Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing A flowery band to bind us to the earth, Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth Of noble natures, of the gloomy days, Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways Made for our searching: […]

A slash of his blade just missed my ear.

… I could not but notice, with some degree of curiosity, the gradual approaches of one of these remorae of society into the good graces of as genuine an English family as ever left the fat fields of Suffolk to pay for peeping at foreign novelty.

The good-natured ribbing masks some serious points of contention not only within Berlin but also in German society as a whole.