Personally, I know of no other town where such late hours are the vogue,
except St. Petersburg. But your St. Petersburger does not get up early
in the morning. At St. Petersburg, the music halls, which it is the
fashionable thing to attend _after_ the theatre--a drive to them taking
half an hour in a swift sleigh--do not practically begin till twelve.
Through the Neva at four o'clock in the morning you have to literally
push your way; and the favourite trains for travellers are those starting
about five o'clock in the morning. These trains save the Russian the
trouble of getting up early. He wishes his friends "Good-night," and
drives down to the station comfortably after supper, without putting the
house to any inconvenience.

Potsdam, the Versailles to Berlin, is a beautiful little town, situate
among lakes and woods. Here in the shady ways of its quiet,
far-stretching park of Sans Souci, it is easy to imagine lean, snuffy
Frederick "bummeling" with shrill Voltaire.

Acting on my advice, George and Harris consented not to stay long in
Berlin; but to push on to Dresden. Most that Berlin has to show can be
seen better elsewhere, and we decided to be content with a drive through
the town. The hotel porter introduced us to a droschke driver, under
whose guidance, so he assured us, we should see everything worth seeing
in the shortest possible time. The man himself, who called for us at
nine o'clock in the morning, was all that could be desired. He was
bright, intelligent, and well-informed; his German was easy to
understand, and he knew a little English with which to eke it out on
occasion. With the man himself there was no fault to be found, but his
horse was the most unsympathetic brute I have ever sat behind.