About the middle of August, there are certain Saxon phenomena which
awaken dread expectation in the world. Friedrich, watching, Argus-like,
near and far, in his Chlum observatory, has noticed that Prince Karl
is getting reinforced in Konigsgratz; 10,000 lately, 7,000 more
coming;--and contrariwise that the Saxons seem to be straggling off from
him; ebbing away, corps after corps,--towards Saxony, can it be? There
are whispers of "Bavarian auxiliaries" being hired for them, too. And
little Bruhl's late insolence; Bruhl's evident belief that "we are
finished (AUX ABOIS)"? Putting all this together, Friedrich judges--with
an indignation very natural--that there is again some insidious Saxon
mischief, most likely an attack on Brandenburg, in the wind. Friedrich
orders the Old Dessauer, "March into them, delay no longer!" and
publishes a clangorously indignant Manifesto (evidently his own writing,
and coming from the heart): [In Adelung, v. 64-71 (no date; "middle of
August," say the Books).] "How they have, not bound by their Austrian
Treaty, wantonly invaded our Silesia; have, since and before, in spite
of our forbearance, done so many things:--and, in fact, have finally
exhausted our patience; and are forcing us to seek redress and safety by
the natural methods," which they will see how they like!--

Old Leopold advances straightway, as bidden, direct for the Saxon
frontier. To whom Friedrich shoots off detachments,--Prince Dietrich,
with so many thousands, to reinforce Papa; then General Gessler with
so many,--till Papa is 30,000 odd; and could eat Saxony at a mouthful;
nothing whatever being yet ready there on Bruhl's part, though he has
such immense things in the wind!--Nevertheless Friedrich again paused;
did not yet strike. The Saxon question has Russian bug-bears, no end of
complications. His Britannic Majesty, now at Hanover, and his prudent
Harrington with him, are in the act of laboring, with all earnestness,
for a general Agreement with Friedrich. Without farther bitterness,
embroilment and bloodshed: how much preferable for Friedrich! Old
Dessauer, therefore, pauses: "Camp of Dieskau," which we have often
heard of, close on the Saxon Border; stands there, looking over, as with
sword drawn, 30,000 good swords,--but no stroke, not for almost three
months more. In three months, wretched Bruhl had not repented; but, on
the contrary, had completed his preparations, and gone to work;--and the
stroke did fall, as w