What a good time it was, and how rich in manifold and picturesque impressions!

The canvas continues to unroll and a literary period opens—­that age between youth and manhood, of all ages most passionate and ideal, when we are enthralled and moved by what we read—­by those studies which

“adolescentiam agunt, senectutem oblectant, secundas res ornant, adversis perfugium ac solatium praebent, delectant domi, non impediunt foris; pernoctant nobiscum, peregrinantur, rusticantur.”

It was the Lohengrin period, when, filled with the ardour and imaginativeness of high-souled youth, the future Emperor was dimly thinking of all he would do in the days to come for the happiness and prosperity of his people, nay, of all mankind.

Another tableau presents itself.  Life has now become real and the Emperor’s soldiering days have begun—­never to conclude!  His regiment is his world; parades and drills, the orderly-room and the barrack square occupy his time; and would seem monotonous and hard but for the little Eden with its Eve close beside them.

The Emperor turns uneasily, for his thoughts recur to the painful circumstances of his accession; but calmness soon succeeds as the curtain rises on the splendid panorama of the reign.  He sees himself, a young and hitherto unknown actor, leaving the wings and taking the very centre of the stage, while the vast audience sits silent and attentive, as yet hardly grasping the significance of his words and gestures, emphatic though they are.  And then he recalls the years of Sturm und Drang, the growth of Empire in spite of grudging rivals and of fellow-countrymen as yet not wholly conscious of their destinies, which one can now see constituted a whole drama in themselves, fraught with great consequences to the world.

But we are keeping the Emperor awake when he should be left to well-deserved repose.  He has doubtless half forgotten it all; the Bismarck episode is one of those

     “... old, unhappy, far-off things
     And battles long ago”

of which the poet sings.  One unquiet political care excepted, all the rest must be pleasant for him to remember—­the rising with the dawn, the hurried little breakfast with the Empress, the pawing horses of the adjutants and escort in the courtyard of the palace; the constant travelling in and far beyond the Empire; the incessant speech-making, with its appeals to the past and its promises, nobly realized, of “splendid days” in the future—­its calls to the people to arms, to the sea, to the workshop, to school, to church, to anything praiseworthy, provided only it was action for the common good; the dockyards in Kiel and Danzig, with their noise of “busy hammers closing rivets up”; the ever-swelling trade statistics; and the proud feeling that at last his country was coming into her own.

Even the sensation the Emperor caused from time to time in other countries must have had a certain charm for him—­endless telegrams, endless scathing editorials, endless movement and excitement.  There is no fun like work, they say.  The Emperor worked hard and enjoyed working.  It was the “personal regiment,” maybe, and it could not last for ever; but while it did it was doubtless very gratifying, and, notwithstanding all his critics say, magnificently successful.