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There I saw at length those French, Of whom you have sung the glories; A people despised by the English, Whom their sad rationality fills with black bile; Those French, whom our Germans Reckon all to be destitute of sense; Those French, whose History consists of Love-stories, I mean the wandering kind of Love, not the constant; Foolish this People, headlong, high-going, Which sings beyond endurance; Lofty in its good fortune, crawling in its bad; Of an unpitying extent of babble, To hide the vacancy of its ignorant mind.
"Soltikof has intrenched himself on the Wine-Hills at Lossow, comfortably out of Friedrich's way, and contiguous to Oder and the provision-routes; sits there, angrily deaf to the voice of the charmer; nothing to be charmed out of him, but gusts of indignation, instead of consent. A proud, high-going, indignant kind of man, with a will of his own.
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