While we are travelling by rail, we must occupy our readers with some facts concerning this summer residence of the Prussian royal family, and take them back to the year 1736, when Frederick William I, after having already shown his preference for the town of Potsdam, issued a royal letter, granting it still greater privileges and immunities. The king's love of the chase, and the facilities it afforded for the indulgence of this taste, were perhaps the chief reasons for his selection of this spot. There were many reasons against it: the marshy soil, the barren wastes of sand, and the chilly-looking unclad hills around the Havel, might not have had attractions for any other monarch. But Frederick William condemned both the grandeur of nature and art, which are generally considered the necessary appendages to royalty. His main objects were to hunt, and build barracks where his pet guard of giant soldiers could be quartered. There was great regularity, and but little beauty, in the additions made to the town by this king. Long rows of houses, tall, stiff, and as much like regiments as mason and carpenter could make them-such was the style of building best adapted to his taste. It mattered not if a piece of marshy ground intercepted the straight line ordained for a street; it was filled up with trees from the neighbouring forest. The labours of days, and the money expended upon this gigantic work, were sometimes lost in one single night; but, scarcely had the obstinate morass conquered his efforts, than the work was resumed, till at last nature gave way to the indomitable will of this iron-hearted king. We must therefore regard Potsdam, at the time of Frederick II's accession, as one of the ugliest, dreariest royal residences that can well be imagined. The castle was a plain barrack-looking building, without any pretension to magnificence. Sans Souci was a barren rising ground, the sandy soil yielding but a scanty herbage, and overlooking a wide extent of country; but its character is best described by the name generally given to it at that time, viz. "The Desert Mountain." The new palace Babelsberg Charlottenhof, and the other palaces, were not thought of, and many a marshy waste gave the whole place a chilly and desolate appearance. We, however, in the autumn of 1857, received a very different impression. Leaving the railway station, we crossed the Havel, which here widens almost to a lake, with many a wooded island and promontory casting their shadows over the still waters. Towers are seen here and there, rising above the trees, and commanding the best views of the city, and of the Havel and the surrounding country. Opposite us rises the dome of the St. Nicholas church, and turning to the left we enter the town portal of the palace, communicate our wishes to the castellan, and, being provided by him with a guide, we ascend the stairs, and are ushered into that part of the palace which was devoted to the immediate use of Frederick. A door in the wainscot of the audience-chamber opens into the concert-room, panelled in green, and pictures in the style of Watteau, framed in silver, forming the centre of each panel. This room, and those immediately following, have been left untouched since | his death. There stands the old piano built by Silbermann; a music-stand of tortoiseshell, inlaid with silver, still supports the flute accompaniment; and under a glass-case we see, upon a yellow piece of note paper, the music which he himself composed. There, too, at a writing-table opposite the window, many a royal order has been signed, and many a royal blot is still visible. We pass on into a sua! writing cabinet, the walls of which are painted pa yellow, with festoons of flowers in coloured carving and chandeliers of Dresden china en suite, altogether producing a light and elegant effect. There anothe great man has written and issued orders, and las left a sign of his presence, as the guide, pointir to a new piece of velvet in the covering, tells "Napoleon I cut out a piece of the velvet, and tok it as a relic to Paris." In the bedroom of the great king we find t chief personal relics. It is a large room, serving the double purpose of bed-room and sitting-row. the further end being divided by a low balustrad of solid silver. Here, too, was his private library consisting entirely of French works; and through a glass-case we are permitted to look at the fr things that have been preserved as relics-t green shade which he wore during his last day his last shirt, gloves, and cocked hat, the telescope e used on the field of battle, one of his many flutes and a book which was half burnt in his hand whe he was sleeping. The secret dining-room is a curious small circular apartment, with a table s constructed that all the dishes were drawn up fre the ground-floor, in order to prevent the necess# of attendants. We must confess that there something very every-day in all that we can about this palace, or rather this part of it, and gladly descend the inclined plane, which served e stairs for Frederick William I when his freq attacks of gout obliged him to be conveyed in chair from the upper rooms of the castle. On our way through the Brandeburg gate the Grünen Gitter, we will imagine ourselves traported back to the time when Frederick first p jected and planned his summer retreat. We no longer surrounded by the modern improvemer of the nineteenth century, but we approach a ser what dreary space where, here and there, the vari of wood, water, and rising ground warranted t hope that this spot might be to the toil-wo warrior a" Sans Souci." It is the year 1744, second Silesian war is on the point of breaking ( but the king has just issued an order for the build of a summer palace. He writes during the and while his enemies surround him on every s “I know not whether a Sans Souci can ever e for me." But as time passes on, and many veteran has fallen, Frederick returns unhurt, to joy at last the repose which his new palace afford to one so restlessly energetic. The une rising ground had been transformed into six terras planted with vines, and leading in a direct line the palace; to the right the picture gallery, and either side extended the gardens, laid out in t formal style of the age, and not far from the pals the spot devoted as a cemetery for his dogs and favourite horse. The names are nearly obliterate but these canine friends were each honoured with | memorial stones, marking the date of their birth and decease. Beyond is the close-clipped philosopher's walk, where Frederick talked, reasoned, and quarrelled with Voltaire, or enjoyed, as long as he might, the rapidly narrowing circle of his chosen friends. The trees were young, the grounds but too faithful a copy of the stiff French style, yet both within and without the genius of the great ruling mind was evident; the waste had been converted into a right royal pleasaunce, and architecture with her sister arts had contrived to produce a fitting retreat for the war-worn monarch. Scarce had all this been effected, before another royal residence arose, which was a proof to his enemies of his unexhausted resources after the Seven Years' War. This was the new palace, which has already been described in a former volume of "The Leisure Hour," exceeding in size and magnificence the more comfortable but less pretending palace of Sans Souci. The gardens are united by a long straight road passing below the terraces. Thus Sans Souci appeared to the men and women of the last century; but, as we are the men and women of the present century, we must be content to see, touch, and handle all that is left of the past. The gardens are very beautiful now with their autumn tints, and the bright waters of fountains gleam at every point in the silvery autumn sunshine. Fortunately it is Thursday, and not one of these babbling, dancing water-nymphs is at rest. We ascend the steps of the terraces and reach the level platform upon which the palace is built, which consists but of one floor. Passing round to the other side, the castellan admits us into an entrancehall; we are then conducted through the usual suite of rooms, beginning with the audience-chamber, and the library, well supplied with French literature. Behind the glass doors of the book-case is to be seen a French poem in the king's handwriting, with corrections by Voltaire. The walls are of carved cedar, and genuine antique busts are the sole ornaments. A large room with windows opening upon the terrace is the sitting-room and bedroom of Frederick; here he spent most of his time during the last months of his life. His circle of intimate friends had been repeatedly lessened by death, and, having never enjoyed the happiness of domestic life, the hour of his departure found him tended solely by devoted servants, but by none of his own kindred. His favourite sister, the Margravine of Bayreuth, had died during the Silesian war, and since her death he had never really enjoyed intimate friendship with any of his family. His nephew and successor had neither Frederick's confidence nor esteem, till within a short time before his death, when he showed himself both brave as a soldier and wise as a statesman. His son (afterwards Frederick William III, and grandfather of Prince Frederick William), on the contrary, was from his childhood a great favourite with the now aged king. When but six years of age, he was playing at ball in the same room; his great-uncle, vexed with the constant interruption of the erratic ball, which fell perpetually upon the table at which he was writing, caught and kept it. The boy begged, but in vain; at last he added, “Please yor" Majesty, the ball is mine, and therefore you will give it to me"--and stood determined and expectant; whereupon the king gave it him, saying with a satisfied smile, "That boy won't let them get hold of Silesia again." Still, this young child was only a hope for the future, but small comfort to the aged monarch. He had seen the friends of his youth sink one by one into the grave. His braves: generals had gone before him; one of the last that was taken from his side was old Ziethen. Frede rick's remark to his generals on his death was characteristic. "Our old Ziethen," said he, "has shown himself a general to the death. In battle he always led the avant-garde, and in death he has made the beginning; I led the chief army, ari shall follow him. You, gentlemen, have for the most part led the arrière-garde, and will have to follow us." One friend, whom we have not mentioned as yet. was in his last days a constant resident at Potsdam. where the king had had a house built for him. He had returned, after a long exile, to his native land Scotland, from which he had been banished o account of his attachment to the house of Stuart. The country, however, that had given him an asylan. during his banishment, and the monarch who hal chosen him as a friend, had grown so dear that, though he had numbered seventy years, Georg Keith, Hereditary Lord Marischal of Scotland, returned to end his days in Prussia, at the earnest invitation of his royal friend. The people at Pots dam never called him by any other name than "the king's friend." But though his family joys were few, his publi efforts for the good of his people were not withou a positive result which cheered his now otherwis cheerless life. The universal love and esteem ( his people was not, as has been maintained, a mere outward show. It was always a gala day whe the "Alte Fritz" rode into town. The citizen came out, lifting up the children, that they migh sce their honoured and beloved sovereign. Many ran at his side, and especially a mass of children gathered round him. They shouted their "lehe hochs" to the Alte Fritz, wiped the dust from his boots, threw up their caps, and testified their glee in the most boisterous manner. Frederick always let them have their own way; only when they teased the horse so as to make it shy, he would raise his “krückstock" threateningly, and then ride quiethy on. Once the rogues went too far; at last the stick was raised, and he bade them be off to school Nothing daunted, they gleefully answered, "AL he pretends to be king, and does not even know that there is no school on Wednesday afternoon." the But we must return to the palace, as we have not yet seen all that is to be seen there; yet, as w find ourselves in the town, we will at least walk leisurely through the gardens. We pass Friedens Kirche (Church of Peace) on the right, built by the present king, after the model of the Basilica di Clementi at Rome. Passing through the garden surrounding the church, we cross the bridge that connects it with the gardens of SanSouci; immediately before us are two columns, placed at the entrance of the gardens, in the back ground an obelisk. It was near here that the king one day met his great-nephew above mentioned. It was but a short time before his death, and the following conversation was the last. After examining him in several branches of study, more especially in history and mathematics, the king drew from his pocket Lafontaine's Fables, and made the prince translate one of them. It happened to be one that he had just prepared for his tutor, and on the king's praising his readiness, the prince openly confessed that it was not new to him. Frederick brightened up, patted the boy's cheek, and said, "That is right, dear Fritz; be always honest and sincere; never wish to appear what you are not; rather be more than you seem to be." On his parting from him be added, "Now Fritz, strive to become something great, par excellence. Much is expected of thee. I am at the end of my career, and I shall soon be absolved from labour. I am afraid that after my death there will be sad work. Everywhere there are materials for fermentation, and unfortunately the reigning sovereigns, especially in France, feed rather than lessen them. I fear thou wilt one day have a difficult post to fill. Arm thyself and think of me. Watch over our honour and our fame, commit no injustice, neither suffer any." By this time they had reached the entrance to Sans Souci, where the obelisk stands. Look at it," said the king; "slender, aspiring, and tall, and yet firm in storm and tempest; that pyramid says to thee, Ma force est ma droiture;' the extreme point crowns the whole, but it is supported from beneath. foundation is the nation in its unity. Always maintain its love and confidence, then only canst thou be strong and prosperous." The king then regarded the prince with a penetrating glance, kissed him, and dismissed him with the words "Do not forget this hour." The The aged monarch returned to Sans Souci, which he was soon destined to quit for ever. We too retrace our steps, and again enter the palace. There, in the sitting-room we have before mentioned, on the 17th of August, 1786, Frederick the Great breathed his last. We approached the chair in which he died, and which has remained unaltered, with feelings of reverence and pity. There the great man and the philosopher met the last enemy with the same calmness and force of will with which he had so often met his enemy on the battle-field. But there was no bright hope in his death, and we must leave his final doom to Him who knoweth the hearts of men. There is in this room the best likeness existing of Frederick; below it is the clock which marks the hour of his death, and which has never been wound up from that day. The same evening the body was conveyed to the town palace at Potsdam. On the 18th, the funeral procession left the palace at eight o'clock in the evening, and the remains of the dead were placed in the same vault which contains those of his father, Frederick William I. It had not been his intention to be buried there, ns, at the time of the building of Sans Souci, he had chosen a spot on the south-east side of the palace; but his successor, Frederick William 11, did not con sider it suitable for the purpose, and ordered the body to be buried in the Royal Garrison church. This, then, was all that remained for us to see, and we left the palace and gardens of Sans Souci, and repaired to the church. In vain we sought to obtain an entrance; the old clerk was ill, and would trust the keys to no one but an old woman, who was gone on an errand to the other side of the town. At three o'clock he promised we should have better success; but alas! we had to return to Berlin without accomplishing our design. Another time we managed better, by writing a pathetic account of our disappointment to the court chaplain, and fixing a time for our arrival. It is, after all, but little to see, and yet we felt more gratified by the stern simplicity of this last resting-place than by the stately mausoleums we have seen elsewhere. Under the gaily decorated pulpit, which is an unfortunate remnant of the days of tasteless ornament, there are two bronze folding doors; we enter the low vault; to the left is the marble coffin of the father, to the right the small plain zinc coffin of the son: there is no attempt at grandeur, two bronzed branches for lights on either side being the sole ornament. We left the vault, and spite of many a harsh fact and some inexplicable traits in the character of the dead, we wondered, and we still wonder, at those who dispute the greatness of the monarch whose memory is loved and cherished by a nation that owes its rank among the nations to his genius and lifelong activity. We do not blind ourselves to the fact that his faults were great; the one that pains us most, and casts a shadow over all his life, was his want of real religious feeling. That he respected the truly good, proofs are not wanting, but that he too frequently included good men in the category of fanatics and hypocrites has also been too well proved. Yet we do maintain that a prince who lived a long life in the service of a nation, who hoarded no treasure, but gathered together in order to expend it again upon his people, who died, looked upon not as the tyrant, but as the father of his people, and who requires no monument to mark his place of sepulchre, but the careful, loving remembrance of a grateful nation, must have been possessed of qualities entitling him (according to the world's usual acceptation of the word) to the appellation of Great. A THOUSAND POUND NOTE. THE events which we are about briefly to record occurred some five and thirty years ago: they will be set down here without any attempt at embellishment, and the reader may therefore accept them as the details of a simple and straightforward narrative. About the year 1824, and indeed for some years previous, there had been an immigration larger than usual of needy Irish, as well families as individuals, into this country. Great numbers of them had taken domestic service in some capacity or other, in English families, where, it would appear that many had so misconducted themselves as to give rise to a prejudice against Irish servants, to the great detriment even of those whose conduct was entirely blameless. This prejudice did not subside, but on the contrary increased in strength while it spread widely; until at length advertisements in the "Times," and other newspapers, offering places to domestic servants, began to exhibit the stereotyped addition, "No Irish need apply." The result was fatal to the prosperity of many very worthy persons of both sexes, and thousands of the unfortunate Irish, thus cruelly and publicly branded, had to return to their own country, or else to seek in the exile of a foreign land that toleration which was denied them in Britain. 'No, yer honour-all abed this two hours." "Wake them all, and bring them here." The man stared in a way that convinced Lof his innocence of the theft, whoever might be guilty; but he said nothing, and left the room to execute his orders. In a few minutes every servant in the house, from the housekeeper to the scullion, were assem bled in the master's bed-chamber, and each one, tɔ all appearance, perfectly amazed at their unaccount It happened that a liberal-minded gentleman, whom we shall call Mr. L-, had occasion to commence housekeeping in London at this junc-able summons in the dead of the night. L—, ture; and, with a view to check, if possible, and at in a few words, explained to them the cause of the the same time to reprove this persecuting prejudice assembling; and having made them all fully sensibl against an injured class, he inserted advertisements of the nature of the crime which had been comin the daily papers, calling for a complete staff of mitted, demanded if any of them had any inform household servants, and adding the very unusual, tion to give. There were plenty of blank and or rather the unique announcement, "None but Irish wondering looks, but not a voice was raised in need apply." As may be readily conceived, he had reply. When the question was put to each sepa applications enough, and soon selected a staff suffi-rately, the ready response in each case was a showe cient for his purpose. For a time all went as well as he could desire; he was zealously and honestly served, his house was kept in most excellent condition, and, having no cause to regret on any grounds the step he had taken, he felt that he had reason to congratulate himself on having thus practically indicated the character of the Irish servant. of negatives and asseverations of innocence, b nothing more. Finding at length that no clue to discovery was to be obtained in this way, L— dismissed them all to their beds, and then retiral to his own-not to sleep, as may be imagined, but to ruminate on some plan for recovering, if the might be possible, the lost note. Rising early next morning, he proceeded to Bo Street, and made the facts of the case known to the authorities there. Without loss of time a couple experienced detectives were despatched to his rest nence, and whilst the doors were guarded without a thorough search was instituted within. Nothing was found; and though the officers tried all ther skill upon each of the domestics in succession, the all told so plain a tale, with such unvarying exactude in the repetition, and all were so free from equivocation or reserve, that it seemed impossil to fasten suspicion upon any one of them. St the detectives were loath to acknowledge themselves defeated, and day after day they returned to t house, renewing and repeating their search an cross-examining the servants-one of whom, was beyond a doubt, must be guilty of the theft. One day, as he was in the act of leaving his house, a friend drove up in his carriage, alighted, and, beckoning him back into the entrance-hall, put into his hands a thousand pound bank of England note, in payment of a sum which L- had temporarily accommodated him with a few days before. The friend at the same time invited him to meet a party of gentlemen at dinner that day at his house, offering to drive him thither in his carriage if he were at liberty to go at once. L-, consenting, ran upstairs to make some alterations in his dress, and, placing the bank-note under a scent bottle on his dressing-table, busied himself for a few minutes at his toilet. In his haste, all thought of the banknote escaped his mind. He ran down again, rejoined his friend, drove off to the dinner party, and entered into the full enjoyment of the hour. It was not until the dessert was nearly discussed that Days, weeks, months, passed on, and nother! some casual remark of one of the guests brought was heard of the note-the only consolation tha the thousand pound note to his memory. He, how- L received during this time being involved ever, distinctly remembered where he had placed the fact that his friend who had paid it him has it, and, though inwardly blaming himself for his been able to learn its number, and that theref carelessness, and for laying so powerful a tempta- the thief, whoever he was, could not make ts: tion in the way of his dependants, he thought it of it without the certainty of being ultimately di was not worth while to trouble himself about it, much covered. Meanwhile the circumstance took wind, less to disturb his host by withdrawing from the and began to be talked of a good deal about tow pleasant society around him. He stayed, therefore, More than that, some of the newspapers took t till the party broke up, endeavouring to make light the subject in an incidental way, and exhausted tha of the misgivings which would occasionally intrude quivers of their wit upon the eccentric philanthr upon his mind, and about two o'clock in the morn-pist who had paid so dear for the privilege of acting ing returned to his home. as grand Irish champion and upholding the Hiber nian character. L- himself hardly knew by this time what to think of the business. His servan continued to behave unexceptionably; though a must have felt themselves under suspicion, not one desired to quit his employ: they were as careful, The man servant who let him in lighted him to his bed-room, and on arriving there L- saw at a glance that, though all else on the dressing-table was as he had left it, the thousand pound note had disappeared. |