In the latter part of April, the weather being very fine, the king decided to leave Berlin and retire to his rural palace at Potsdam. It seems, however, that he was fully aware that his days were nearly ended, for upon leaving the city he said, “Fare thee well, then, Berlin; I am going to die in Potsdam.” The winter had been one of almost unprecedented severity, and the month of May was cold and wet. As the days wore on the king’s health fluctuated, and he was continually struggling between life and death. The king, with all his great imperfections, was a thoughtful man. As he daily drew near the grave, the dread realities of the eternal world oppressed his mind. He sent for three clergymen of distinction, to converse with them respecting his preparation for the final judgment. It seems that they were very faithful with him, reminding him of his many acts of violence and tyranny, alluding particularly to his hanging Baron Schlubhut, at Königsberg, without even a trial. The king endeavored to defend himself, saying, “It is true that Schlubhut had no trial, but he certainly deserved his doom. He was a public thief, stealing the taxes he was sent to gather; insolently offering to repay, as if that were all the amends required; and saying that it was not good manners to hang a nobleman.” Still the clergymen pressed upon him his sins, his many acts of oppression, his unrelenting and unforgiving spirit. Singularly enough, most of the members of the tobacco parliament were present at this strange interview; and some of them, courtier like, endeavored to defend the king against several of the charges brought against him. The king might emphatically be called a good hater; and he hated his brother-in-law, the King of England, perhaps with passion as implacable as ever took possession of a human heart. In allusion to this, one of the clergymen, M. Roloff, said, “There is the forgiveness of enemies. Your majesty is bound to forgive all men. If you do not do this, how can you ask to be forgiven?” The king had a logical mind. He could keenly feel where the argument pinched. He seemed quite troubled. After a moment’s pause, he said, “Well, I will do it.” Then, turning to the queen, he said, “You, Phiekin, may write to your brother, _after I am dead_, and tell him that I forgave him, and died at peace with him.” “It would be better,” M. Roloff mildly suggested, “that your majesty should write at once.” “No,” said the king, sternly and peremptorily. “Write after I am dead. That will be safer.” At parting, the king bore magnanimous testimony to the fidelity of his spiritual advisers. He said to M. Roloff, who had been the principal speaker, “You do not spare me. It is right. You do your duty like an honest Christian man.”