We spurred across the plain to the mouth of a deep, wooded defile, through which the Prussian grand corps d’armee were advancing.  The brigades which now met our view were evidently of a different character from the Austrian; their uniforms of the utmost simplicity; their march utterly silent; the heads of the columns observing their distances with such accuracy, that, on a signal, they could have been instantly formed in order of battle; every movement of the main body simply directed by a flag carried from hill to hill, and even the battalion movements marked by the mere waving of a sword.  Even their military music was of a peculiarly soft and subdued character.  On my observing this to Varnhorst, his reply was—­“That this was one of the favourite points of the Great Frederick.  ‘I hate drums in the march,’ said the king, ’they do nothing but confuse the step.  Every one knows that the beat at the head of the column takes time to reach the rear.  Besides, the drum deafens the ear.  Keep it, therefore, for the battle, when the more noise the better.’  He also placed the band in the centre of the column.  ‘If they are fond of music,’ said he, ’why should not every man have his share?’”

The steady advance, the solid force, and the sweet harmony, 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.