towards a park.  The whole, of course—­for Baedeker is talking—­forms an “imposing pile,” with “mediocre sculptures, but the effect of the weathered sandstone figures against the red brick is very pleasing.”  Here the Emperor’s father, Frederick III, was born, lived as Crown Prince, reigned for ninety-nine days, and died.  Here, too, are more “apartments of Frederick the Great,” with pictures by Rubens, including an “Adoration of the Magi,” a good example of Watteau and a portrait of Voltaire drawn by Frederick’s own hand.  In the north wing are situated the present Emperor’s suite of chambers, where distinguished men of all countries have discussed almost every conceivable topic, political, social, religious, martial, artistic, financial, and commercial, with one of the most interesting talkers of his time.  No bloody tragedy has defiled the palace, as did the murder of Lord Darnley at Holyrood, that of the Duke of Guise (Sir Walter Scott’s “Le Balafre”) the chateau of Blois, the execution of the Bourbon Duc d’Enghien the palace of Vincennes, or the murder of the boy princes the Tower of London.  But bloodless tragedy, and exquisite comedy, and farce too, have doubtless had their hour within the walls.  One such incident of the politico-tragic kind was that which passed only two years ago between the Emperor and his Imperial Chancellor, when Prince von Buelow went as deputy from the Federal Council, the Parliament, and the people to pray the Emperor to exercise more caution in his public, or semi-public statements; and the historian may possibly find another, and not without its touch of comedy, in the reception by the Emperor of the Chinese prince, who headed the “mission of atonement” for the murder of the Emperor’s Minister in Pekin during the Boxer troubles.

From the New Palace our foreigner will probably drive to the Marble Palace, which (for Baedeker is ever at one’s elbow with the facts) he will mark was built in 1796 by Frederick William II, who died here, was completed in 1845 by Frederick William IV, and was the residence of the present Emperor at the time of his accession.

But while our foreigner has been hurrying from one palace to another, with his mind in a fog of historical and topographical confusion—­if he is an American, half-hoping, half-expecting to meet the Emperor or Empress and secure a bow from one or other, or—­why not?—­one of William’s well-known vigorous poignees de main, there is always one thought predominant in his mind—­Sans Souci.  That is the real object of his quest, the main attraction that has brought him, all unconscious of it, to Berlin, and not the laudable, but wholly mistaken efforts of the “Society for the Promotion of Tourist Traffic,” which seeks to lure the moneyed and reluctant foreigner to the German capital.  Our foreigner enters the Park of Sans Souci and his spirit is at rest.  Now he knows where he really is—­not in the wonderful new German Empire, not in modern Berlin with its splendid and to him unspeaking streets,