e permits a little bantering even; a rough joke
against himself, if it spring sincerely from the complexion of the fact.
The poor men are terribly tired of this work: such bivouacking, packing,
unpacking; and continual waiting for the tug of battle, which never
comes. Biscuits, meal are abundant enough; but flesh-meat wearing low;
above all, no right sleep to be had. Friedrich's own table, I should
think, is very sparingly beset ("A cup of chocolate is my dinner
on marching-days," wrote he once, this Season); certainly his
Lodging,--damp ground, and the straw sometimes forgotten,--is none of
the best. And thus it has to last, night after night and day after day.
On September 8th, General Bulow went out for a little butcher's-meat;
did bring home "200 head of neat cattle [I fear, not very fat] and 300
sheep." [Tempelhof, v. 172.]

Loudon, all this while, is laboring, as man seldom did, to bring
Butturlin to the striking place; who continues flaccid, Loudon screwing
and rescrewing, altogether in vain. Loudon does not deny the difficulty;
but insists on the possibility, the necessity: Councils of War are
bid, remonstrances, encouragements. "We will lend you a Corps," answers
Butturlin; "but as to our Army cooperating,--except in that far-off way,
it is too dangerous!" Meanwhile provisions are running low; the time
presses. A formal Plan, presented by the ardent Loudon,--Loudon himself
to take the deadlier part,--"Mark it, noble Russian gentlemen; and you
to have the easier!"--surely that is loyal, and not in the old cat's-paw
way? But in that, too, there is an offence. Butturlin and the Russians
grumble to themselves: "And you to take all the credit, as you did
at Kunersdorf? A mere adjunct, or auxiliary, we: and we are a
Feldmarschall; and you, what is your rank and seniority?" In short, they
will not do it; and in the end coldly answer: "A Corps, if you like; but
the whole Army, positively no." Upon which Loudon goes home half mad;
and has a colic for eight-and-forty hours. This was September 2d; the
final sour refusal;--nearly heart-breaking to Loudon. Provisions are run
so low withal: the Campaign season all but done; result, nothing: not
even an attempt at a result.

No Prussian, from Friedrich downwards, had doubted but the attack would
be: the grand upshot and fiery consummation of these dark continual
hardships and nocturnal watchings. Thrice over, on different nights, the
Prussians imagined Loudon to have drawn o