The first of them is reputed to be an honest man, but he is nothing less. He loses that appearance of credit he once had, daily; for verily I believe he never had real weight enough with his master to have made an Ensign in his Army, or a Postillion in one of his Posthouses. His face is the picture of Dullness when she smiles, and his figure is a mixture of a clown and a _petit-maître_. He is a little genteeler than Mons. Adrié, who you may remember to have seen make so great a figure in England. The other, Count Finkenstein, whom everybody calls Count Fink, is very like the late Lord Hervey, and yet his face is the ugliest I ever saw. But when he speaks, his affectation, the motion of his eyes and shoulders, all his different gestures and grimaces, bring Lord Hervey very strongly into my mind; and, like that Lord, he is the Queen’s favourite (I mean the Queen Mother’s); and her Majesty, whether seriously or otherwise I can’t tell, calls him “_Mon beau Comte Fink_.” He has parts, and is what, at Berlin, is called _sçavant_, which is to say, that he has read all the modern French story books, from _Les Egaremens_ down to the history of _Prince Cocquetron_. The person who has certainly the greatest share of the King of Prussia’s confidence is one Heichel. He is his Private Secretary, and writes all that the King himself dictates. But this man I never saw, and people that have lived here seven years have never seen him. He is kept like a State Prisoner, is in constant waiting, and never has half an hour to himself in the whole year. [Then follows the account of Fredersdorff, to the same purpose, and nearly in the same words as in the extracts printed above.] He (Fredersdorff) is his Secretary for all small affairs for his Prussian Majesty.-- Il fait tout par ses mains, et voit tout par ses yeux. If a Courier is to be dispatched to Versailles, or a Minister to Vienna, his Prussian Majesty draws, himself, the instructions for the one, and writes the letters for the other. This, you’ll say, is great; but if a Dancer at the Opera has disputes with a Singer, or if one of those performers want a new pair of stockings, a plume for his helmet, or a finer petticoat, ’tis the same King of Prussia that sits in judgment on the cause, and that with his own hand answers the Dancer’s or the Singer’s letter. His Prussian Majesty laid out 20,000_l._ to build a fine theatre, and his music and Singers cost him near the same sum every year; yet this same King, when an opera is performed, wont allow ten pounds per night to light up the theatre with wax candles; and the smoke that rises from the bad oil, and the horrid stink that flows from the tallow, make many of the audience sick, and actually spoil the whole entertainment. What I have thought about this Prince is very true; and I believe, after reading what I say about him, you will think so too. _He is great in great things, and little in little ones._ * * * * *