chancellor
of the empire has overstepped them. He declares further that a
Prussian, and especially a Berliner, is always to him an obnoxious
member of society through his insisting on knowing everything (except
his own place) better than anybody else. "Now, there was the Prussian
general before this last one," he continues, changing from politics
to court-gossip (naturally, since 1870, military matters in Wuertemberg
flourish under Prussian auspices): "the first ball he went to at the
palace he asked the queen to dance! _Our_ queen!! And then he took his
whole family, and they sat in chairs that never were meant for them,
so that the king had to say to him next day, "Mr. General, first come
I, and then my ministers, and then this one, and then that one, and
_then_ you." He went back to Berlin soon after. It is pleasanter to
sit one's self down where one doesn't belong than to be set down
by somebody else." Our driver chuckles, and then bursts out afresh,
"Asking the _queen_ to dance!" He certainly has perfect faith in his
own stories.

We saw the successor of that presumptuous military man next day
among the greater and lesser lights that revolve around the throne of
Wuertemberg. We ourselves were stationary, crowded into the foremost of
the tiers of seats that rose surrounding the immense enclosure, and
in the best place for observation, close by the royal pavilion.
The hills, bright in the sun and velvet in shadow, made a natural
amphitheatre beyond, a little church with its pretty tower looked
picturesquely down from a neighboring height, and the whole place
was gay with flags and branches, glittering uniforms and gorgeous
liveries. We were to see the _hohe Herrschaften_ come in at the
farthest entrance and drive around directly before our seats. As the
trumpets flourish and the first magnificence sweeps by we hear all
about us, "The princess Vera," and "No, the duchess of Uhra," and "Is
it?" "Isn't it?" "Which is it?" till we finally settle down to the
serene conclusion that it is either one or the other. There is no
mistaking the queen, however, with the outriders, six superb black
horses and postilions in scarlet and gold. The Majesty herself looks
pale and resigned, bending to the right and left in answer to the
bows and _hochs._ Our neighbors "the Weimars" come in full force. A
superfluous prince of that family appears to have drifted to these
regions, and makes our street aristocratic for us. Young Weimar look