Before long the King of Prussia will endeavour to be at one and the
same time the spiritual head of the Lutheran Church and the temporal
Pope of the Catholic Church, the leader of economists, the cleverest of
stategists, the one and only socialist, the most marvellous incarnation
of the warrior of German legends, the greatest pacifist of modern
times, explorer in his day and soothsayer whenever he likes. In his
own eyes, William is all these.

Have not the delegates of the old House of Peers ingenuously complained
during these last few days that they no longer possess any initiative
of legislation? But they have just as much or as little as the
honourable members of the Prussian Diet.

All schemes of reform emanate from the Emperor. The people have no
right to be Emperor. Surely that is simple enough?

To bulk larger in the public eye, William dwells apart; he can no
longer endure that any one should presume to think himself useful or
agreeable to him or to give him advice. He is fulfilling the
prediction that he made of himself when he was twenty-one: "When I come
to reign I shall have no friends; I shall only have dupes."

More infatuated with himself than ever, the Emperor wears his mystic
helmet _à la_ Lohengrin, tramples the purple underfoot and has the
throne surrounded by his life-guards, wearing the iron-plated bonnets
of the days of Frederick II. Thus he deludes himself with the dream of
absolute authority. His mania for power is boundless, his pride knows
no limits. He recognises only God and Himself.