Platt-Teutsch fire--which I liken to anthracite, in contradistinction to Gaelic blaze of kindled straw--is thrice noble, when, by strict stern discipline, you are above it withal; and wield your fire-element, as Jove his thunder, by rule! Otherwise it is but half-admirable: Turk-Janissaries have it otherwise; and it comes to comparatively little.
This is the famed Battle of Prag; fought May 6th, 1757; which sounded through all the world,--and used to deafen us in drawing-rooms within man's memory.

Results of it were: On the Prussian side, killed, wounded and missing, 12,500 men; on the Austrian, 13,000 (prisoners included), with many flags, cannon, tents, much war-gear gone the wrong road;--and a very great humiliation and dispiritment; though they had fought well: "No longer the old Austrians, by any means," as Friedrich sees; but have iron ramrods, all manner of Prussian improvements, and are "learning to march," as he once says, with surprise not quite pleasant.
Friedrich gives the cipher of loss, on both sides, much higher: "This Battle," says he, "which began towards nine in the morning, and lasted, chase included, till eight at night, was one of the bloodiest of the age.

The Enemy lost 24,000 men, of whom were 5,000 prisoners; the Prussian loss amounted to 18,000 fighting men,--without counting Marshal Schwerin, who alone was worth above 10,000." "This day saw the pillars of the Prussian Infantry cut down," says he mournfully, seeming almost to think the "laurels of victory" were purchased too dear.

His account of the Battle, as if it had been a painful object, rather avoided in his after-thoughts, is unusually indistinct;--and helps us little in the extreme confusion that reigns otherwise, both in the thing itself and in the reporters of the thing.

Here is a word from Winterfeld, some private Letter, two days after; which is well worth reading for those who would understand this Battle.
"The enemy had his Left Wing leaning on the City, close by the Moldau," at Nussel; "and stretched with his Right Wing across the high Hill [of Zisca] to the village of Lieben [so he HAD stood, looking into Prag; but faced about, on hearing that Friedrich was across the River]; having before him those terrible Defiles [DIE TERRIBLEN DEFILEES, "Horse-shoe of the Moldau," as we call it], and the village of Prossik, which was crammed with Pandours.