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Amongst the round of splendors now set on foot, Friedrich Wilhelm had, by accident of Nature, the spectacle of a house on fire, rather a symbolic one in those parts, afforded him, almost to start with. This was the one touch of rough, amid so much of dulcet that occurred: no evil, this touch, almost rather otherwise, except to poor Wackerbarth, whose fine House lay wrecked by it.
The mighty man removed his storm-cape from his shoulders as though it were ermine he were doffing before condescending to associate with ordinary mortals. Professor Wackerbarth had a wife who beat him and gave him nothing to eat: he regarded this as a rare opportunity to eat his fill and have a good time generally. But it was a poor sort of a good time.
The Crown-Prince lodged with Fieldmarshal Flemming; Friedrich Wilhelm, having come in no state, refused King August's pressings, and took up his quarters with "the General Fieldmarshal Wackerbarth, Commandant in Dresden," pleasant old military gentleman, who had besieged Stralsund along with him in times gone.
Having read the score of “Vineta,” he said to two of these: “Fetch me that fellow dead or alive.” And they fetched him. The two came more frequently to Daniel, and then others, pupils of Professors Wackerbarth and Döderlein. At times he would take luncheon with them in the students’ restaurant. We will call them the long-haired, or the pale-faced. Many of them looked like snake-charmers.
He promised to publish “Vineta” and also the work Daniel had finished in the meantime, entitled “Nuremberg Serenade.” He also seemed inclined to consider favourably Daniel’s appointment in his newly founded opera company. Among those present at the dinner were Professors Herold and Wackerbarth, Wurzelmann, a few of the long-haired and a few of the lost-in-dreams.
The bibliomaniacal doctor, however, seems to have pleased me better out of the pulpit than in it, for I find that "he called in the afternoon and chatted amusingly for an hour. He fell tooth and nail upon the Oxford Tracts men, and told us of a Mr. Wackerbarth, a curate in Essex, a Cambridge man, who, he says, elevates the host, crosses himself, and advocates burning of heretics.
Wurzelmann boasted of having won his way to the seats of the mighty. He had the cordial approval of such professors of music as Wackerbarth and Herold. His masterpiece of diplomacy lay in the fact that he had secured Andreas Döderlein as director of the orchestra. His store of suggestions was inexhaustible, his plans without number.