ross the Rhine, into Lunar
Limbo!

What high feats of arms, therefore, were done in these Fourteen Armies;
and how, for love of Liberty and hope of Promotion, low-born valour cut
its desperate way to Generalship; and, from the central Carnot in Salut
Public to the outmost drummer on the Frontiers, men strove for their
Republic, let readers fancy. The snows of Winter, the flowers of Summer
continue to be stained with warlike blood. Gaelic impetuosity mounts
ever higher with victory; spirit of Jacobinism weds itself to national
vanity: the Soldiers of the Republic are becoming, as we prophesied,
very Sons of Fire. Barefooted, barebacked: but with bread and iron you
can get to China! It is one Nation against the whole world; but the
Nation has that within her which the whole world will not conquer.
Cimmeria, astonished, recoils faster or slower; all round the Republic
there rises fiery, as it were, a magic ring of musket-volleying and
ca-ira-ing. Majesty of Prussia, as Majesty of Spain, will by and by
acknowledge his sins and the Republic: and make a Peace of Bale.

Foreign Commerce, Colonies, Factories in the East and in the West, are
fallen or falling into the hands of sea-ruling Pitt, enemy of human
nature. Nevertheless what sound is this that we hear, on the first of
June, 1794; sound of as war-thunder borne from the Ocean too; of tone
most piercing? War-thunder from off the Brest waters: Villaret-Joyeuse
and English Howe, after long manoeuvring have ranked themselves there;
and are belching fire. The enemies of human nature are on their own
element; cannot be conquered; cannot be kept from conquering. Twelve
hours of raging cannonade; sun now sinking westward through the
battle-smoke: six French Ships taken, the Battle lost; what Ship soever
can still sail, making off! But how is it, then, with that Vengeur Ship,
she neither strikes nor makes off? She is lamed, she cannot make off;
strike she will not. Fire rakes her fore and aft, from victorious
enemies; the Vengeur is sinking. Strong are ye, Tyrants of the Sea;
yet we also, are we weak? Lo! all flags, streamers, jacks, every rag of
tricolor that will yet run on rope, fly rustling aloft: the whole crew
crowds to the upper deck; and, with universal soul-maddening yell,
shouts Vive la Republique,--sinking, sinking. She staggers, she lurches,
her last drunk whirl; Ocean yawns abysmal: down rushes the Vengeur,
carrying Vive la Republique along with her, unconquerable, i