nd the Austrian general, Daun,
at the head of an overwhelming force, gained over him a
partial victory, which his masterly strategy robbed of its
fruits. It was but a momentary respite. His kingdom was exhausted
by its own triumphs. His best generals were dead, his best soldiers
killed or disabled, his resources almost spent, the very chandeliers
of his palace melted into coin; and all Europe was in arms against him.
The disciplined valor of the Prussian troops and the supreme leadership
of their undespairing King had thus far held the invading hosts at bay;
but now the end seemed near. Frederic could not be everywhere at once;
and while he stopped one leak the torrent poured in at another.
The Russians advanced again, defeated General Wedell, whom
he sent against them, and made a junction with the Austrians.
In August, 1759, he attacked their united force at Kunersdorf,
broke their left wing to pieces, took a hundred and eighty
cannon, forced their centre to give ground, and after hours of
furious fighting was overwhelmed at last. In vain he tried to
stop the rout. The bullets killed two horses under him, tore his
clothes, and crushed a gold snuff-box in his waistcoat pocket.
"Is there no b---- of a shot that can hit me, then?" he cried
in his bitterness, as his aides-de-camp forced him from the
field. For a few days he despaired; then rallied to his forlorn
task, and with smiles on his lip and anguish at his heart
watched, manoeuvred, and fought with cool and stubborn desperation.
To his friend D'Argens he wrote soon after his defeat: "Death is sweet
in comparison to such a life as mine. Have pity on me and it; believe
that I still keep to myself a great many evil things, not wishing to
afflict or disgust anybody with them, and that I would not counsel
you to fly these unlucky countries if I had any ray of hope; Adieu,
mon cher!" It was well for him and for Prussia that he had strong allies in
the dissensions and delays of his enemies. But his cup was not
yet full. Dresden was taken from him, eight of his remaining
generals and twelve thousand men were defeated and captured
at Maxen, and "this infernal campaign," as he calls it, closed
in thick darkness.

"I wrap myself in my stoicism as best I can," he writes to
Voltaire. "If you saw me you would hardly know me: I am
old, broken, gray-headed, wrinkled. If this goes on there will
be nothing left of me but the mania of making verses and an
inviolable attachment to m