ell him
about so many things, if he is conversable: about Dutch William; about
Charles XII., whose Polish fights he witnessed, as an envoy from
Berlin, long ago. A Colonel Krocher, I find, is general manager of the
Journey;--and it does not escape notice that Friedrich, probably out of
youthful curiosity, seems always very anxious to know, to the uttermost
settled point, where our future stages are to be. His Royal Highness
laid in a fair stock of District Maps, especially of the Rhine
Countries, at Leipzig, too; [Forster, iii. 2.] and is assiduous in
studying them,--evidently very desirous to know the face of Germany, the
Rhine Countries in particular?

Potsdam, Wittenberg, Leipzig, the wheels rush rapidly on, stage
succeeding stage; and early in the afternoon we are at Leipzig,--never
looking out at Luther's vestiges, or Karl V.'s, or thinking about
Luther, which thou and I, good English reader, would surely have done,
in crossing Wittenberg and the birthplace of Protestantism. At Leipzig
we were thinking to have dined. At the Peter's Gate there,--where at
least fresh horses are, and a topographic Crown-Prince can send hastily
to buy maps,--a General Hopfgarten, Commandant of the Town, is out with
the military honors; he has, as we privately know, an excellent dinner
ready in the Pleissenburg Fortress yonder, [Fassmann, p. 410.]--but he
compliments to a dreadful extent! Harangues and compliments in no end
of florid inflated tautologic ornamental balderdash; repeating and again
repeating, What a never-imagined honor it is; in particular saying three
times over, How the Majesty of Saxony, King August, had he known, would
have wished for wings to fly hither; and bowing to the very ground, "as
if, in the Polish manner, he wished to clasp your feet," said Friedrich
Wilhelm afterwards. I can fancy Friedrich Wilhelm somewhat startled!
How, at the first mention of this idea of big August, with his lame
foot, taking wing, and coming like a gigantic partridge, with lame foot
and cocked-hat, Friedrich Wilhelm grinned. How, at the second mention,
and Polish threat of your feet, Friedrich Wilhelm, who hates all
lies, and cares not for salutations in the market-place, jerks himself
impatiently and saves his feet. At the third mention, clear it is,
Friedrich Wilhelm utters the word, "ANSPANNEN, Horses!"--and in very
truth takes to the road again; hungry indeed, but still angrier; leaving
Hopfgarten bent into the shape of a parabola,