking underfoot, which was a vivid burst of imagination he didn’t appreciate. But he could hear his men cheering. He could hear them howling as they killed, and crying his name. He blinked to clear away his sweat’s greasy sting, and dug his boots into the ground. With a smile slitting across his broken-angel face, he shifted his slipping, blood-slick grip on the Titan’s clawed foot, and started pushing back. ‘Lorgar.’ Angron spoke in something that wasn’t quite a growl and wasn’t quite a laugh. ‘Get up. I can’t hold this forever.' ~Betrayer, by Aaron Dembski-Bowden