und, old and joyless as
his master. Neither the bust of Voltaire, with its beaming, intelligent
face, nor those of his friends, Lord-Marshal Keith and the Marquis
d'Argens, could win an affectionate glance from the lonely old king.
He whom Europe distinguished as the Great Frederick, whom his subjects
called their "father and benefactor," whose name was worthy to shine
among the brightest stars of heaven, his pale, thin lips just murmured,
"Resignation!"

With downcast eyes he paced his cabinet, murmuring, "Let us submit!"
He would not look up to those who were gazing down upon him from the
walls--to those who were no more. The remembrance of them unnerved
him, and filled his heart with grief. The experiences of life, and the
ingratitude of men, had left many a scar upon this royal heart, but had
never hardened it; it was still overflowing with tender sympathy
and cherished memories. To Lord-Marshal Keith, Marquis d'Argens, and
Voltaire, Frederick owed the happiest years of his life.

D'Argens, who passionately loved Frederick, had been dead five years;
Lord-Marshal Keith one month; and Voltaire was dying! This intelligence
the king had received that very morning, from his Paris correspondent,
Grimm. It was this that filled his heart with mourning. The face, that
smiled so full of intelligence, was perhaps distorted with agony, and
those beaming eyes were now closing in death!

Voltaire was dying!

Frederick's thoughts were with the dead and dying--with the past! He
recalled, when crown prince at Rheinsberg, how much he had admired,
loved, and distinguished Voltaire; how he rejoiced, and how honored he
felt, when, as a young king, Voltaire yielded to his request to live
with him at Berlin. This intimacy, it is true, did not long continue;
the king was forced to recognize, with bitter regret, that the MAN
Voltaire was not worthy the love which he bestowed upon the POET. He
renounced the MAN, but the poet was still his admiration; and all the
perfidy, slander and malice of Voltaire, had never changed Frederick.
The remembrance of it had long since faded from his noble heart--only
the memory of the poet, of the author of so many hours of the purest
enjoyment, remained.

Voltaire was dying!

This great and powerful spirit, who so long a time, in the natural body,
had instructed, inspired, and refreshed mankind, would leave that body
to rise--whither?

"Immortality, what art thou?" asked the king, aloud, and for the