eagues, and then the last
farewell, when in the early morning he drove to Charlottenburg and alone
went down into the mausoleum where his old master slept, to lay a rose
upon his tomb.

The rest he had so often longed for had come, but it was too late. Forty
years he had passed in public life and he could not now take up again
the interests and occupations of his youth. Agriculture had no more
charms for him; he was too infirm for sport; he could not, like his
father, pass his old age in the busy indolence of a country gentleman's
life, nor could he, as some statesmen have done, soothe his declining
years by harmless and amiable literary dilettanteism. His religion was
not of that complexion that he could find in contemplation, and in
preparation for another life, consolation for the trials of this one. At
seventy-five years of age, his intellect was as vigorous and his energy
as unexhausted as they had been twenty years before; his health was
improved, for he had found in Dr. Schweninger a physician who was not
only able to treat his complaints, but could also compel his patient to
obey his orders. He still felt within himself full power to continue his
public work, and now he was relegated to impotence and obscurity.
Whether in Varzin or Friedrichsruh, his eyes were always fixed on
Berlin. He saw the State which he had made, and which he loved as a
father, subjected to the experiment of young and inexperienced control.
He saw overthrown that carefully planned system by which the peace of
Europe was made to depend upon the prosperity of Germany. Changes were
made in the working of that Constitution which it seemed presumption for
anyone but him to touch. His policy was deserted, his old enemies were
taken into favour. Can we wonder that he could not restrain his
impatience? He felt like a man who sees his heir ruling in his own house
during his lifetime, cutting down his woods and dismissing his old
servants, or as if he saw a careless and clumsy rider mounted on his
favourite horse.

From all parts of Germany deputations from towns and newspaper writers
came to visit him. He received them with his customary courtesy, and
spoke with his usual frankness. He did not disguise his chagrin; he had,
he said, not been treated with the consideration which he deserved. He
had never been accustomed to hide his feelings or to disguise his
opinions. Nothing that his successors did seemed to him good. They made
a treaty with Engl