He flies about; mustering Troops, Ministerial Boards, passing Edicts, inspecting, accepting Homages of Provinces;--decides and does, every day that passes, an amazing number of things.

Writes many Letters, too; finds moments even for some verses; and occasionally draws a snatch of melody from his flute.
His Letters are copiously preserved; but, as usual, they are in swift official tone, and tell us almost nothing.

To his Sisters he writes assurances; to his friends, his Suhms, Duhans, Voltaires, eager invitations, general or particular, to come to him.

"My state has changed," is his phrase to Voltaire and other dear intimates; a tone of pensiveness, at first even of sorrow and pathos traceable in it; "Come to me,"-- and the tone, in an old dialect, different from Friedrich's, might have meant, "Pray for me." An immense new scene is opened, full of possibilities of good and bad.

His hopes being great, his anxieties, the shadow of them, are proportionate.