The great battle of Torgau had been fought, and the Prussian army, after so many combats and such a bloody victory, was contemplating with lively satisfaction the going into winter quarters, which, it hoped, this time would be in Saxony.  The Prussian headquarters were, for the time being, in Meissen, and in the palace there, for a short resting-spell, dwelt the king, who for many years had only experienced the troubles and dangers of his position; the king who had often struggled with hunger and care, daily privation and mortal danger, and who one day, wearied out by sleeping night after night on the cold ground, commissioned his adjutant to provide a bundle of straw for the comfort of his royal person.  The king had for a long time spared Saxony.  He was sorry for this beautiful, afflicted land.  But Saxony was finally to be treated as an enemy’s country, as she would not appreciate Frederick’s noble forbearance and clemency, and had allied herself to his enemies with fanatical zeal.  And now her devastated fields, her paralyzed factories, her impoverished towns and deserted villages, testified to her distress and the calamities of war.  But at this time quiet and tranquillity reigned in the hostile camps.  On both sides they were too tired to be able to carry on a fresh conflict, and the strength of both parties being exhausted, they were obliged to allow each other time for rest.  Besides, the winter had set in early with unusual severity, and, to all appearances, put an end to the campaign of 1760.

The only contest now was for winter quarters; and it had been, therefore, after the victory of Torgau, the king’s first endeavor to cut off the retreat of the Austrians to Dresden, or at least to drive them out of this town.  But, as the king wrote to Countess Camas, “They laughed at us from the top of the hills—­I withdrew immediately, and, like a little boy, have stuck myself down in pure disgust in one of the accursed Saxon villages.  I assure you I lead 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.