o counsel from Prince Henri!" Henri himself, they say, is sullen;
threatening, as he often does, to resign "for want of health;" and as he
quite did, for a while, in the end of this Campaign, or interval between
this and next.

Friedrich has, with incredible diligence, got together his finance
(copper in larger dose than ever, Jew Ephraim presiding as usual); and,
as if by art-magic, has on their feet 100,000 men against his enemy's
280,000. Some higher Officers are secretly in bad spirits; but the men
know nothing of discouragement. Friedrich proclaims to them at marching,
"For every cannon you capture, 100 ducats; for every flag, 50; for
every standard (cavalry flag), 40;"--which sums, as they fell due,
were accordingly paid thenceforth. [Stenzel, v. 236, 237; ib. 243.] But
Friedrich, too, is abundantly gloomy, if that could help him; which he
knows well it cannot, and strictly hides it from all but a few;--or all
but D'Argens almost alone, to whom it can do no harm. Read carefully by
the light of contemporary occurrences, not vaguely in the vacant
haze, as the Editors give it, his correspondence with D'Argens becomes
interesting almost to a painful degree: an unaffected picture of one
of the bravest human souls weighed down with dispiriting labors and
chagrins, such as were seldom laid on any man; almost beyond bearing,
but incurable, and demanding to be borne. Wilhelmina is away, away; to
D'Argens alone of mortals does he whisper of these things; and to him
not wearisomely, or with the least prolixity, but in short sharp gusts,
seldom now with any indignation, oftenest with a touch of humor in them,
not soliciting any sympathy, nor expecting nearly as much as he will get
from the faithful D'Argens.

"I am unfortunate and old, dear Marquis; that is why they persecute
me: God knows what my future is to be this Year! I grieve to resemble
Cassandra with my prophecies; but how augur well of the desperate
situation we are in, and which goes on growing worse? I am so gloomy
to-day, I will cut short.... Write to me when you have nothing better
to do; and don't forget a poor Philosopher who, perhaps to expiate his
incredulity, is doomed to find his Purgatory in THIS world." [_OEuvres
de Frederic,_ xix. 138, 139 ("Freyberg, 20th March, 1760").]... To
another Friend, in the way of speech, he more deliberately says:
"The difficulties I had, last Campaign, were almost infinite: such a
multitude of enemies acting against me; Pom