and with the other good-naturedly patting the neck of the horse. It was
a sunny marble hand, a mighty hand--one of the pair which subdued the
many headed monster of anarchy, and regulated the conflict of
nations--and it good-naturedly patted the neck of the horse. Even the
face had that hue which we find in the marble Greek and Roman busts, the
traits were as nobly proportioned as those of the ancients, and on that
countenance was plainly written "Thou shalt have no gods before me!" A
smile, which warmed and tranquilized every heart, flitted over the
lips--and yet all knew that those lips needed but to whistle _et la
Prusse n'existait plus_--those lips needed but to whistle and the entire
clergy would have stopped their ringing and singing--those lips needed
but to whistle, and the entire Holy Roman Empire would have danced. And
these lips smiled, and the eye too smiled. It was an eye clear as
heaven; it could read the hearts of men; it saw at a glance all things
in the world at once, while we ordinary mortals see them only one by
one, and then only their colored shadows. The brow was not so clear, the
phantoms of future battles were nestling there, and from time to time
there was a quiver which swept over this brow, and those were the
creative thoughts, the great seven-league-boots thoughts, wherewith the
spirit of the Emperor strode invisibly over the world; and I believe
that every one of those thoughts would have furnished a German author
plentiful material to write about all the days of his life.

The Emperor rode calmly, straight through the middle of the avenue; no
policeman stopped him; behind him proudly rode his cortege on snorting
steeds and loaded with gold and ornaments. The drums rolled, the
trumpets pealed; near me crazy Aloysius spun round, and snarled the
names of his generals; not far off bellowed the tipsy Gumpert, and the
multitude cried with a thousand voices, "Es lebe der Kaiser!"--Long live
the Emperor!

IV

The Emperor is dead. On a waste island in the Indian Sea lies his
lonely grave, and he for whom the world was too narrow lies silently
under a little hillock, where five weeping willows shake out their green
hair, and a gentle little brook, murmuring sorrowfully, ripples by.
There is no inscription on his tomb; but Clio, with unerring style, has
written thereon invisible words, which will resound, like ghostly tones,
through the centuries.

Britannia, the sea is thine! But the sea hath no