ry of this Anne, at least of
her Wars, where Mannstein himself usually had part.

All which would be nothing, or almost less, to Wilhelmina, walking
fancy-free there,--were it not for Papa and Mamma, and the importunate
insidious by-standers. Who do make a thing of it, first and last! Never
in any romance or stage-play was young Lady, without blame, without
furtherance and without hindrance of her own, so tormented about a
settlement in life;--passive she, all the while, mere clay in the hands
of the potter; and begging the Universe to have the extreme goodness
only to leave her alone!--

Thus too, among the train of King August in this Berlin visit, a certain
Soldier Official of his, Duke of Sachsen Weissenfels, Johann Adolf by
name, a poor Cadet Cousin of the Saxon House,--another elderly
Royal Highness of small possibility,--was particularly attentive
to Wilhelmina; now and on subsequent occasions. Titular Duke of
Weissenfels, Brother of the real Duke, and not even sure of the
succession as yet; but living on King August's pay; not without
capacity of drink and the like, some allege:--otherwise a mere betitled,
betasselled elderly military gentleman, of no special qualities, evil or
good;--who will often turn up again in this History; but fails always
to make any impression on us except that of a Serene Highness in the
abstract; unexceptionable Human Mask, of polite turn, behung with
titles, and no doubt a stomach in the inside of it: he now, and
afterwards, by all opportunities, diligently continued his attentions
in the Wilhelmina quarter. For a good while it was never guessed what
he could be driving at; till at last Queen Sophie, becoming aware of it,
took him to task; with cold severity, reminded him that some things
are on one's level, and some things not. To which humbly bowing, in
unfeigned penitence, he retired from the audacity, back foremost:
Would never even in dreams have presumed, had not his Prussian Majesty
authorized; would now, since HER Prussian Majesty had that feeling,
withdraw silently, and live forgotten, as an obscure Royal Highness in
the abstract (though fallen Widower lately) ought to do. And so at least
there was an end of that matter, one might hope,--though in effect it
still abortively started up now and then, on Papa's part, in his frantic
humors, for years to come.

Then there is the Margraf of Schwedt, Friedrich Wilhelm by name, chief
Prince of the Blood, his Majesty's Cousin, and