ad a perfect dog's life,
such as no one else, except Don Quixote, has ever led."

In the mean while Frederick had left this "accursed Saxon village"
(Neustadt) and had gone to Meissen, and his "dog's life" had given
place to ease and comfort. He had, therefore, for some quiet weeks
laid aside the sword, and the gentleman had become again the royal
poet and _savant_, who divided his time between music and poetry,
between serious studies and writing to his friends, to whom he sent
letters, in which his great and elevated manner of thinking, his soul
above prejudice, were displayed in all their beauty and power.

The king was alone in his study. He had just finished a letter to the
Marquis d'Argens, calling upon him to give some news of his gallery at
Sans-Souci, and to inform him of its progress. The king laid down his
pen, and leaned back in his chair for a moment. His usually sharp,
bright eye had now a soft, gentle expression, and a light smile played
around his thin, nobly-formed lips. He has forgotten for the time the
care and bustle of war, and fancied himself in his beloved paradise,
his Sans-Souci, where it was allowed the hero to be a poet, and where
he could for some genial hours put aside his dignity, and, instead
of the enthroned ruler, be the cheerful sage, the smiling son of the
Muses.

The king, pleased by these memories of happy days, rose and seized his
flute, which, by his express orders, always lay on his writing-table.
He put it to his lips, and began an _adagio_, in the execution of
which he was acknowledged to be one of the first _virtuosos_ of his
day, and the sounds, as they poured forth, rose plaintively, and
floated around him in bewitching melody. No one could listen to
this beautifully-executed, deeply-felt music of the royal performer,
without being impressed in his inmost soul, and feeling his heart
swell with powerful emotions. Outside, in the antechamber, were
standing the stern generals, the heroic warriors, Zeithen, and the
brave Schwerin, and General von Saldern, and their scarred, austere
features assumed a soft, touching expression, as they leaned against
the wall and listened in breathless silence to the performance of the
king. But suddenly the playing ceased.

To these brave warriors, unaccustomed to music, the execution had
seemed superb; but the king was not satisfied with it. He, who had
in his memory the royal _artiste_ of Sans-Souci, exacted of the king,
driven about by th