Ci-devant Serjeant Pichegru, ci-devant Serjeant Hoche, risen now to be Generals, have done wonders here.  Tall Pichegru was meant for the Church; was Teacher of Mathematics once, in Brienne School,—­his remarkablest Pupil there was the Boy Napoleon Buonaparte.  He then, not in the sweetest humour, enlisted exchanging ferula for musket; and had got the length of the halberd, beyond which nothing could be hoped; when the Bastille barriers falling made passage for him, and he is here.  Hoche bore a hand at the literal overturn of the Bastille; he was, as we saw, a Serjeant of the Gardes Francaises, spending his pay in rushlights and cheap editions of books.  How the Mountains are burst, and many an Enceladus is disemprisoned:  and Captains founding on Four parchments of Nobility, are blown with their parchments across 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