Though, again, there have been others who could write in considerable disorder; not to say litter, and palpable imperfection of equipment: Samuel Johnson, for instance, did some really grand writing in a room where there was but one chair, and that one incapable of standing unless you sat on it, having only three feet.

A man is to fit himself to what is round him: but surely a Crown-Prince may be indulged in a little brocade in his leisure moments!-- Fritz and Quantz sat doing music, an unlawful thing, in this pleasant, but also unlawful costume; when Lieutenant Katte, who was on watch in the outer room, rushes in, distraction in his aspect: Majesty just here! Quick, double quick! Katte snatches the music-books and flutes, snatches Quantz; hurries with him and them into some wall-press, or closet for firewood, and stands quaking there.

Our poor Prince has flung aside his brocade, got on his military coatie; and would fain seem busy with important or indifferent routine matters.

But, alas, he cannot undo the French hairdressing; cannot change the graceful French bag into the strict Prussian queue in a moment.

The French bag betrays him; kindles the paternal vigilance,--alas, the paternal wrath, into a tornado pitch.
For his vigilant suspecting Majesty searches about; finds the brocade article behind a screen; crams it, with loud indignation, into the fire; finds all the illicit French Books; confiscates them on the spot, confiscates all manner of contraband goods:--and there was mere sulphurous whirlwind in those serene spaces for about an hour! If his Majesty had looked into the wood-closet?
His Majesty, by Heaven's express mercy, omitted that.