road for that Review we had
heard of.

Readers must accept this Robinsoniad as the last of Friedrich's
Diplomatic performances at Strehlen, which in effect it nearly was; and
from these instances imagine his way in such things. Various Letters
there are, to Jordan principally, some to Algarotti; both of whom he
still keeps at Breslau, and sends for, if there is like to be an hour of
leisure. The Letters indicate cheerfulness of humor, even levity, in the
Writer; which is worth noting, in this wild clash of things now tumbling
round him, and looking to him as its centre: but they otherwise, though
heartily and frankly written, are, to Jordan and us, as if written
from the teeth outward; and throw no light whatever either on things
befalling, or on Friedrich's humor under them. Reading diligently, we do
notice one thing, That the talk about "fame (GLOIRE)" has died out. Not
the least mention now of GLOIRE;--perception now, most probably, that
there are other things than "GLOIRE" to be had by taking arms; and that
War is a terribly grave thing, lightly as one may go into it at
first! This small inference we do negatively draw, from the Friedrich
Correspondence of those months: and except this, and the levity of humor
noticeable, we practically get no light whatever from it; the practical
soul and soul's business of Friedrich being entirely kept veiled there,
as usual.

And veiled, too, in such a way that you do not notice any veil,--the
young King being, as we often intimate, a master in this art. Which
useful circumstance has done him much ill with readers and mankind. For
if you intend to interest readers,--that is to say, idle neighbors, and
fellow-creatures in need of gossip,--there is nothing like unveiling
yourself: witness Jean-Jacques Rousseau, and many other poor waste
creatures, going off in self-conflagration, for amusement of the parish,
in that manner. But may not a man have something other on hand with his
Existence than that of "setting fire to it [such the process terribly
IS], to show the people a fine play of colors, and get himself
applauded, and pathetically blubbered over?" Alas, my friends!--

It is certain there was seldom such a life-element as this of
Friedrich's in Summer, 1741. Here is the enormous jumbling of a World
broken loose; boiling as in very chaos; asking of him, him more than
any other, "How? What?" Enough to put GLOIRE out of his head; and awaken
thoughts,--terrors, if you were of