almost
realized the noble poetic conception--

"Anon they move
In perfect phalanx, to the Dorian mood
Of flutes and soft recorders, such as raised
To heights of noblest temper heroes old
Arming to battle; and instead of rage,
Deliberate valour breathed, firm and unmoved
With dread of death to flight or foul retreat."

It is true that they wanted the picturesque splendour of ancient
warfare. The ten thousand banners, with orient colours waving, the
"forest huge of spears," the "thronging helms," and "serried shields,
in thick array of depth immeasurable." But if the bayonet, the lance,
and even the cannon offered less to the eye, the true source of the
grandeur of war was there--the power, the tremendous impulse, the
_materiel_ of those shocks which convulse nations--the marshalled
strength, fierce science, and stern will, before which the works of
man perish like chaff before the wind, and the glory of nations
vanishes like a shade.

While the last of the troops were defiling before the duke and his
staff, a courier brought up despatches.

"Gentlemen," said the duke, after glancing at one of the papers, "the
army of the Prince de Conde is in march to join us. They have already
reached the neighbourhood. We must now lose no time. M. Marston, you
will report to your Government what you have seen to-day. We _are_ in
march for Paris."

Varnhorst and Guiscard were now summoned to the side of the duke; a
spot was found where we might shelter ourselves from the overpowering
blaze of the sun; the successive despatches were opened; a large map
of the routes from Champagne to the capital was laid on the ground;
and we dismounted, and, sitting together, like old comrades, we held
our little council of war.

"I can make nothing of my French correspondents in general," said the
duke, after perusing a long letter, "but M. le Comte writes like
Cagliostro. He has evidently some prodigious secret, which he is
determined to envelope in still deeper secrecy. He tells me that La
Fayette has fled; but when, where, or for what purpose, is all equally
an enigma. In one sentence of his letter he would persuade me that all
France is disorganized, and in the next, that it is more resolved to
resist than ever. Paris is prepared to rise at the first sight of the
white flag, and Paris is sending out six thousand men every three
hours to join the republican force in the field.