n
and there; and how, by theatricals and otherwise, to get a great deal of
fire out of it. Great deal of fire;--whether by gradual conflagration
or not, on the road to ruin or not; how, he did not care. In respect of
military 'fame' so called, he had the great advantage of fighting always
against bad Generals, sometimes against the very worst. To his fame an
advantage; to himself and his real worth, far the reverse. Had he fallen
in with a Friedrich, even with a Browne or a Traun, there might have
been different news got. Friedrich (who was never stingy in such
matters, except to his own Generals, where it might do hurt) is profuse
in his eulogies, in his admirations of Saxe; amiable to see, and not
insincere; but which, perhaps, practically do not mean very much.

"It is certain the French Army reaped no profit from its experience
of Marechal de Saxe, and the high theatricalities, ornamental
blackguardisms, and ridicule of death and life. In the long-run a graver
face would have been of better augury. King Friedrich's soldiers, one
observes, on the eve of battle, settle their bits of worldly business;
and wind up, many of them, with a hoarse whisper of prayer. Oliver
Cromwell's soldiers did so, Gustaf Adolf's; in fact, I think all
good soldiers: Roucoux with a Prince Karl, Lauffeld with a Duke of
Cumberland; you gain your Roucoux, your Lauffeld, Human Stupidity
permitting: but one day you fall in with Human Intelligence, in an
extremely grave form;--and your 'ELAN,' elastic outburst, the quickest
in Nature, what becomes of it? Wait but another decade; we shall
see what an Army this has grown. Cupidity, dishonesty, floundering
stupidity, indiscipline, mistrust; and an elastic outspurt (ELAN) turned
often enough into the form of SAUVE-QUI-PEUT!

"M. le Marechal survived Aix-la-Chapelle little more than two years.
Lived at Chambord, on the Loire, an Ex-Royal Palace; in such splendor as
never was. Went down in a rose-pink cloud, as if of perfect felicity; of
glory that would last forever,--which it has by no means done. He made
despatch; escaped, in this world, the Nemesis, which often waits on what
they call 'fame.' By diligent service of the Devil, in ways not worth
specifying, he saw himself, November 21st, 1750, flung prostrate
suddenly: 'Putrid fever!' gloom the doctors ominously to one another:
and, November 30th, the Devil (I am afraid it was he, though clad in
roseate effulgence, and melodious exceedingly) carried