s from all languages), on order of her
Gottsched, till life itself sank in such enterprises; never doubting,
tragically faithful soul, but her Gottsched was an authentic Seneschal
of Phoebus and the Nine." [Her LETTERS, collected by a surviving
Lady-Friend, "BRIEFE DER FRAU LUISE ADELGUNDE VIKTORIE GOTTSCHED, born
KULMUS (Dresden, 1771-1772, 3 vols. 8vo)," are, I should suppose, the
only Gottsched Piece which anybody would now think of reading.]--

Monday, 17th, at seven, his Majesty pushed off accordingly; cheery he
in the prospect of work, whatever his friends in the distance be. Here,
from Eilenburg, his first stage Torgau-way, are a Pair of Letters in
notable contrast.

WILHELMINA TO THE KING (on rumor of Haddick, swoln into a Triple
Invasion, Austrian, Swedish, French).

BAIREUTH, "15th October, 1757.

"MY DEAREST BROTHER,--Death and a thousand torments could not equal the
frightful state I am in. There run reports that make me shudder. Some
say you are wounded; others, dangerously ill. In vain have I tormented
myself to have news of you; I can get none. Oh, my dear Brother, come
what may, I will not survive you. If I am to continue in this frightful
uncertainty, I cannot stand it; I shall sink under it, and then I
shall be happy. I have been on the point of sending you a courier; but
[environed as we are] I durst not. In the name of God, bid somebody
write me one word.

"I know not what I have written; my heart is torn in pieces; I feel
that by dint of disquietude and alarms I am losing my wits. Oh, my dear,
adorable Brother, have pity on me. Heaven grant I be mistaken, and that
you may scold me; but the least thing that concerns you pierces me to
the heart, and alarms my affection too much. Might I die a thousand
times, provided you lived and were happy!

"I can say no more. Grief chokes me; and I can only repeat that your
fate shall be mine; being, my dear Brother, your

"WILHELMINA."

What a shrill penetrating tone, like the wildly weeping voice of Rachel;
tragical, painful, gone quite to falsetto and above pitch; but with a
melody in its dissonance like the singing of the stars. My poor shrill
Wilhelmina!--

KING TO WILHELMINA (has not yet received the Above).

"EILENBURG, 17th October, 1757.

"MY DEAREST SISTER,--What is the good of philosophy unless one employ
it in the disagreeable moments of life? It is then, my dear Sister, that
courage and firmness avail us.

"I am now in motion; and ha