dam, and the
like;--having a kind of fancy for the airy Schaffgotsch, as well
as judging him suitable for this Silesian High-Priesthood, with his
moderate ideas and quality ways,--which I have heard were a little
dissolute withal. To the whole of which Schaffgotsch proved signally
traitorous and ingrate; and had plucked off the Black Eagle (say the
Books, nearly breathless over such a sacrilege) on some public occasion,
prior to Leuthen, and trampled it under his feet, the unworthy fellow.
Schaffgotsch's pathetic Letter to Friedrich, in the new days posterior
to Leuthen, and Friedrich's contemptuous inexorable answer, we could
give, but do not: why should we? O King, I know your difficulties, and
what epoch it is. But, of a truth, your airy dissolute Schaffgotsch, as
a grateful "Archbishop and Grand-Vicar," is almost uglier to me than as
a Traitor ungrateful for it; and shall go to the Devil in his own way!
They would not have him in Austria; he was not well received at Rome;
happily died before long. [Preuss, ii. 113, 114; Kutzen, pp. 12,
155-160, for the real particculars.] Friedrich was not cruel to
Schaffgotsch or the others, contemptuously mild rather; but he knew
henceforth what to expect of them, and slightly changed this and that in
his Silesian methods in consequence.

Of Prince Karl let us add a word. On the morrow after Leuthen, Captain
Prince de Ligne and old Papa D'Ahremberg could find little or no Army;
they stept across to Grabschen, a village on the safe side of the
Lohe, and there found Karl and Daun: "rather silent, both; one of
them looking, 'Who would have thought it!' the other, 'Did n't I tell
you?'"--and knowing nothing, they either, where the Army was. Army was,
in fact, as yet nowhere. "Croat fellows, in this Farmstead of ours,"
says De Ligne, "had fallen to shooting pigeons." The night had been
unusually dark; the Austrian Army had squatted into woods, into
office-houses, farm-villages, over a wide space of country; and only as
the day rose, began to dribble in. By count, they are still 50,000; but
heart-broken, beaten as men seldom were. "What sound is that?" men asked
yesterday at Brieg, forty miles off; and nobody could say, except that
it was some huge Battle, fateful of Silesia and the world. Breslau had
it louder; Breslau was still more anxious. "What IS all that?" asked
somebody (might be Deblin the Shoemaker, for anything I know) of an
Austrian sentry there: "That? That is the Prussians