The Great Events by Famous Historians, Volume 13

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Title: The Great Events by Famous Historians, Volume 13
Author: Johnson, Rossiter, 1840-1931 [Editor], Horne, Charles F. (Charles Francis), 1870-1942 [Editor], Rudd, John [Editor]
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Great Events by Famous Historians, Volume 13" ***

THE GREAT EVENTS

FAMOUS HISTORIANS

A COMPREHENSIVE AND READABLE ACCOUNT OF THE WORLD'S HISTORY, EMPHASIZING
THE MORE IMPORTANT EVENTS, AND PRESENTING THESE AS COMPLETE NARRATIVES
IN THE MASTER-WORDS OF THE MOST EMINENT HISTORIANS

NON-SECTARIAN NON-PARTISAN NON-SECTIONAL

ON THE PLAN EVOLVED FROM A CONSENSUS OF OPINIONS GATHERED FROM THE MOST
DISTINGUISHED SCHOLARS OF AMERICA AND EUROPE, INCLUDING BRIEF
INTRODUCTIONS BY SPECIALISTS TO CONNECT AND EXPLAIN THE CELEBRATED
NARRATIVES, ARRANGED CHRONOLOGICALLY, WITH THOROUGH INDICES,
BIBLIOGRAPHIES, CHRONOLOGIES, AND COURSES OF READING

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

ROSSITER JOHNSON, LL.D.

ASSOCIATE EDITORS

CHARLES F. HORNE, Ph.D. JOHN RUDD, LL.D.

_With a staff of specialists_

_VOLUME XIII_

The National Alumni

[Illustration: The charge of the British at Quebec.

Painting by R. Caxton Woodville.]

CONTENTS

VOLUME XIII

PAGE

_An Outline Narrative of the Great Events_, xiii
CHARLES F. HORNE

_John Law Promotes the Mississippi Scheme (A.D. 1716)_, 1
LOUIS ADOLPHE THIERS

_Prince Eugene Vanquishes the Turks_
_Siege and Battle of Belgrad (A.D. 1717)_, 16
PRINCE EUGENE OF SAVOY

_Bursting of the South Sea Bubble (A.D. 1720)_, 22
LOUIS ADOLPHE THIERS

_Bach Lays the Foundation of Modern Music (A.D. 1723)_, 31
HENRY TIPPER

_Settlement of Georgia (A.D. 1732)_, 44
WILLIAM B. STEVENS

_Rise of Methodism (A.D. 1738)_
_Preaching of the Wesleys and of Whitefield_, 57
WILLIAM E.H. LECKY

_Conquests of Nadir Shah_
_Capture of Delhi (A.D. 1739)_, 72
SIR JOHN MALCOLM

_First Modern Novel (A.D. 1740)_, 100
EDMUND GOSSE

_Frederick the Great Seizes Silesia (A.D. 1740)_
_Maria Theresa Appeals to the Hungarians_, 108
WILLIAM SMYTH

_Defeat of the Young Pretender at Culloden (A.D. 1746)_
_Last of the Stuarts_, 117
JUSTIN McCARTHY

_Benjamin Franklin Experiments with Electricity (A.D. 1747)_, 130
JOHN BIGELOW AND BENJAMIN FRANKLIN

_Voltaire Directs European Thought from Geneva (A.D. 1755)_, 144
JOHN MORLEY
GEORGE W. KITCHIN

_Braddock's Defeat (A.D. 1755)_, 163
WINTHROP SARGENT
GEORGE WASHINGTON
CAPTAIN DE CONTRECOEUR

_Exile of the Acadian Neutrals (A.D. 1755)_, 181
WILLIAM H. WITHROW

_Clive Establishes British Supremacy in India_
_Black Hole of Calcutta: Battle of Plassey (A.D. 1756)_, 185
SIR ALEXANDER J. ARBUTHNOT

_Seven Years' War (A.D. 1756-1763)_
_Battle of Torgau_, 204
WOLFGANG MENZEL
FREDERICK THE GREAT

_Conquest of Canada_
_Victory of Wolfe at Quebec (A.D. 1759)_, 229
A.G. BRADLEY

_Usurpation of Catharine II in Russia (A.D. 1762)_, 250
W. KNOX JOHNSON

_Conspiracy of Pontiac (A.D. 1763)_, 267
E.O. RANDALL

_American Colonies Oppose the Stamp Act (A.D. 1765)_
_Patrick Henry's Speech_, 299
JAMES GRAHAME
GEORGE BANCROFT

_Watt Improves the Steam-engine (A.D. 1769)_, 302
FRANÇOIS ARAGO

_First Partition of Poland (A.D. 1772)_, 313
JAMES FLETCHER

_The Boston Tea Party (A.D. 1773)_, 333
GEORGE BANCROFT

_Cotton Manufacture Developed (A.D. 1774)_, 341
THOMAS F. HENDERSON

_Intellectual Revolt of Germany_
_Goethe's_ Werther _Arouses Romanticism (A.D. 1775)_, 347
KARL HILLEBRAND

_Pestalozzi's Method of Education (A.D. 1775)_, 364
GEORGE RIPLEY

_Universal Chronology (A.D. 1716-1775)_, 379
JOHN RUDD

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

VOLUME XIII

PAGE

_The charge of the British at Quebec (page 248)_,
Painting by R. Caton Woodville. Frontispiece

_The British officer reads the decree of exile of the Acadian
Neutrals, in the village church_, 184
Painting by Frank Dicksee.

AN OUTLINE NARRATIVE

TRACING BRIEFLY THE CAUSES, CONNECTIONS, AND CONSEQUENCES OF

THE GREAT EVENTS

(FROM VOLTAIRE TO WASHINGTON)

CHARLES F. HORNE

During the eighteenth century a remarkable change swept over Europe. The
dominant spirit of the time ceased to be artistic as in the Renaissance,
or religious as in the Reformation, or military as during the savage
civil wars that had followed. The central figure of the world was no
longer a king, nor a priest, nor a general. Instead, the man on whom all
eyes were fixed, who towered above his fellows, was a mere author,
possessed of no claim to notice but his pen. This was the age of the
arisen intellect.

The rule of Louis XIV, both in its splendor and its wastefulness, its
strength and its oppression, its genius and its pride, had well prepared
the way for what should follow. Not only had French culture extended
over Europe, but the French language had grown everywhere to be the
tongue of polite society, of the educated classes. It had supplanted
Latin as the means of communication between foreign courts. Moreover,
the most all-pervading and obtrusive of French monarchs was succeeded by
the most retiring, the one most ready of all to let the world take what
course it would. Louis XV chanced to reign during this entire period,
from 1715 to 1774, and that is equivalent to saying that France, which
had become the chief state of Europe, was ungoverned, was only robbed
and bullied for the support of a profligate court. So long as citizens
paid taxes, they might think--and say--wellnigh what they pleased.

The elder Louis had realized something of the error of his own career
and had left as his last advice to his successor, to abstain from war.
We are told that the obedient legatee accepted the caution as his motto,
and had it hung upon his bedroom wall, where it served him as an
excellent excuse for doing nothing at all. His government was
notoriously in the hands of his mistresses, Pompadour and the others,
and their misrule was to the full as costly to France as the wars of the
preceding age. They drained the country quite as deeply of its resources
and renown; they angered and insulted it far more.

Meanwhile the misery of all Europe, caused by the continued warfare,
cried out for reform, demanded it imperatively if the human race were
not to disappear. The population of France had diminished by over ten
per cent. during the times of the "Grand Monarch"; the cost of the
Thirty Years' War to Germany we have already seen. Hence we find
ourselves in a rather thoughtful and anxious age. Even kings begin to
make some question of the future. Governments become, or like to call
themselves, "benevolent despotisms," and instead of starving their
subjects look carefully, if somewhat dictatorially, to their material
prosperity.

England, to be sure, but England alone, stands out as an exception to
the prevalence of despotic rule. There the commons had already won their
battle. King George I, the German prince whom they had declared their
sovereign after the death of Anne (1714), did not even know his
subjects' language, communicated with his ministers in barbaric Latin,
and left the governing wholly in their hands. The "cabinet" system thus
sprang up; the ministers were held responsible to Parliament and obeyed
its will. The exiled Stuart kings made one or two feeble attempts to win
back their throne, but the tide of progress was against them and their
last hope vanished in the slaughter of Culloden.[1]

By that defeat Great Britain was finally and firmly established as a
parliamentary government; and the most marked of all the physical
changes of the century was the rapid expansion of her power under this
new form of rule. She grew to be really "mistress of the seas," extended
her sceptre over distant lands, ceased to be an island, and became a
world-wide empire. Her trade increased enormously; her manufactures
developed. By his invention of the "spinning-jenny," Arkwright placed
England's cotton manufacture among the most giant industries of the
world.[2] The land grew vastly rich. It was her reward for political
progress, for having been able so to "get the start of the majestic
world."

SOCIAL DEVELOPMENT

At the opening of this period the talk of the town, both in Paris and in
London, ran on colonies and the tremendous wealth to be gained from them
as the Spaniards and the Dutch had done. During the minority of Louis
XV, even the Prince Regent of France dabbled in colonial investments.
The stock market became suddenly a prominent feature of politics. John
Law planned his dazzling "Mississippi Scheme," by which all Frenchmen
were to become millionaires. Only, unfortunately, the bubble burst, and
the industrious were ruined instead.[3] England had its "South Sea
Bubble," with the same madness of speculation, vanishing fortunes, and
blasted reputations.[4] The nobility having been driven by gunpowder
from their ancient occupation as warrior chiefs, having lost to kings
and people their rights as governors, became traders instead. We
approach a period in which they cease to be the leading order of
society, we approach the "reign of the middle classes."

From England, according to the English view, sprang also the great
intellectual movement of the age. Voltaire visited the England of
Addison and Pope; Montesquieu studied the English Constitution of 1689;
and these two men were the writers who overthrew absolutism in Europe,
who paved the way for the epoch of Revolution that was to follow.
Montesquieu's _Persian Letters_, satirizing French society, appeared as
early as 1721. Voltaire's sarcasms and witty sneers got him into trouble
with the French Government as early as 1715. He was imprisoned in the
Bastille, but released and at last driven from his country, a firebrand
cast loose upon Europe to spread the doctrine of man's equality, to cry
out everywhere for justice against oppression, and to mock with almost
satanic ingenuity against the religion in whose name Europe had plunged
into so many wars. By 1740 Voltaire was the most prominent figure of his
world, if we except perhaps the quarrelling sovereigns, Maria Theresa
and Frederick the Great. He dwelt for a time with Frederick in Berlin;
but the two disagreed as great potentates will, and Voltaire withdrew to
Geneva (1755), the little independent city republic which had served as
a refuge to so many fugitives on France's border.[5]

From Geneva, Voltaire corresponded with most of the crowned heads of
Europe. His advice was eagerly sought by "benevolent despotism." The aid
of his mighty pen was claimed by every victim of oppression. In Paris,
Diderot and his companions brought out the famous _Cyclopædia_, a mighty
monument of human learning indeed, but even more a mighty sermon against
tyranny, a scornful protest against Christianity, a teacher spreading
over all the earth the preachings of Voltaire.

If there was evil in this movement there was also good. Thought was
aroused, was stimulated, and everywhere the products of awakened genius
began to appear. The marvellous development of modern music had its
origin in this period with the creations of Bach.[6] The modern novel
began its tremendously important career with Richardson and Fielding.[7]
Inventive genius achieved the first great triumph of modern mechanicism
in Watt's steam-engine.[8] Even across the ocean spread the intellectual
impulse, and the New World had its Franklin to astonish and delight the
old with his experiments in electricity--childish experiments at first,
as man reached out slowly, shudderingly, toward control of this last and
most marvellous of his servants.[9]

Philanthropy awoke also. Serious folk began to have vague
self-questionings as to the righteousness of human slavery. The prison
system was investigated; in England there were vague attempts at its
reform. The noble Oglethorpe did what he could to arouse public
sentiment against imprisonment for debt, and in his own person led to
America a colony of the unfortunate victims of the system. They founded
Georgia, the latest of the colonies; and the chain of settlements along
the Atlantic coastline was complete.[10]

Who would find waste land to live on after that, must journey farther
west, must seek the interior of the new continent--a simple fact, but
one that was soon destined to produce tempestuous results.

In this age also, as if in answer to the spiritual apathy of which
Voltaire was only the expression, not the cause, there arose Methodism,
which in externals at least showed itself the most passionate and the
most expressive form of devotion to Christianity. Wesley and Whitefield,
the celebrated preachers, spread their doctrines over England in the
face of insult and persecution. They penetrated the American colonies;
their doctrines reached even beyond their language and affected the
entire European Continent. The revival of devotion may have been
hysterical, yet a vast revival it assuredly was; it has been called by
some critics the most important religious movement since the
Reformation.[11]

WARS OF EUROPE AND ASIA

In face of such events as these, we learn to attach less importance to
the schemes of kings, and their selfish territorial wars, horrible as
these may be in their exhibitions of human heartlessness and
blood-guilt, destructive as they have ever been in their consequences of
suffering and degeneration.

The Turks were now finally beaten back from their conquests in Hungary.
The war which they had begun with the siege of Vienna was continued by
the celebrated Austrian general, Prince Eugene, the companion of
Marlborough against Louis XIV. Eugene won victory after victory, and
finally by the capture of Belgrad (1717) drove the Mahometans forever
from Hungarian territory, reduced them from a universal menace to
become an ever-fading "Eastern question."[12]

Russia also, at first under Peter the Great and later under Catherine
II, began to reach out for Turkish territory. The Turks had risen by the
sword, and now, as other nations progressed and they stood still, the
power of the sword was failing them. Russia expanded toward the Black
Sea, as before she had expanded toward the Baltic, feeling out from her
boundaries everywhere, moving along the line of least resistance,
already looking toward Poland as her next tempting mouthful.

In Asia too the Turks had troubles to encounter. Asia, the vastly
productive, multitudinous through unprogressive, could still raise up
conquerors of the Turkish type to stand against them. The last of those
sudden waves of temporary, meaningless, barbarian conquest swept over
the Asian plains. Nadir Shah, a Persian bandit, freed his country from
the yoke of its Afghan tyrants, assumed its throne, and by repeated
battles enlarged his domains at Turkish expense. He subdued Afghanistan,
and then extending his attention to India made a sudden invasion of that
huge land, overthrew the forces of the Great Mogul, and, having captured
both him and his capital, permitted him to continue to reign as a sort
of subject prince. Returning from this distant expedition, Nadir Shah
was beginning to push his conquests over Northeastern Asia when he was
slain by a conspiracy among his Persian followers, driven to desperation
by his savage tyranny. His dominions fell to pieces with his death.[13]

Europe meanwhile was going through a series of wars which seem small
improvement over those of Nadir, except that they have had more polished
historians. The selfish principles of Louis XIV had not lost their
influence, the passion for territorial aggrandizement had not
disappeared. In all history it would be hard to find a war more brazen
in the avowed selfishness of its beginning, more utterly callous in its
persistence, than that into which all Europe plunged in 1740.

This astonishing turmoil is known as the War of the Austrian Succession.
We have seen how the extinction of the line of the Spanish Hapsburgs
had given rise to kingly jealousies and strife in 1700. Next the
Austrian Hapsburgs, or at least the male line of them, became extinct in
1740. Their surviving representative was a daughter, a young and
energetic woman, Maria Theresa, the "Empress Queen." Her father, the
Emperor Charles VI, foreseeing the difficulties she must encounter, had
during his lifetime made treaties with every important court of Europe,
by which he yielded them valuable concessions in return for their
guarantee that on his death his daughter should succeed to his throne
and his possessions undisturbed. Her husband was to be made emperor.

The moment Charles was gone, every treaty was thrown to the winds, and
every hand seemed extended by a common impulse to clutch what it could
from a woman's weakness.[14] The first to move was Frederick II, King of
Prussia, he whom his admirers have called the Great. He was a young man,
he had just succeeded to the Prussian kingdom which his father had left
peaceful and prosperous, guarded by a powerful and well-trained army,
made secure by a well-filled treasury. Young Frederick was undoubtedly
great in intellect and in cynical frankness. He saw his opportunity, he
made no pretence of keeping his promises; marching his army forward he
seized the nearest Austrian province, the rich and extensive land of
Silesia. The other kingdoms rushed to get their share of the spoils;
France, Bavaria, Saxony, Sardinia, and Spain formed an alliance with
Prussia. Only England, in her antagonism to France, made protest--purely
diplomatic. Austria was assailed from every side. Her overthrow seemed
certain. A French army was within three days' march of Vienna; it
captured the Bohemian capital, Prague.

It was then that Maria Theresa made her famous appeal to the Hungarians,
and the impressionable Magyars swore to die in her defence. She gathered
armies, Austrian and Hungarian. She made a desperate alliance with
Frederick, consenting to give him Silesia so as to save her other
domains. The members of the coalition quarrelled among themselves. The
French were driven to a disastrous retreat from Prague. Louis XV
remembered his disapproval of war, as soon as it became disastrous; and
the whole assault on the Empress Queen faded away as selfishly as it had
risen.

The only result was that Frederick had Silesia, and Maria Theresa
intended to have it back; and so they plotted and plotted, fought and
fought. War followed war, and battle, battle. Silesia became a desert at
last and of little value to either party. As to the Silesians who had
once existed there, a few of them escaped starvation and massacre, not
many, some hundred thousands, a mere matter of figures this in the
kingly game and not accurately kept count of.

THE SEVEN YEARS' WAR

The final upshot of this Silesian argument was the Seven Years' War.
Maria Theresa made friends with the mistress of Louis XV, and so secured
a French alliance. Frederick offended the Empress of Russia by his witty
tongue, and she also joined in the "ladies' war" against him. Saxony,
the nearest state to Prussia, was ever on the side of the strongest. So
here was the European coalition hurled against Frederick in his turn. He
proved the ablest general of his age, one of the master minds of
military skill. For seven years he withstood all his enemies, Austria
and Russia mainly, for Saxony he soon conquered, and France showed no
great military powers--disgraced herself if further disgrace were
possible to her condition.

Over the military details of the contest we need not pause.[15] Prussia
had always been regarded as one of the lesser European states, Austria
and France as the chief powers. Russia now proved herself of equal
weight with the greatest, so that even the genius of Frederick began to
fail against the enormous odds which crushed him down. His land was laid
waste, his capital seized by a sudden attack and held for ransom. He was
saved by the death of the Russian Empress; her son and successor, an
admirer of Frederick, promptly changed sides in the war. By degrees
everyone abandoned it but Maria Theresa; and she, finding her single
strength insufficient against Prussia, was compelled to yield at last.
Frederick kept his dear-bought desert of Silesia.

This Seven Years' War caused what that of the Austrian Succession had
attempted, a complete redistribution of the balance of European power,
England, Russia, and Prussia rising to at least equality with Austria
and France. Even before the opening of the formal war France and England
had been engaged in a colonial strife, which had caused England to
declare herself Frederick's ally; and, while in Europe the grapple
between England and France did not assume serious proportions, it was of
enormous consequence to their colonies in India and America.

In India both countries had trading-stations, but the French were
popular with the natives and the English were not. The weakness of the
native support was not realized by either party. The conquests of Nadir
Shah were scarcely known to them; the name of the Great Mogul at Delhi
was one of vagueness and mysterious power; it seemed to the French that
with Indian aid they could easily drive the English into the sea; and
the attempt was made. It must have been successful but for Clive. That
remarkable young warrior rose from his subordinate desk, laid aside his
clerkly pen, and gathering a little band of fighters round him, defeated
both French and natives in the remarkable siege of Arcot. Then came the
hideous tale of the "black hole of Calcutta," and Clive achieved revenge
and completed his work of conquest at Plassey (1757).[16]

Centuries had elapsed since Europeans had encountered, in serious
battle, any Asiatics except the Turks--and these had proved quite equal
to the strife. Hence the vast superiority which the more progressive
civilization had attained was little realized. The American aborigines
had indeed fallen an easy prey to Europe, but the conquest of Asia and
Africa had not yet been begun. Thus the victories of Clive seemed to his
contemporaries even more marvellous than they were. They won for England
not only an empire in India, but a high prestige in Europe also.

WAR IN AMERICA

In America the British success was equally decisive though more dearly
bought. Here the war had originated in the Ohio valley. Finding no more
room upon the coast, the English colonists were pressing westward and
there met the French. The vast wilderness which had lain unoccupied for
centuries, even though men knew of its existence, now became suddenly of
importance. Frenchmen needed it for their fur trade; Britons for
colonization. They fought for it.

Here as in India the natives had been won by the diplomatic French, but
their aid proved of no avail. The British Parliament sent over General
Braddock in 1757, and he perished with a large portion of his army in
the celebrated ambuscade from which Washington escaped.[17] For a time
French energy made the war seem not unequal; but the number of French in
America was small; the home Government of Louis XV seemed wholly lost in
sloth and indifferent to the result. The English Government was doggedly
resolute. Its unwilling subjects, the French colonists of Acadia, were
driven from their homes.[18] Troops were poured into America, and in
1759 Wolfe won his famous victory at Quebec.[19] The next year Montreal
also fell into the hands of the British, and the conquest of Canada was
complete.

The treaty of 1763, which ended the Seven Years' War for Prussia,
brought peace also between England and France. The latter surrendered
her colonial pretensions, partly in India, wholly in America, without
having really exerted herself to retain them. Perhaps her experience in
the Mississippi Scheme of Law had convinced her they were of but little
worth.

SUPREMACY OF FREDERICK THE GREAT

The latter half of the reign of Frederick the Great was very different
from its beginning. He had encountered war sufficient to satiate even
his reckless appetite, and he clung to peace. Prussia became for a while
the centre of European government and intrigue; and Frederick, by far
the ablest sovereign of his time, remained until his death (1786) the
leader in that system of paternal government, of kindly tyranny, which
typifies the age. He husbanded the resources of his country with jealous
care; he compelled his people to work, and be provident, and prosper,
whether they would or no. Maria Theresa treated her subjects with much
the same benevolence; and her son and successor Joseph II became the
most ardent of the admirers of Frederick. Russia also came under a ruler
of similar ideas, Catharine II,[20] a German princess by birth, who
wedded a czar, deposed him, and, ruling in his stead, became the most
Russian of the Russians. She ruled her land wisely and well, with a
little more than Frederick's tyranny, a little less than his
benevolence. She was cynical, as was the fashion, and her moral life
shocked even that easy-going age. Also she was a philosopher, and
invited Diderot, chief of the French Cyclopædists, to dwell at her
court, much as Voltaire had dwelt at Frederick's. French literature was
still the literature of Europe, and both Frederick and Catharine openly
despised the tongue of their own lands.

It was among these three congenial rulers, of Russia, Prussia, and young
Joseph of Austria, that the scheme arose of dividing Poland among
themselves.[21] This has been termed "the crime of the century," but it
was in strict accordance with what the rest of Europe had attempted to
do to Austria and then to Prussia. Only, the first two victims had
proved unexpectedly capable of resistance, the third was more shrewdly
selected. Kindly benevolent despotism had also a voice in the matter,
for Poland was wretchedly misgoverned, a source of constant danger to
herself and to her neighbors. It was really a kindness, as those
neighbors explained, to relieve her of half her territories. So well
were their successors of the next generation pleased with the results,
that they took each another slice, and then, fully convinced of the
ancestral wisdom and good-will, divided what was left.

SHADOW OF COMING CHANGES

The new cynicism and philosophy which was thus spreading even among
monarchs, was soon destined to have most explosive results. It found
expression first in a further revolt against the dominion of the Roman
Church. Most of the sovereigns joined in a determined attack against the
Jesuits, the enthusiastic and devoted priests who had become the
mainstay of the papal power. After a long resistance, the Jesuits
succumbed; their order was abolished by Pope Clement XIV in 1773.

The next startling symptom of the changing times was the rapid literary
development of Germany. Its young men had been left free to think and
talk. Frederick half contemptuously declared that his people might
believe what nonsense they pleased so long as they remained orderly. The
poet Lessing by his books roused the ancient spirit of liberty, long
dormant in the German mind. Goethe and Schiller became the foremost of a
crowd of younger men whose revolt at first took the form of an
extravagant devotion to romance as opposed to the dull workaday world
about them.[22] Pestalozzi, a Swiss, conceived the idea of reforming the
world through its children, encouraging the little ones by constant,
loving example to develop all the strength and goodness that was in
them.[23]

Yet the first open defiance given to despotism by the fast-growing
spirit of freedom came not from Europe but from America; was a revolt
not against the lazy tyranny in France or the kindly tyranny of Eastern
Europe, but against the constitutional government of England. When the
French minister signed the treaty surrendering to England all his
country's possessions in America he justified himself with a well-turned
phrase, "I give her all, on purpose to destroy her."

The words seemed prophetic, England's loss came through her gain. The
Indians, devoted to the French, refused to submit peacefully to the
change of rule. Pontiac, often regarded as the ablest statesman of his
fading race, gathered them into a widespread confederacy, and for years
held the English at bay in the region of the Great Lakes.[24] The
expenses involved both upon England and upon her American colonists by
this strife and by the French war itself were a constant source of
friction. England insisted that she had spent her substance in defence
of the colonists, and should be repaid by them. They on the other hand
asserted that she had fought for her own glory, and had been well repaid
by her vast increases of territory both in India and America; that they
had become impoverished, while she had now the richest trade in the
world, and stood upon the top-most pinnacle of national grandeur with
wealth pouring in to her from every quarter of the globe.

Neither side being able to convince the other by abstract argument,
England exerted her authority and passed the "Stamp Act," laying new
taxes on the colonists.[25] They responded with protests, argumentative,
eloquent, fiery, and defiant. They refused to trade with Great Britain,
and became self-supporting. Thus the obnoxious laws, instead of bringing
money to the mother country, caused her heavy losses. English merchants
joined the Americans in petitioning for the repeal of the offensive acts
of Parliament; and soon every tax was withdrawn except a tiny one on
tea, so small that the money involved was trifling. But it was not the
money, it was the principle involved, which had aroused the Americans;
and their resistance continued as vigorous as against the previous
really burdensome taxation. The tea which King George commanded should
be sent forcibly to the colonists, they refused to receive. In Boston it
was dumped into the harbor.[26]

The English Parliament drew back in amazement; its members found
themselves dealing, as one of them put it, with a nation of lawyers.
They were wrong; they had encountered a force far more potent, a nation
of freemen who had been permitted for a century and a half to rule
themselves, who had reached the fullest measure of self-reliance and
self-assertion. America had become earliest ripe for the Age of
Revolution toward which the European middle classes, more lately left to
themselves, were more slowly, but not less surely, developing.

[FOR THE NEXT SECTION OF THIS GENERAL SURVEY SEE VOLUME XIV]

FOOTNOTES:

[1] See _Defeat of the Young Pretender at Culloden_, page 117.

[2] See _Cotton Manufacture Developed_, page 341.

[3] See _John Law Promotes the Mississippi Scheme_, page 1.

[4] See _Bursting of the South Sea Bubble_, page 22.

[5] See _Voltaire Directs European Thought from Geneva_, page 144.

[6] See _Bach Lays the Foundation of Modern Music_, page 31.

[7] See _First Modern Novel_, page 100.

[8] See _Watt Improves the Steam-engine_, page 302.

[9] See _Benjamin Franklin Experiments with Electricity_, page 130.

[10] See _Settlement of Georgia_, page 44.

[11] See _Rise of Methodism: Preaching of the Wesleys and of
Whitefield_, page 57.

[12] See _Prince Eugene Vanquishes the Turks: Siege and Battle of
Belgrad_, page 16.

[13] See _Conquests of Nadir Shah: Capture of Delhi_, page 72.

[14] _See Frederick the Great Seizes Silesia: Maria Theresa Appeals to
the Hungarians_, page 108.

[15] See _Seven Years' War: Battle of Torgau_, page 204.

[16] _See Clive Establishes British Supremacy in India: The Black Hole
of Calcutta: Battle of Plassey_, page 185.

[17] See _Braddock's Defeat_, page 163.

[18] See _Exile of the Acadian Neutrals_, page 181.

[19] See _Conquest of Canada: Victory of Wolfe at Quebec_, page 229.

[20] See _Usurpation of Catharine II in Russia_, page 250.

[21] See _First Partition of Poland_, page 313.

[22] See _Intellectual Revolt of Germany_, page 347.

[23] See _Pestalozzi's Method of Education_, page 364.

[24] See _Conspiracy of Pontiac_, page 267.

[25] See _American Colonies Oppose the Stamp Act_, page 289.

[26] See _Boston Tea Party_, page 333.

JOHN LAW PROMOTES THE MISSISSIPPI SCHEME

A.D. 1716

LOUIS ADOLPHE THIERS

Known under the various titles of the "Mississippi Scheme," the
"Mississippi Bubble," and the "System," the financial enterprise
originated by John Law, under authority of the French government,
proved to be the most disastrous experiment of the kind ever made by
a civilized state.

Louis XIV ended his long reign in 1715, leaving his throne to his
great-grandson, a child of five years, Louis XV. The impoverished
country was in the hands of a regent, Philippe, Duke of Orléans,
whose financial undertakings were all unfortunate. John Law, the son
of a Scotch banker, was an adventurer and a gambler who yet became
celebrated as a financier and commercial promoter. After killing an
antagonist in a duel in London, he escaped the gallows by fleeing to
the Continent, where he followed gaming and at the same time devised
financial schemes which he proposed to various governments for their
adoption. His favorite notion was that large issues of paper money
could be safely circulated with small security.

Law offered to relieve Orléans from his financial troubles, and the
Regent listened with favor to his proposals. In 1716 Law, with
others, organized what he called the General Bank. It was ably
managed, became popular, and by means of it Law successfully carried
out his paper-currency ideas. His notes were held at a premium over
those of the government, whose confidence was therefore won. Two
years later Law's institution was adopted by the state and became
the Royal Bank of France. The further undertakings of this
extraordinary "new light of finance," the blowing and bursting of
the great "bubble," are recorded by Thiers, the French statesman and
historian, himself eminent as his country's chief financier during
her wonderful recovery after the Franco-German War.

Law was always scheming to concentrate into one establishment his bank,
the administration of the public revenues, and the commercial
monopolies. He resolved, in order to attain this end, to organize,
separately, a commercial company, to which he would add, one after
another, different privileges in proportion to its success, and which
he would then incorporate with the General Bank. Constructing thus
separately each of the pieces of his vast machine, he proposed
ultimately to unite them and form the grand whole, the object of his
dreams and his ardent ambition.

An immense territory, discovered by a Frenchman, in the New World,
presented itself for the speculations of Law. The Chevalier de la Salle,
the famous traveller of the time, having penetrated into America by
Upper Canada, descended the river Illinois, arrived suddenly at a great
river half a league wide, and, abandoning himself to the current, was
borne into the Gulf of Mexico. This river was the Mississippi. The
Chevalier de la Salle took possession of the country he had passed
through for the King of France, and gave it the beautiful name of
Louisiana.

There was much said of the magnificence and fertility of this new
country, of the abundance of its products, of the richness of its mines,
which were reported to be much more extensive than those of Mexico or
Peru. Law, taking advantage of this current of opinion, projected a
company which should unite the commerce of Louisiana with the fur trade
of Canada. The Regent granted all he asked, by an edict given in August,
1717, fifteen months after the first establishment of the bank.

The new company received the title of the "West Indian Company." It was
to have the sovereignty of all Louisiana on the condition only of liege
homage to the King of France, and of a crown of gold of thirty marks at
the commencement of every new reign. It was to exercise all the rights
of sovereignty, such as levying troops, equipping vessels-of-war,
constructing forts, establishing courts, working mines, etc. The King
relinquished to it the vessels, forts, and munitions of war which
belonged to the Crozat Company,[27] and conceded, furthermore, the
exclusive right of the fur trade of Canada. The arms of this sovereign
company represented the effigy of an old river-god leaning upon a horn
of plenty.

Law revolved in his mind many other projects relating to his Western
company. He spoke, at first mysteriously, of the benefits which he was
preparing for it. Associating with a large number of noblemen, whom his
wit, his fortune, and the hope of considerable gains attracted around
him, he urged them strongly to obtain for themselves some shares, which
would soon rise rapidly in the market. He was himself soon obliged to
buy some above par. The par value being five hundred francs, two hundred
of them represented at par a sum of one hundred thousand francs. The
price for the day being three hundred francs, sixty thousand francs were
sufficient to buy two hundred shares. He contracted to pay one hundred
thousand francs for two hundred shares at a fixed future time; this was
to anticipate that they would gain at least two hundred francs each, and
that a profit of forty thousand francs could be realized on the whole.
He agreed, in order to make this sort of wager more certain, to pay the
difference of forty thousand francs in advance, and to lose the
difference if he did not realize a profit from the proposed transfer.

This was the first instance of a sale at an anticipated advance. This
kind of trade consisted in giving "earnest-money" called a premium,
which the purchaser lost if he failed to take the property. He who made
the bargain had the liberty of rescinding it if he would lose more by
adhering to it than by abandoning it. No advantage would accrue to Law
for the possible sacrifice of forty thousand francs, unless at the
designated time the shares had not been worth as much as sixty thousand
francs, or three hundred francs each; for having engaged to pay one
hundred thousand francs for what was worth only fifty thousand, for
instance, he would suffer less to lose his forty thousand francs than to
keep his engagement. But, evidently, if Law did wish by this method to
limit the possible loss, he hoped nevertheless not to make any loss at
all; and, on the contrary, he believed firmly that the two hundred
shares would be worth at least the hundred thousand francs, or five
hundred francs each, at the time fixed for the expiration of the
contract. This large premium attracted general attention, and people
were eager to purchase the Western shares. They rose sensibly during the
month of April, 1719, and went nearly to par. Law disclosed his
projects; the Regent kept his promise, and authorized him to unite the
great commercial companies of the East and West Indies.

The two companies of the East Indies and of China, chartered in 1664 and
1713, had conducted their affairs very badly: they had ceased to carry
on any commerce, and had underlet their privileges at a charge which was
very burdensome to the trade. The merchants who had bought it of them
did not dare to make use of their privileges, for fear that their
vessels would be seized by the creditors of the company. Navigation to
the East was entirely abandoned, and the necessity of reviving it had
become urgent. By a decree of May, 1719, Law caused to be accorded to
the West India Company the exclusive right of trading in all seas beyond
the Cape of Good Hope. From this time it had the sole right of traffic
with the islands of Madagascar, Bourbon, and France, the coast of Sofola
in Africa, the Red Sea, Persia, Mongolia, Siam, China, and Japan. The
commerce of Senegal, an acquisition of the company which still carried
it on, was added to the others, so that the company had the right of
French trade in America, Africa, and Asia. Its title, like its
functions, was enlarged; it was no longer called the "West India
Company," but the "_Indian_ Company." Its regulations remained the same
as before. It was authorized to issue another lot of shares, in order to
raise the necessary funds either to pay the debts of the companies which
it succeeded or for organizing the proper establishments. Fifty thousand
of these shares were issued at a par of five hundred francs, which made
a nominal capital of twenty-five millions. But the company demanded five
hundred fifty francs in cash for them, or a total of twenty-seven
millions two hundred fifty thousand francs, inasmuch as it esteemed its
privileges as very great and its popularity certain. It required fifty
francs to be paid in advance, and the remaining five hundred in twenty
equal monthly payments. In case the payments should not be fully made,
the fifty francs paid in advance were forfeited by the subscriber. It
was nothing but a bargain made at a premium with the public.

The prompt realization of the promises of Law, the importance and extent
of the last privileges granted to the company, the facilities accorded
to the subscribers, everything, induced a subscription to the new
shares. The movement became animated. One could, by the favorable terms
offered, by paying out five hundred fifty francs, obtain eleven shares
instead of one, and thus, with a little money, speculate to a
considerable amount. To this method of attracting speculators Law added
another; he procured a decision that no one should subscribe for the new
shares without exhibiting four times as many old ones. It was necessary,
therefore, to hasten to obtain them in order to fulfil the requisite
condition. In a short time they were carried up to par, and far above
that. From three hundred francs, at which they were at the start, they
rose to five hundred, five hundred fifty, six hundred, and seven hundred
fifty francs; that is, they gained 150 per cent. These second shares
were called the "daughters," to distinguish them from the first.

Law contemplated at last the completion of his project by uniting the
collection of the revenues to the other privileges of the Indian
Company, and redeeming the national debt. This was the greatest and most
difficult part of his plan.

The national debt was fifteen to sixteen hundred millions, partly in
contracts for perpetual annuities, partly in State notes which would
soon be due. The interest on the debt was eighty millions, or one-half
the revenue of the government. Some combination was necessary to meet
the state notes at their maturity, and to reduce the annual charges
which the public treasury could no longer sustain.

Law conceived the idea of substituting the company for the government,
and converting the whole national debt into shares in the Indian
Company. To accomplish this he wished the company to lend the treasury
the fifteen to sixteen hundred millions which would redeem the debt; and
that, to obtain this enormous sum, it should issue shares to that
amount. In this manner the fifteen or sixteen hundred millions furnished
to the government by the company, and paid out by the government to its
creditors, must return to the company by the sale of its shares. Let us
see the means which Law had devised to insure the success of his scheme.
The government would pay 3 per cent. interest for the sum loaned to it,
which would make forty-five or forty-eight millions a year. The treasury
would thus effect an annual saving of thirty-two or thirty-five millions
in the interest on the debt. In return, the collection of the revenue
must be transferred to the company, notwithstanding that it had been
actually granted to the brothers Paris. The collection would pay the
collectors a net profit of fifteen or sixteen millions. The company,
receiving 3 per cent. interest on the capital invested, and reaping from
another source a profit of fifteen or sixteen millions, would be in a
position to pay 4 per cent. on the sixteen hundred millions of the debt
converted into shares.

The profits from commerce and its future success might soon enable it to
increase this dividend. According to the prevailing rates of interest,
which had fallen to 3 per cent. since the establishment of the bank,
this was a sufficient remuneration on the shares. They had, besides, the
hope of increasing their capital. The shares having, in fact, doubled in
value during the opposition of the "Antisystem," they ought to increase
still more rapidly since they were relieved from this opposition. The
expectation that the fifteen or sixteen hundred millions of the debt
would be invested in the shares was well founded. There was even a
certainty of it; for this immense capital, forcibly expelled from its
investment in state securities, could find no other place for investment
than in the company.

This plan of Law's was vast and bold. Its success would liquidate the
state debt and diminish the annual charges on the treasury, reducing the
interest from eighty millions to forty-five or forty-eight millions. The
annual charges from which the treasury was to be relieved were to be
paid from the profits on the collection of the revenue and the
contingent profits of commerce. The whole operation was to pay the
creditors of the state 3 per cent. per annum, and the profits and
monopolies heretofore granted to farmers of the revenue and commercial
companies. This 3 per cent. interest, these profits, and these
monopolies, as we shall soon see, might easily amount to the sum of
eighty millions annually, which the creditors were formerly paid. Thus
far they were not defrauded by this forced conversion of securities; a
credit entirely new was substituted for one which was worn out; an
establishment had been created, which, combining the functions of a
commercial bank and the administration of the finances, must become the
most colossal financial power ever known.

The first subscription having been taken up in a few days, Law opened a
new one on September 28th, for the same amount and on exactly the same
conditions as the preceding.

The eagerness of subscribers was the same. The creditors passed whole
days at the offices of the treasury to obtain their receipts, and there
were some even who had their meals brought to them there, so that they
might not lose their turn in the ranks. The state notes were, of course,
much in demand, and had rapidly risen to par. They had even given rise
to a most reprehensible speculation. A confidential clerk of Law, the
Prussian Versinobre, having known in advance of the decree regarding the
payment, abused his knowledge of the secret, and caused to be bought by
brokers with whom he was associated a large amount of state notes at 50
or 60 per cent. below their nominal value, and employed them for the
subscriptions when they were received at par. When it is considered that
the subscriptions, already, were sold at a large advance, and that by
means of the state notes they were bought at about half price, it will
be understood what a profit this company of brokers must have realized.

Those who intended to subscribe had accomplished comparatively little by
obtaining receipts or state notes; it was still necessary to go to the
Hôtel de Nevers, where the subscriptions were received. The entrances
there were crowded to suffocation. The hall servants made considerable
sums by subscribing for those who could not get through the crowd to the
offices. Some adventurers, assuming the livery of Law, performed this
service, charging and obtaining a very large fee. The most humble
employees of the company became patrons who were very much courted. As
to the higher officers and Law himself, they received as much adulation
as if they were the actual dispensers of the favors of Fortune. The
approaches to Law's residence were encumbered with carriages. All that
was most brilliant among the nobility of France came to beg humbly for
the subscriptions, which were already much above the nominal price of
shares, and which were sure to rise much higher. By a clause creating
the company, the ownership of the shares entailed nothing derogatory to
rank. The nobility, therefore, could indulge in this speculation without
endangering its titles. It was as much in debt as the King, thanks to
its prodigality and the long wars of that century, and it sought to win,
at least, the amount of its debt by fortunate speculations. It
surrounded, it fawned upon Law, who, very anxious to gain partisans,
reserved very few shares for himself, but distributed them among his
friends of the court.

This new subscription was also taken up in a few days. If we reflect
that fifty millions in cash was sufficient to secure five hundred
millions of each issue, we shall understand how the state notes which
remained in market and the receipts already delivered would suffice to
monopolize the shares offered to the public. The creditors who had not
liquidated their claims--and the greater number had not--could not avail
themselves of the right to subscribe for shares, and were obliged to buy
them in the market at an exorbitant price. The shares subscribed for at
the Hôtel de Nevers for five thousand francs were re-sold in the Rue
Quincampoix for six, seven, and eight thousand francs. To the need of
having some of this investment was joined the hope of seeing the shares
rise in the market to an indefinite extent, and it is not surprising
that the eagerness to obtain them soon increased to frenzy. In order to
satisfy this demand a third subscription was opened on October 2d, three
days after the second. Similar in every respect to the first two, it
ought to bring in a capital of five hundred millions and complete the
fifteen hundred millions which the company needed to redeem the public
debt.

The concourse of people was as great as ever at the treasury, where the
receipts were given and at the Hôtel de Nevers, where the applications
for shares were received. The occasion of this eagerness is evident,
since that which was obtained at the Hôtel de Nevers for five thousand
francs was worth seven and eight thousand in the Rue Quincampoix. This
new issue at five thousand francs caused the rates in the Rue
Quincampoix to diminish: in an instant they were below five thousand
francs--even as low as four thousand--so blind were these movements,
and, so to speak, convulsive, during this period of feverish excitement.
There was no possible reason for selling in one place for four thousand
francs that for which they paid five thousand at another. But this
phenomenon lasted only a few hours; the rates rose again rapidly, and,
the subscription being taken up, the shares sold again for seven and
eight thousand francs. The crafty brokers had already had two
opportunities of making some profitable operations.

Having obtained the state notes at a very small price, they procured
shares at the most moderate rates, between five hundred and a thousand
francs; then they sold them for from seven to eight thousand francs; and
October 2d, the day of the decline, they repurchased them for four
thousand, to sell them again the next day for seven or eight thousand.
It will be seen how they must have made money with these opportunities.

It was no longer a few scattered groups which were seen in the Rue
Quincampoix, but a compact crowd engaged in speculating from morning
till night. The subscriptions had been divided into coupons,
transferable, like notes, to the bearer by an indorsement simply formal.
During the course of October the shares had already risen above ten
thousand francs, and it was impossible to know where they would stop.

The end of the month of December, 1719, was the term of this delusion of
three months. A certain number of stock-jobbers, better advised than
others, or more impatient to enter upon the enjoyment of their riches,
combined to dispose of their shares. They took advantage of the rage
which led so many to sell their estates--they purchased them, and thus
obtained the real for the imaginary. They established themselves in
splendid mansions, upon magnificent domains, and made a display of their
fortunes of thirty or forty millions. They possessed themselves of
precious stones and jewels, which were still eagerly offered, and
secured solid value in exchange for the semblance of it, which had
become so prized by the crowd of dupes. The first effect of this desire
to realize was a general increase in the price of everything. An
enormous mass of paper being put in the balance with the existing
quantity of merchandise and other property, the more paper there was
offered against purchasable objects the more rapid the increase became.
Cloth which heretofore brought fifteen to eighteen francs a yard rose to
one hundred twenty-five francs a yard. In a cook-shop a "Mississippian,"
bidding against a nobleman for a fowl, ran the price up to two hundred
francs.

From this instant the shares suffered their first decline, and a heavy
uneasiness began to spread abroad. The extent of the fall was not
measured by those whom it menaced; but people wondered, doubted, and
began to be alarmed. The shares declined to fifteen thousand francs.
However, the bank-notes were not yet distrusted. The bank was, in fact,
entirely distinct from the company, and their fate, up to this time,
appeared in no way dependent the one on the other. The notes had not
undergone any fictitious and extraordinary advance. Large amounts had
been issued, certainly, but for gold and silver, and upon the deposit of
shares. The portion which had been issued upon the deposit of shares
partook of the danger of the shares themselves; but no one thought of
that, and the bank-notes still possessed the entire confidence of the
public; only they no longer had the same advantage over specie since the
latter had been so much sought by the "realizers." The notes already
began to be presented at the bank for coin, and the vast reserve which
it had possessed began to diminish perceptibly.

Law did then what governments do so often, and always with ill-success:
he resorted to forced measures. He declared, in the first place, by
decree, that the bank-notes should always be worth 5 per cent. more than
coin.

In consideration of this superiority in value the prohibition which
forbade the deposits of gold and silver for bills, at Paris, was taken
off, so that notes could be procured at the bank for coin. This
permission was simply ridiculous, for no one now wished to exchange
specie for paper, even at par. But this was not all; the decree declared
that thereafter silver should not be used in payments of over one
hundred francs nor gold in those over three hundred francs. This was
forcing the circulation of notes in large payments, and that of specie
in small, and was designed to accomplish by violence what could only be
expected from the natural success of the bank.

These measures did not bring any more gold and silver to the bank. The
necessity of using bank-notes in payment of over three hundred francs
gave them a certain forced employment, but did not procure them
confidence. Notes were used for large payments, but coin was amassed
secretly as a value more real and more assured. The creditors of the
state ceased to carry their receipts to the Rue Quincampoix, because
they already distrusted the shares; they could not decide to buy real
estate, because the price had been quadrupled; they suffered the most
painful anxiety, and in their turn embarrassed the holders of shares
who needed the receipts to pay their instalments of one-tenth. The
catastrophe approached, and nothing could avert it, unless some magic
wand could give the company an income of four or five hundred millions a
year, which was now only seventy or eighty millions.

Law, adding measures to measures, at last prohibited the circulation of
gold, because this metal was, by its convenience, a rival of bank-notes
infinitely more dangerous than silver. He then announced an approaching
reduction in the value of coin, which he had raised by a decree in
February, only to reduce it again in a short time. The mark, in silver,
raised from sixty to eighty francs, was reduced to seventy on April 1st,
and sixty-five on May 1st. But this measure was utterly insufficient to
bring it to the bank.

The situation grew worse every day; the issue of notes to pay for the
shares presented at the bank had risen to two billions six hundred
ninety-six millions; their depreciation increased; and creditors of
every description, being paid in paper which was at a discount of 60 per
cent., complained bitterly of the theft authorized by law.

In this juncture there remained but one step to be taken. As the
necessary sacrifice had not been made in the first place, and the shares
abandoned to their fate in order to protect the notes, both must now be
sacrificed, shares and notes together, in order to finish this wicked
fiction. The falsehood of this nominal value, which obliged men to
receive at par what was depreciated 30 or 40 per cent., could not be
prolonged. The immediate reduction of the nominal value of the shares
and bank-notes was the only resource. Sacrifices cannot be too hastily
made when they are inevitable.

M. d'Argenson, although dismissed from the treasury, still remained
keeper of the seals; he had risen in the esteem of the Regent as Law had
declined, and he advised the reduction of the nominal value of the
shares and notes as an urgent necessity. Law, who saw in this reduction
an avowal of the fiction in the legal values, and a blow which must
hasten the fall of the "System," opposed it with his whole strength.
Nevertheless, M. d'Argenson prevailed. On May 21, 1720, a decree, which
remains famous in the history of the "System," advertised the
progressive reduction in the value of shares and notes. This reduction
was to begin on the very day of the publication of the decree, and to
continue from month to month until December 1st. At this last term the
shares were to be estimated at five thousand francs, and a bank-note of
ten thousand francs at five thousand; one of a thousand at five hundred,
etc. The notes were thus reduced 50 per cent., and the shares only
four-ninths per cent. Law, although opposed to the decree, consented to
promulgate it.

Scarcely was it published when a fearful clamor was raised on all sides.
The reduction was called a bankruptcy; the government was reproached
with being the first to throw discredit upon the values which it had
created, with having robbed its own creditors, a number of whom had just
been paid in bank-notes, even as late as the preceding day--in a word,
with assailing the fortunes of all the citizens. The crowd wished to
sack Law's hotel and to tear him in pieces. Nothing that could have
happened would have produced a greater clamor; but in times like those
it was not only necessary not to fear these clamors: it was even a duty
to defy them.

The reply to the complaints would have soon been evident to the
intelligence of everybody. Without doubt the creditors of the state, and
some private individuals, who had been paid in bank-notes, were half
ruined by the reduction, but this was not the fault of the decree of May
21st--the real reduction was long before this; the decree only stated a
loss already experienced, and the notes were worth still less than the
decree declared. Because a number of creditors had been ruined by the
falsity of nominal values, was it a reason to continue the fiction that
it might extend the ruin? On the contrary, it was necessary to put an
end to it, to save others from becoming victims. The official
declaration of the fact, although it was known before, must produce a
shock and hasten the discredit, but it was of little importance that it
was hastened, since it was inevitable.

The public thought Law the author of this measure, advised exclusively
by M. d'Argenson, and he became the sole object of hatred. The
Parliament, making common cause with the public, thought it a good
opportunity to take up arms. It did not perceive, in its blind hatred of
the "System," that it was going to render a service to its author, and
that to declare itself against the reduction of the bank-notes was to
maintain that the values created by Law had a solid foundation. It
assembled on May 27th to demand a revocation of the decree of the 21st.
At the very moment when it was deliberating, the Regent sent one of his
officers to prohibit all discussion, announcing the revocation of the
decree.

The Regent had the weakness to yield to the public clamor. Had the
decree been bad, its revocation would have been worse. To declare that
the shares and notes were still worth what they purported to be availed
nothing, for no one believed it, and their credit was not restored by
it. A legal falsehood was reaffirmed, and, without rendering any service
to those who were already ruined, the ruin of those who were obliged to
receive the notes at their nominal value was insured. The decree of May
21st, wise if it had been sustained, became disastrous as soon as it was
revoked. Its only effect was to hasten the general discredit, without
the essential advantage of reëstablishing a real, legal value.

We have just said that the bank was not obliged to pay notes of over one
hundred francs. It paid them slowly, and employed all imaginable
artifices to avoid the payment of them. Nevertheless, its coffers were
almost exhausted, and it was necessary to authorize it to confine its
disbursements to the payment of notes of ten francs only. The people
rushed to the bank in crowds to realize their notes of ten francs,
fearing that these would soon share the fate of those of one hundred.
The pressure was so great that three persons were suffocated. The
indignant mob, ready for any excess, already menaced the house of Law.
He fled to the Palais Royal to seek an asylum near the Regent. The mob
followed him, carrying the bodies of the three who had been suffocated.
The carriage which had just conveyed him was broken to pieces, and it
was feared that even the residence of the Regent would not be respected.

The gates of the court of the Palais Royal had been closed; the Duke of
Orléans, with great presence of mind, ordered them to be opened. The
crowd rushed into the court and suddenly stopped upon the steps of the
palace. Leblanc, the chief of police, advanced to those who bore the
corpses, and said, "My friends, go place these bodies in the Morgue,
and then return to demand your payment." These words calmed the tumult;
the bodies were carried away and the sedition was quelled.

Severities against the rich "Mississippians" were commenced in this same
month of October. For a long time it had been suspected that the
government, following an ancient usage, would deprive them, by means of
_visas_ and _chambres-ardentes_, of what they had acquired by
stock-jobbing. A list was made of those known to have speculated in
shares. A special commission arbitrarily placed on this list the names
of those whom public opinion designated as having enriched themselves by
speculation in paper. They were ordered to deposit a certain number of
shares at the offices of the company, and to purchase the required
number if they had sold their own. The "realizers" were thus brought
back by force to the company which they had deserted. Eight days were
given to speculators of good faith to make, voluntarily, the prescribed
deposit. To prevent flight from the country, it was prohibited, under
pain of death, to travel without a passport.

These measures increased still more the decline of the shares. All those
whose names were not upon the list of rich speculators, and who could
not tell what became of the shares not yet deposited, hastened to
dispose of all they retained.

The "System" wholly disappeared in November, 1720, one year after its
greatest credit. All the notes were converted into annuities or
preferred shares, and all the shares were deposited with the company.
Then a general visa was ordered, consisting of an examination of the
whole mass of shares, with the purpose of annulling the greater portion
of those which belonged to the enriched stock-jobbers.

Law, foreseeing the renewed rage which the visa would excite, determined
to leave France. The hatred against him had been so violent since the
scene of July 17th that he had not dared to quit the Palais Royal. The
following fact will give an idea of the fury excited against him: A
hackman, having a quarrel with the coachman of a private carriage, cried
out, "There is Law's carriage!" The crowd rushed upon the carriage, and
nearly tore in pieces the coachman and his master before it could be
undeceived.

Law demanded passports of the Duke of Orléans, who granted them
immediately. The Duke of Bourbon, made rich by the "System," felt under
obligations to Law, and offered money and the carriage of Madame de
Prie, his mistress. Law refused the money and accepted the carriage. He
repaired to Brussels, taking with him only eight hundred louis. Scarcely
was he gone when his property, consisting of lands and shares, was
sequestrated.

FOOTNOTES:

[27] A company headed by Anthony Crozat. It was chartered in 1712, and
formed a commercial monopoly in Louisiana.--ED.

PRINCE EUGENE VANQUISHES THE TURKS

SIEGE AND BATTLE OF BELGRAD

A.D. 1717

PRINCE EUGENE OF SAVOY

This struggle marked the disastrous end of a determined effort of
the Ottoman empire to recover lost possessions. It also resulted in
giving all Hungary, with Belgrad and a part of Servia, permanently
to Austria. After their last great invasion of Austrian territory
and their crushing defeat by Sobieski and the Imperialists (1683),
the Turks suffered many losses of territory at the hands of various
European powers. In 1696 Peter the Great took from them Azov, an
important entrance to the Black Sea. By the treaty of the Pruth
(1711) this, with other Russian possessions, was again ceded to the
Turks.

The temporary success led them to seek further recoveries. Their aim
was chiefly directed against Austria and Venice, which had
aggrandized themselves at the expense of the Moslem power. Turkish
victories caused the Venetians to call in the aid of Austria. The
Austrian intervention not only saved Venice, but once more checked
the Turkish arms.

The Emperor Charles VI appointed as leader of the Austrian forces
Prince Eugene of Savoy, already distinguished through a long series
of wars as one of the greatest soldiers of his time, the companion
of Marlborough. In 1716 Eugene defeated the grand vizier at
Temesvar, and in the following year took Belgrad and destroyed the
Turkish army, as told in his own racy and cavalier style.

From all sides men flocked to serve under me. There were enough to form
a squadron of princes and volunteers. Among the former a Prince of
Hesse, two of Bavaria, a Bevern, a Culenbach, one of Wuertemberg, two of
Ligne, one of Lichtenstein, of Anhalt-Dessau, the Count of Charolai, the
Princes of Dombes, of Marsillac, of Pons, etc.

The Emperor made me a present of a magnificent diamond crucifix, and
strongly assured me that all my victories came, and would come, from
God; this was getting rid of gratitude toward me; and I set off for
Futack, where I assembled my army toward the end of May, 1717.

It was necessary to possess myself of Belgrad, which for three centuries
had been so many times taken and retaken. Luckily, I did not find there
the cordelier, John de Capistran, who, with the crucifix in his hand,
and in the hottest part of the fire during the whole day, defended the
place so well: and Hunyady, who commanded there, against Mahomet II in
1456. Hunyady died of his wounds. The Emperor lost Belgrad; Mahomet lost
an eye, and the cordelier was canonized.

Unfortunately the Grand Seignior had but too well replaced the
wrong-headed grand vizier, who had been killed. It was the Pacha of
Belgrad, who supplied the vacancy, called Hastchi Ali, who made the most
judicious arrangements for the preservation of the place, and caused me
a great deal of embarrassment. On June 10th I passed the Danube: my
volunteer princes threw themselves into boats to arrive among the first,
and to charge the spahis with some squadrons of Mercy, which had already
passed below Panczova, to protect the disembarkation of some, and the
bridge constructed for the others, with eighty-four boats. On the 19th I
went, with a large escort, to reconnoitre the place where I wished to
pitch my camp. Twelve hundred spahis rushed upon us with unequalled
fury, and shouted "_Allah! Allah!_" I know not why one of their officers
broke through a squadron which was in front, to find me at the head of
the second, where I placed myself from prudential motives, having many
orders to give. He missed me, and I was going to obtain satisfaction
with my pistol when a dragoon at my side knocked him under his horse. On
the same day we had a naval combat, which lasted two hours; and our
saics having the advantage I remained master of the operations on the
Danube. On the 20th I continued working on the lines of contravallation,
under a dreadful fire from the place. Toward the end of June I advanced
my camp so near Belgrad that the bullets were constantly flying over my
head. A storm destroyed all my bridges: and, but for the courage of a
Hessian officer, in a redoubt, I do not know how I should have been able
to reëstablish the one upon the Save.

Wishing to take the place on the side next the water, I caused a fort at
the mouth of the Donawitz to be attacked by Mercy, who fell from his
horse, in an apoplectic fit. They carried him away, thinking him dead.
He was afterward successfully cured; but, being informed of his
accident I went to replace him, and the fort was taken. The Prince of
Dombes narrowly escaped being killed at my side by a bullet which made
my horse rear. Marcilly was killed in bravely defending a post which I
had charged him to intrench. He demanded succor from Rudolph Heister,
who refused him, and who was deservedly killed as a punishment for his
cowardice, by a cannon-ball which reached him behind his
chevaux-de-frise. I arrived, accidentally at first, with a large escort;
I sent for a large detachment; I halted, and completely beat the
janizaries, leaving, indeed, five hundred men killed upon the field,
Taxis, Visconti, Suger, etc. The Pacha of Roumelia, the best officer of
the Mussulmans, lost his life also.

On July 22d my batteries were finished. I bombarded, burned, and
destroyed the place so much that they would have capitulated if they had
not heard that the grand vizier had arrived at Missa, on the 30th, with
two hundred fifty thousand men.

On August 1st we saw them on the heights which overlooked my camp,
extending in a semicircle from Krotzka as far as Dedina. The Mussulmans
formed the most beautiful amphitheatre imaginable, very agreeable to
look at, excellent for a painter, but hateful to a general. Enclosed
between this army and a fortress which had thirty thousand men in
garrison, the Danube on the right, and the Save on the left, my
resolution was formed. I intended to quit my lines and attack them,
notwithstanding their advantage of ground: but the fever, which had
already raged in my army, did not spare me. Behold me seriously ill, and
in my bed, instead of being at the head of my troops, whom I wished to
lead the road to honor.

I can easily conceive that this caused a little uneasiness at the court,
in the city, and even in my army. It required boldness and good-fortune
to extricate one's self from it. The general who might have succeeded me
would, and indeed, almost must, have thought that he should be lost if
he retreated, and be beaten if he did not retreat. Every day made our
situation worse. The numerous artillery of the Turks had arrived on the
heights of which I have spoken. We were so bombarded with it, as well as
with that from the garrison, that I knew not where to put my tent, for,
in going in and out, many of my domestics had been killed. In the small
skirmishes which we often had with the spahis, my young volunteers did
not fail to be among them, discharging their pistols, though
cannon-balls intermingled also. And one day, D'Esrade, the governor of
the Prince of Dombes, had his leg shot off by his side, and one of his
pages was killed. All our princes, whom I have enumerated above,
distinguished themselves, and loved me like their father.

I had caused the country in the rear of the grand vizier's army to be
ravaged: but these people, as well as their horses and especially their
camels, will live almost upon nothing. Scarcely an hour passed in which
I did not lose a score of men by the dysentery, or by the cannon from
the lines, which the infidels advanced more and more every night toward
my intrenchments. I was less the besieger than the besieged. My affairs
toward the city went on better. A bomb which fell into a magazine of
powder completed its destruction and occasioned the loss of three
thousand men.

At length I recovered from my illness; and, on August 15th,
notwithstanding the ill-advice of persons who were not fond of battles,
the matter was fixed. I calculated that listlessness and despair would
produce success.

I did not sleep, as Alexander did before the battle of Arbela; but the
Turks did, who were no Alexanders: opium and predestination will make
philosophers of us. I gave brief and explicit instructions touching
whatever might happen. I quitted my intrenchments one hour after
midnight: the darkness first and then a fog rendered my first
undertakings mere chance. Some of my battalions, on the right wing,
fell, unintentionally, while marching, into a part of the Turkish
intrenchments. A terrible confusion among them, who never have either
advanced posts or spies; and, among us, a similar confusion, which it
would be impossible to describe: they fired from the left to the centre,
on both sides, without knowing where. The janizaries fled from their
intrenchments: I had time to throw into them fascines and gabions, to
make a passage for my cavalry who pursued them, I know not how: the fog
dispersed and the Turks perceived a dreadful breach. But for my second
line, which I ordered to march there immediately, to stop this breach,
I should have been lost. I then wished to march in order: impossible! I
was better served than I expected. La Colonie, at the head of his
Bavarians, rushed forward and took a battery of eighteen pieces of
cannon. I was obliged to do better than I wished. I sustained the
Bavarians; and the Turks, after having fled to the heights, lost all the
advantages of their ground. A large troop of their cavalry wished to
charge mine, which were too much advanced; a whole regiment was cut in
pieces; but two others, who arrived opportunely to their aid, decided
the victory. It was then that I received a cut from a sabre; it was, I
believe, my thirteenth wound, and probably my last. Everything was over
at eleven o'clock in the morning. Viard, during the battle, retained the
garrison of Belgrad, which capitulated the same day. I forgot that there
was no Boufflers there: I played the generous man: I granted the honors
of war to the garrison, who, not knowing what they meant, did not avail
themselves of them. Men, women, and children, chariots and camels,
issued forth all at once, pell-mell, by land and by water.

At Vienna the devotees cried out, "A miracle!" those who envied me cried
out, "Good-fortune!" Charles VI was, I believe, among the former: and
Guido Stahrenberg among the latter. I was well received, as might have
been expected.

Here is my opinion respecting this victory, in which I have more cause
for justification than for glory; my partisans have spoken too favorably
of it, and my enemies too severely. They would have had much more reason
to propose cutting off my head on this occasion than on that of Zenta,
for there I risked nothing. I was certain of conquering: but here, not
only I might have been beaten, but totally ruined and lost in a storm,
for the enemy's artillery to the left, on the shores of the Danube, had
destroyed my bridges. I was, indeed, superior in saics and in workmen
and artillerymen to protect or repair them: I had a corps also at
Semlin.

Could I anticipate the tardiness or disinclination of the authorities
who engaged in this war, where there were so many vices of the interior
in administration, and so much ignorance in the chiefs of the civil and
commissariat departments? Hence it was that I was in want of everything
necessary to commence the siege, and to take Belgrad before the arrival
of the grand vizier, and which hindered me afterward from checking him
on the heights. This, however, I should have done--but for my cursed
fever--before his artillery arrived. And then that unlucky dysentery,
which put my army into the hospital, or rather into the burying-ground,
for each regiment had one behind its camp--could I anticipate that also?
These were the two motives which induced me to attack, and to risk all
or nothing, for I was as certainly lost one way as another. I threw up
intrenchments against intrenchments: I knew a little more upon that
subject than my comrade the grand vizier; and I had plenty of troops in
health to guard them. I obliged him for want of provisions--for, as I
have already said, I caused all the country in his rear to be
ravaged--to decamp, and, consequently, Belgrad to surrender. Thus, if
this manuscript should be read, give me neither praise, my dear reader,
nor blame. After all, I extricated myself, perhaps, as Charles VI said,
his confessor, and the pious souls who trust in God, and who wished me
at the Devil, by the protection of the Virgin Mary, for the battle was
fought on Assumption Day.

Europe was getting embroiled elsewhere. Some charitable souls advised
the Emperor to send me to negotiate at London, reckoning that they might
procure for another the easy glory of terminating the war.

I was not such a fool as to fall into this snare, and I set off for
Hungary at the commencement of June, with a fine sword worth eighty
thousand florins which the Emperor had presented to me.

BURSTING OF THE SOUTH SEA BUBBLE

A.D. 1720

LOUIS ADOLPHE THIERS

Never, perhaps, was there a time when rash monetary speculation
seized with a firmer grip upon people and governments than during
the early part of the eighteenth century. Concurrently with the
delusive "Mississippi Scheme" of John Law (1717), which resulted in
financial panic in France, a similarly disastrous enterprise was
carried on in England. This was the attempt to turn the South Sea
Company into a concern for enriching quickly both its private and
its governmental investors. The collapse of this scheme, in the same
year as that of Law's, caused even more serious and widespread ruin.

Thiers' relation of the origin and development of the South Sea
Company, of the forming and collapse of the "bubble," and of the
spread of the speculative mania which manifested itself in so many
other extravagant projects, makes a fitting counterpart to this
historian's narrative of the rise and fall of the contemporary
scheme in his own country.

The South Sea Company was originated by the celebrated Harley, Earl of
Oxford, in the year 1711, with the view of restoring public credit,
which had suffered by the dismissal of the Whig ministry, and of
providing for the discharge of the army and navy debentures and other
parts of the floating debt, amounting to nearly ten millions sterling. A
company of merchants, at that time without a name, took his debt upon
themselves, and the government agreed to secure them for a certain
period the interest of 6 per cent. To provide for this interest,
amounting to six hundred thousand pounds per annum, the duties upon
wines, vinegar, India goods, wrought silks, tobacco, whale-fins, and
some other articles were rendered permanent. The monopoly of the trade
to the South Seas was granted, and the company, being incorporated by
act of Parliament, assumed the title by which it has ever since been
known. The minister took great credit to himself for his share in this
transaction, and the scheme was always called by his flatterers "the
Earl of Oxford's masterpiece."

Even at this early period of its history the most visionary ideas were
formed by the company and the public of the immense riches of the
eastern coast of South America. Everybody had heard of the gold and
silver mines of Peru and Mexico; everyone believed them to be
inexhaustible, and that it was only necessary to send the manufactures
of England to the coast to be repaid a hundred-fold in gold and silver
ingots by the natives. A report industriously spread, that Spain was
willing to concede four ports on the coasts of Chile and Peru for the
purposes of traffic, increased the general confidence, and for many
years the South Sea Company's stock was in high favor.

Philip V of Spain, however, never had any intention of admitting the
English to a free trade in the ports of Spanish America. Negotiations
were set on foot, but their only result was the _assiento_ contract, or
the privilege of supplying the colonies with negroes for thirty years,
and of sending once a year a vessel, limited both as to tonnage and
value of cargo, to trade with Mexico, Peru, or Chile. The latter
permission was only granted upon the hard condition that the King of
Spain should enjoy one-fourth of the profits, and a tax of 5 per cent.
on the remainder. This was a great disappointment to the Earl of Oxford
and his party, who were reminded, much oftener than they found
agreeable, of the

"_Parturiunt montes, nascitur ridiculus mus._"

But the public confidence in the South Sea Company was not shaken. The
Earl of Oxford declared that Spain would permit two ships, in addition
to the annual ship, to carry out merchandise during the first year; and
a list was published in which all the ports and harbors of these coasts
were pompously set forth as open to the trade of Great Britain. The
first voyage of the annual ship was not made till the year 1717, and in
the following year the trade was suppressed by the rupture with Spain.

The name of the South Sea Company was thus continually before the
public. Though their trade with the South American states produced
little or no augmentation of their revenues, they continued to flourish
as a monetary corporation. Their stock was in high request, and the
directors, buoyed up with success, began to think of new means for
extending their influence. The Mississippi scheme of John Law, which so
dazzled and captivated the French people, inspired them with an idea
that they could carry on the same game in England. The anticipated
failure of his plans did not divert them from their intention. Wise in
their own conceit, they imagined they could avoid his faults, carry on
their schemes forever, and stretch the cord of credit to its extremest
tension without causing it to snap asunder.

It was while Law's plan was at its greatest height of popularity, while
people were crowding in thousands to the Rue Quincampoix, and ruining
themselves with frantic eagerness, that the South Sea directors laid
before Parliament their famous plan for paying off the national debt.
Visions of boundless wealth floated before the fascinated eyes of the
people in the two most celebrated countries of Europe. The English
commenced their career of extravagance somewhat later than the French;
but as soon as the delirium seized them they were determined not to be
outdone.

Upon January 22, 1720, the House of Commons resolved itself into a
committee of the whole house to take into consideration that part of the
King's speech at the opening of the session which related to the public
debts, and the proposal of the South Sea Company toward the redemption
and sinking of the same. The proposal set forth at great length, and
under several heads, the debts of the state, amounting to thirty million
nine hundred eighty-one thousand seven hundred twelve pounds, which the
company was anxious to take upon itself, upon consideration of 5 per
cent. per annum, secured to it until midsummer, 1727; after which time
the whole was to become redeemable at the pleasure of the legislature,
and the interest to be reduced to 4 per cent. It was resolved, on
February 2d, that the proposals were most advantageous to the country.
They were accordingly received, and leave was given to bring in a bill
to that effect.

Exchange Alley was in a fever of excitement. The company's stock, which
had been at 130 the previous day, gradually rose to 300, and continued
to rise with the most astonishing rapidity during the whole time that
the bill in its several stages was under discussion. Sir Robert Walpole
was almost the only statesman in the House who spoke out boldly against
it. He warned them, in eloquent and solemn language, of the evils that
would ensue. It countenanced, he said, "the dangerous practice of
stock-jobbing, and would divert the genius of the nation from trade and
industry. It would hold out a dangerous lure to decoy the unwary to
their ruin, by making them part with the earnings of their labor for a
prospect of imaginary wealth. The great principle of the project was an
evil of first-rate magnitude; it was to raise artificially the value of
the stock by exciting and keeping up a general infatuation, and by
promising dividends out of funds which could never be adequate to the
purpose."

The bill was two months in its progress through the House of Commons.
During this time every exertion was made by the directors and their
friends, and more especially by the chairman, the noted Sir John Blunt,
to raise the price of the stock. The most extravagant rumors were in
circulation. Treaties between England and Spain were spoken of whereby
the latter was to grant a free trade to all her colonies; and the rich
produce of the mines of Potosi-la-Paz was to be brought to England until
silver should become almost as plentiful as iron. For cotton and woollen
goods, which could be supplied to them in abundance, the dwellers in
Mexico were to empty their golden mines. The company of merchants
trading to the South Seas would be the richest the world ever saw, and
every hundred pounds invested in it would produce hundreds per annum to
the stockholder. At last the stock was raised by these means to near
400, but, after fluctuating a good deal, settled at 330, at which price
it remained when the bill passed the Commons by a majority of 172
against 55.

Contrary to all expectation South Sea stock fell when the bill received
the royal assent. On April 7th the shares were quoted at 310, and on the
following day at 290. Already the directors had tasted the profits of
their scheme, and it was not likely that they should quietly allow the
stock to find its natural level without an effort to raise it.
Immediately their busy emissaries were set to work. Every person
interested in the success of the project endeavored to draw a knot of
listeners round him, to whom he expatiated on the treasures of the South
American seas. Exchange Alley was crowded with attentive groups. One
rumor alone, asserted with the utmost confidence, had an immediate
effect upon the stock. It was said that Earl Stanhope had received
overtures in France from the Spanish government to exchange Gibraltar
and Port Mahon for some places on the coast of Peru, for the security
and enlargement of the trade in the South Seas. Instead of one annual
ship trading to those ports, and allowing the King of Spain 25 per cent.
out of the profits, the company might build and charter as many ships as
it pleased, and pay no percentage whatever to any foreign potentate.

"Visions of ingots danced before their eyes," and stock rose rapidly. On
April 12th, five days after the bill had become law, the directors
opened their books for a subscription of a million, at the rate of three
hundred pounds for every one hundred pounds capital. Such was the
concourse of persons of all ranks that this first subscription was found
to amount to above two millions of original stock. It was to be paid in
five payments, of sixty pounds each for every one hundred pounds. In a
few days the stock advanced to 340, and the subscriptions were sold for
double the price of the first payment. To raise the stock still higher
it was declared in a general court of directors, on April 21st, that the
midsummer dividend should be 10 per cent., and that all subscriptions
should be entitled to the same. These resolutions answering the end
designed, the directors, to improve the infatuation of the moneyed men,
opened their books for a second subscription of a million, at 4 per
cent. Such was the frantic eagerness of people of every class to
speculate in these funds that in the course of a few hours no less than
a million and a half was subscribed at that rate.

In the mean time innumerable joint-stock companies started up
everywhere. They soon received the name of "bubbles," the most
appropriate that imagination could devise. The populace are often most
happy in the nicknames they employ. None could be more apt than that of
"bubbles." Some of them lasted for a week or a fortnight, and were no
more heard of, while others could not even live out that short span of
existence. Every evening produced new schemes and every morning new
projects. The highest of the aristocracy were as eager in this hot
pursuit of gain as the most plodding jobber in Cornhill. The Prince of
Wales became governor of one company, and is said to have cleared forty
thousand pounds by his speculations. The Duke of Bridgewater started a
scheme for the improvement of London and Westminster, and the Duke of
Chandos another. There were nearly a hundred different projects, each
more extravagant and deceptive than the other. To use the words of the
_Political State_, they were "set on foot and promoted by crafty knaves,
then pursued by multitudes of covetous fools, and at last appeared to
be, in effect, what their vulgar appellation denoted them to be--bubbles
and mere cheats." It was computed that near one million and a half
sterling was won and lost by these unwarrantable practices, to the
impoverishment of many a fool and the enriching of many a rogue.

Some of these schemes were plausible enough, and, had they been
undertaken at a time when the public mind was unexcited, might have been
pursued with advantage to all concerned. But they were established
merely with a view of raising the shares in the market. The projectors
took the first opportunity of a rise to sell out, and next morning the
scheme was at an end. Maitland, in his _History of London_, gravely
informs us that one of the projects which received great encouragement
was for the establishment of a company "to make deal boards out of
sawdust." This is, no doubt, intended as a joke; but there is abundance
of evidence to show that dozens of schemes, hardly a whit more
reasonable, lived their little day, ruining hundreds ere they fell. One
of them was for a wheel for perpetual motion--capital one million;
another was "for encouraging the breed of horses in England, and
improving of glebe and church lands, and repairing and rebuilding
parsonage and vicarage houses." Why the clergy, who were so mainly
interested in the latter clause, should have taken so much interest in
the first, is only to be explained on the supposition that the scheme
was projected by a knot of the fox-hunting parsons, once so common in
England. The shares of this company were rapidly subscribed for.

But the most absurd and preposterous of all, and which showed, more
completely than any other, the utter madness of the people, was one
started by an unknown adventurer, entitled "_A Company for carrying on
an Undertaking of Great Advantage, but Nobody to know What It Is_." Were
not the facts stated by scores of credible witnesses, it would be
impossible to believe that any person could have been duped by such a
project. The man of genius who essayed this bold and successful inroad
upon public credulity merely stated in his prospectus that the required
capital was half a million, in five thousand shares of one hundred
pounds each, deposit two pounds per share. Each subscriber paying his
deposit would be entitled to one hundred pounds per annum per share. How
this immense profit was to be obtained he did not condescend to inform
them at that time, but promised that in a month full particulars should
be duly announced, and a call made for the remaining ninety-eight pounds
of the subscription. Next morning, at nine o'clock, this great man
opened an office in Cornhill. Crowds of people beset his door, and when
he shut up, at three o'clock, he found that no less than one thousand
shares had been subscribed for and the deposits paid. He was thus, in
five hours, the winner of two thousand pounds. He was philosopher enough
to be contented with his venture, and set off the same evening for the
Continent. He was never heard of again.

It is time, however, to return to the great South Sea gulf, that
swallowed the fortunes of so many thousands of the avaricious and the
credulous. On May 29th the stock had risen as high as 500, and about
two-thirds of the government annuitants had exchanged the securities of
the state for those of the South Sea Company. During the whole of the
month of May the stock continued to rise, and on the 28th it was quoted
at 550. In four days after this it took a prodigious leap, rising
suddenly from 550 to 890. It was now the general opinion that the stock
could rise no higher, and many persons took that opportunity of selling
out, with a view of realizing their profits. Many noblemen and persons
in the train of the King, and about to accompany him to Hanover, were
also anxious to sell out. So many sellers and so few buyers appeared in
the alley on June 3d that the stock fell at once from 890 to 640. The
directors were alarmed and gave their agents orders to buy. Their
efforts succeeded. Toward evening confidence was restored, and the stock
advanced to 750. It continued at this price with some slight
fluctuation, until the company closed its books on June 22d.

It would be needless and uninteresting to detail the various arts
employed by the directors to keep up the price of stock. It will be
sufficient to state that it finally rose to 1000 per cent. It was quoted
at this price in the commencement of August. The bubble was then
full-blown and began to quiver and shake preparatory to its bursting.

Many of the government annuitants expressed dissatisfaction against the
directors. They accused them of partiality in making out the lists for
shares in each subscription. Further uneasiness was occasioned by its
being generally known that Sir John Blunt, the chairman, and some others
had sold out. During the whole of the month of August the stock fell,
and on September 2d it was quoted at 700 only.

Day after day it continued to fall, until it was as low as 400. In a
letter dated September 13th, from Mr. Broderick, M.P., to Lord
Chancellor Middleton, and published in Coxe's _Walpole_, the former
says: "Various are the conjectures why the South Sea directors have
suffered the cloud to break so early. I made no doubt but they would do
so when they found it to their advantage. They have stretched credit so
far beyond what it would bear that specie proves insufficient to support
it. Their most considerable men have drawn out, securing themselves by
the losses of the deluded, thoughtless numbers, whose understandings
have been overruled by avarice and the hope of making mountains out of
mole-hills. Thousands of families will be reduced to beggary. The
consternation is inexpressible--the rage beyond description, and the
case altogether so desperate that I do not see any plan or scheme so
much as thought of for averting the blow; so that I cannot pretend to
guess what is next to be done." Ten days afterward, the stock still
falling, he writes: "The company have yet come to no determination, for
they are in such a wood that they know not which way to turn. By several
gentlemen lately come to town, I perceive the very name of a South Sea
man grown abominable in every country. A great many goldsmiths are
already run off, and more will; daily I question whether one-third, nay,
one-fourth, of them can stand it."

At a general court of the Bank of England, held soon afterward, the
governor informed them of the several meetings that had been held on the
affairs of the South Sea Company, adding that the directors had not yet
thought fit to come to any decision upon the matter. A resolution was
then proposed, and carried without a dissentient voice, empowering the
directors to agree with those of the South Sea to circulate their bonds
to what sum and upon what terms and for what time they might think
proper. Thus both parties were at liberty to act as they might judge
best for the public interest.

Books were opened at the bank for subscription of three millions for the
support of public credit, on the usual terms of 15 pounds per cent.
deposit, 3 pounds per cent. premium, and 5 pounds per cent. interest. So
great was the concourse of people in the early part of the morning, all
eagerly bringing their money, that it was thought the subscription would
be filled that day; but before noon the tide turned. In spite of all
that could be done to prevent it, the South Sea Company's stock fell
rapidly. Its bonds were in such discredit that a run commenced upon the
most eminent goldsmiths and bankers, some of whom, having lent out great
sums upon South Sea stock, were obliged to shut up their shops and
abscond. The Sword-blade Company, which had hitherto been the chief
casher of the South Sea Company, stopped payment. This, being looked
upon as but the beginning of evil, occasioned a great run upon the bank,
which was now obliged to pay out money much faster than it had received
it upon the subscription in the morning. The day succeeding was a
holiday (September 29th), and the bank had a little breathing-time. It
bore up against the storm; but its former rival, the South Sea Company,
was wrecked upon it. Its stock fell to 150, and gradually, after various
fluctuations, to 135.

The bank, finding it was not able to restore public confidence and stem
the tide of ruin, without running the risk of being swept away, with
those it intended to save, declined to carry out the agreement into
which it had partially entered. "And thus," to use the words of the
_Parliamentary History_, "were seen, in the space of eight months, the
rise, progress, and fall of that mighty fabric, which, being wound up by
mysterious springs to a wonderful height, had fixed the eyes and
expectations of all Europe, but whose foundations, being fraud,
illusion, credulity, and infatuation, fell to the ground as soon as the
artful management of its directors was discovered."

BACH LAYS THE FOUNDATION OF MODERN MUSIC

A.D. 1723

HENRY TIPPER

Our first recognized triumph in the marvellous modern development of
music, the first great masterpiece which taught the world the beauty
of which the art is capable, was Bach's _Das Wohltemperirte
Clavier_. The production marks, therefore, "the first great climax
of musical art."

Like the other arts and sciences, the story of music is that of a
slow building up. Music "divinest of arts, exactest of
sciences"--for music is both an art and a science--has developed
from the crude two-or three-note scale melody, without semitones, to
the elaborate, ornate lucubrations of the modern oratorio, opera, or
symphony. From the beginning the "half-sister of Poetry" has been
the handmaid of Religion. The ancients ascribed miraculous
properties to music. Of the actual system of the Egyptians our
information is very scant; but we learn from the monuments depicting
the number and variety of their instruments that they had advanced
from childish practice to orchestration and harmony. According to
Plato, "In their possession are songs having the power to exalt and
ennoble mankind." The harp is undoubtedly of Egyptian origin.

In Israel plastic art was discouraged; the natural emotion of the
people was, therefore, expressed in poetry and music. Miriam, the
daughter of Jephthah, Deborah, and later the Virgin, whose grand
chant, the _Magnificat_, is ever being upraised from Christendom's
heart, portray the deep emotional temperament of this great
religious race.

The artistic standard of the music of the Greeks was far behind that
of their observation and intelligence in other matters. Their
theories on the combinations, of which they never made use, and
analysis of their scales show much ingenuity, but their accounts are
so vague that one cannot get any clear idea of what these were
really like. When art is mature, people do not tell of city walls
being overthrown, of savage animals being tamed--as run the stories
of Orpheus and Amphion. One Greek there was, Pythagoras, who
discerned the association between the distant music of the spheres
with the seven notes of the scale. "He discovered the numerical
relation of one tone to another."[28] It was about the time of
Pythagoras that a scheme of tetrachords which did not overlap was
adopted.

In Persia and Arabia was obtained a perfect system of intonation.
The Chinese system is minutely exact in theory, bombastic in fancy.
The Hindus sedulously avoided applying mathematics to their scales.
The development of the scale is shown in the construction of the
ancient Greek scale, the modern Japanese, and the aboriginal
Australian scale, and the phonographed tunes of some of the Red
Indians of North America. Here a reference must be made to the scale
of the Scotch bagpipe, a highly artificial product, without
historical materials available to assist in unravelling its
development. It comprises a whole diatonic series of notes, and
modes may be selected therefrom.

But it is to Rome that we owe the seed of our modern methods of
treatment. The Netherland school had been highly developed there by
a long line of distinguished masters, who paved the way for the
gifted Palestrina, who exalted polyphony to a secure eminence equal
to that attained by the arts of painting and architecture. He
brought forth a perception of the needs which music suffered, adding
an earnestness and science to a profound quality of simpleness and
grace. It was between 1561 and 1571 that his genius mellowed and his
style took on those characteristics upon which was based the future
music of the Catholic Church. It was while he was Maestro at the
Vatican that he submitted to the Church the famed _Missa Papæ
Marcelli_, which determined the future of church music.

The culmination of art in music is strikingly shown in the subjoined
article from the pen of that great authority, Mr. H. Tipper.

The first tonal prophet and poet of the modern era, the era in which
reason made tremendous protest against mere dogma, and the best
religious instincts of human nature called imperatively for emancipation
and for nearer individual contact with God, is Johann Sebastian Bach. We
look dazzled at the brilliant victories of the Italian Renaissance, and
amid tumultuous beauty run riot with imagination we hear the voice of
Savonarola at the close of the period uttering his lamentations. The
great Italian reformer saw and felt that in his own day and in his own
country the glory and beauty of the movement had vanished in sensuality;
that hardness of heart and indifference to primary human needs had
diverted the waters of the Renaissance from their main fertilizing
channel.

The deep need of the epoch was social, not mental, sociality in its
widest sense: the right of the individual; his inherent majesty, which
the accident of birth should not be able to impair--this and this only
was the natural outcome of the new birth which came to humanity; this
and this only was the sequel which German profundity and integrity, not
Italian brilliancy and carelessness, placed before the mind of Europe.

The Reformation, then, this Protestantism, is distinctive of the new
era. It was a protest, not only religious, as the word is usually
applied, but scientific. It is the basis in the modern Western world of
those laws of criticism which have submitted, or will submit, everything
to searching analytical investigation, and as in the case of the natural
world, so in the moral and ethical, men, by the light of revealed truth,
or by those higher instincts of nobility which emanate from the Eternal
Love, seek to apply to the reformation of society those principles of
love, justice, and recompense which each would wish applied individually
to self.

As an inspirer of thought and man of action, the world has seen few such
men as Luther. His genius, as it were, discovered and laid bare the
inexhaustible treasures of the German language; his sympathy and genial
humanity sent a thrill of song, poetical and tonal, throughout the
fatherland. He was the great awakener of German emotion. To Luther, a
man who cared not for song was without the pale of humanity. But his
enthusiasm was practical. In the church, as we have seen, he gathered
from all sources whatever was of the best, and gave it to the people. In
the schools he advocated the cause of song. In the streets the people
needed not advocacy. Wherever two or three gathered together, song was
in the midst of them, and it is not too much to say that the Lutheran
hymn was the saviour of German poetry and a font of German song. In the
seventeenth century there was in Germany little poetry worthy of the
name save that inspired by the devotional character of Luther's genius.
His heir and successor in the realm of tone was Sebastian Bach.

True, two centuries had elapsed between the death of the great reformer
in morals and the birth of the great reformer in tone; but the work of
the latter could not have been without the former. The chorale was
introduced by Luther; it was perfected by Bach. To what other influence
than the Lutheran can we attribute the growth of Bach? Are there any
other resources of German art and thought which can account for the
advent of the great musician? In art Duerer stood by the side of
Luther. In him again we find a man. Thought, thought! help me to
express my native thought. Teach me to express in my art the reality of
Nature, its wonderful beauty, thrice beautiful to me an artist; the
pathos of life, its realism, far apparently from the ideal, yet most
precious to me as a man. This was the aim of Duerer, and he seems a man
after the Lutheran mould.

The aim of Duerer may be found in some respects in Bach's work, because
both men were men of integrity, great and patient in soul. This, of
course, is not to say that Bach was affected by Duerer, but is merely an
endeavor to find what was noblest in Germany preceding Bach. One more
allusion. In Bach's art we trace the mystic; not shadowy outpourings of
hysterical emotion, but beauties of eternal verities disclosed in
vision--faint, it is true--to none save the noblest of mortals.

One such kindred spirit preceding Bach was Boehme, the father of German
mysticism, the poor cobbler, whose soul lay far away in the regions of
celestial love, and whose utterance is of the realities thereof. These
three men, Luther, Duerer, Boehme, are those to whom the great musician
Bach is akin, but he is truly the child of the former, and the father of
the highest aspirations in instrumental music.

For confirmatory evidence we have only to trace the growth of the Bach
family. The progenitor, Veit Bach, was born at Wechmar, near Gotha, in
1550, and, following his trade as a baker, settled, after considerable
wanderings, near the Hungarian frontier. Veit Bach was a stanch
Lutheran. Whether the Lutheran services had given him a love of music,
or whether they had only quickened a constitutional sympathy, it is
impossible to say. Certain it is that he was passionately fond of music,
and, cast for a period among a population whose emotions found constant
and ready utterance in tone, he brought back to Wechmar, whither he had
returned on account of religious persecution, his beloved cythringa and
the art of playing it. There is evidence that this knowledge afforded
him consolation and enjoyment in the quiet monotony of his life. While
the mill was working, Veit Bach was often playing; and doubtless the
peculiar charm and rhythm of old Hungarian melodies, songs of the
people, which he had learned from the wandering gypsies, recurred to
him, as well as those grand devotional hymns on which he had been
nourished from childhood. We have said that Veit Bach was a stanch
Lutheran. From father to son through generations, the Lutheran doctrine,
pure and undefiled, had been handed down, accompanied by the musical
gift, until both, uniting in Sebastian Bach, born at Eisenach in 1685,
served to glorify the Lutheran chorale and the art which perfected it.

Again, the traditions of the great reformer must have been imbibed by
Sebastian Bach from infancy. Surrounding his native town lay a circle of
wooded heights, from one of which arose the Wartburg, that illustrious
shrine of the German nation whither in mediæval and modern times her
sons have repaired to exhibit and replenish their lamp of genius. There
the minnesingers had gathered in contest a song; thither as a modern
Elijah came the great monk, weary of soul, yet whose immortal genius
unfolded the page of Sacred Writ; and down the wood-clad slope came
issuing the melody of the Hebrew psalmist, translated into German speech
and entering into German hearts, mingled with the narrative of the
Redeemer's passion lit by awful and solemn glory of Eternal Love. Who
shall say that young Bach knew not of these things? Who will contend
that, when his genius matured and ripened, the immortal tones in which
the eternal passion was portrayed owed nothing to this sympathy of
association, this spiritual life with the great reformer born two
centuries before?

Yet once more. The Bach family was full of affection and sympathy one
toward the other. Each year witnessed a reunion of the various members
of the family scattered throughout Thuringia, and each came bearing the
gift of music. As a child among the elders we can imagine how the young
Sebastian revered his uncles, Johann Christopher and Michael Sebastian,
in whom were conserved and developed the Lutheran tonal principles and
traditions; how he somewhat feared the austere character of his elder
brother, Johann Christopher, to whose charge he was intrusted upon the
death of his father.

But we need not imagine how the soul of the young boy was filled with
inexpressible yearning for the art of music. We know that it was so. His
brother, who instructed him, gauged not the nature of the lad. Often and
often did the boy's wistful eyes and loving heart covet the possession
of a manuscript book kept by his brother in strict reserve, containing a
priceless collection of compositions by the great German masters and
mediators. The boy extracted them from their resting-place, and we see
the young tone-prophet striving to master the art-forms of Reinken,
Buxtehude, Frescobaldi, Kerl, Froberger, and Pachelbel, endeavoring to
wrest from them their style and inmost meaning by the light of the
moon's pale rays, which led, alas! in after-years to blindness.

What revelations came to the soul of the young musician we know not. But
his genius thus directed knew no pause until it had won forever the
freedom of the tonal art, until the last fetter of conventionality had
been removed, until in all dignity and beauty music came forth,
henceforth to comfort and solace the human heart. But of this anon. We
trace the young boy to school; we see him a chorister in the choir of
St. Michael's, Lueneburg. Here he entered the gymnasium, studying Greek
and Latin, organ-and violin-playing. Here, too, he exhausted the
treasures of the musical library. But at Hamburg the great Reinken was
giving a series of organ recitals. Thither young Bach repaired. At Celle
he became acquainted with several suites and other compositions of
celebrated French masters. In 1703 he became violinist in the
Saxe-Weimar orchestra, and in the same year, aged eighteen, he was
appointed organist at the new church at Arnstadt, where other members of
his family had held similar positions. Thus already we have ample
evidence both of intense activity and catholicity of taste, and now, a
mere youth, he enters upon his life-work: the perfecting of church
music, especially the chorale form, and the emancipation of the art from
any influence whatsoever other than derives from contact with nature and
emotion. If we ask what equipment he had for his task, we answer:
enthusiasm, so deep, so tempered in all its qualities, that, though in a
few years he became the ablest performer of his time upon the
harpsichord and organ, yet never once is the term "virtuoso" associated
in our thought with the purity of aspiration which characterized him.
His enthusiasm was religious, deep-seated, his vision far and wide, and
no temporary triumph, no sunlit cloud of fame, could satisfy the
imperative needs of his inmost nature. And this nature was calm, with
the calmness of strength and with that tender purity and homely virtue
which characterized the surroundings of his boyhood.

This enthusiasm, this religious instinct, for what was noblest and best,
led him early, as we have seen, to seek inspiration from the works of
men who combined in their compositions all that the great previously
existing schools had taught. Bach was never weary of learning if
perchance he could attain a more lucid or more beautiful expression of
his thought. We have, then, this enthusiasm, this capacity for at once
discerning what was best. Add to it one more quality--the religious, in
its best sense, which young Bach possessed to the uttermost, the feeling
that his art was but the medium of expression for the deep things of
God--and we have the equipment with which the young musician started on
his quest.

Young Bach had received no great instruction in the schools of
composition. That which he had he gathered with a catholicity of taste
from all the renowned masters. Not one of his immediate ancestors had
stirred beyond the confines of their simple home. Well for him was it
so. No late meretricious Neapolitan tinsel could exist in the quiet,
calm beauty of his Thuringian dwelling-place. Nature lay before him.
"Come," she said, "seek to understand me. I have treasures that ye know
not of, treasures that can only be gathered by the pure in heart and
patient in spirit. Here around you, in your quiet German home, are the
elements of all your strength. Here there is no distraction. Riches
shall not allure you. Honorable poverty shall minister to your purity";
and young Bach knew that the voice was true, and, heeding it, there came
to him likewise an inner voice, relating spiritual things, even as the
voice of Nature related natural things.

Comprehending, then, his character, we pass on. His work at this period
was formal. He felt, but could not express. But at Lubeck the
noble-hearted Buxtehude was endeavoring to bring home to the hearts of
the people the mission of music. Bach went thither. Fascinated by the
grand organ-playing of the Lubeck master, and listening with heart-felt
love to those memorable concerts of which we have previously spoken,
Bach forgot both time and engagements. When he returned to Arnstadt,
the spirit of Buxtehude was upon him. Henceforth the quiet people of
Arnstadt knew no rest. Variations, subtle, beautiful, a refined and
fuller contrapuntal treatment, mingled with the chorale. The
conservatism of Arnstadt received a severe shock--a dreadful experience,
doubtless, to the quiet German town. Such genius could come to no good
end, and so the consistory and Bach agreed to part.

Bach had married in October, 1707. In 1708, while at Muehlhausen, his
first considerable work, composed for the municipal elector, appeared.
His election at Saxe-Weimar was undoubtedly owing to his playing before
the Duke Wilhelm Ernst, and we can imagine with what pleasure the young
musician, conscious of great power, looked forward to the intellectual
and cultured life for which Weimar was renowned. In the course of a few
years Bach was appointed orchestral and concert director to the Duke.

The liberal atmosphere of Weimar, the appreciation of men whose opinion
was of worth, could but stimulate the mental faculties and widen the
range of thought, and there is a breadth of conception and majesty in
Bach at this period unknown before. With the assiduity of genius he
labored for the realization of his ideal. Palestrina, Lotti, and Caldara
were laid under contribution. The master transcribed the works of these
composers with his own hands, and arranged the violin concertos of
Vivaldi for the harpsichord and organ. It is ever with the greatest
artists. They assimulate all the forms of kindred art, yet never
sacrifice their individuality. The means enabling them to express their
inmost soul must be found, but their soul will alone dictate the form
which its expression will assume.

But Bach is approaching the close of the first period of his career. An
invitation has been given him (1717) to become conductor of the
orchestra at the court of Leopold of Anhalt-Koethen, a prince remarkable
for his benevolence and cultured attainments. Here his duties were
comparatively slight and his leisure abundant. Hitherto he had been
engaged, as it were, in the temple service. At Weimar he had developed
into a great tone-poet of sacred song. With refined strength and
exquisite perception he had gathered up the related parts of song,
weaving them into a unity of impassioned and majestic utterance.

But the great poet must have a wider experience. He must enter, as it
were, into the great deeps of sacred emotion in things natural; he must
perceive in the universe a deeper, a more majestic beauty even than in
the temple. Then he will become a great prophet among his fellows, and
illumine for all time the pathway of life, giving strength to the weak,
consolation to the weary, and song to the blithe and pure of heart. This
is what Bach became in tone. His attention at Koethen was directed
mainly to instrumental music.

We have previously remarked upon the endeavors which certain German
masters made to bring home to their countrymen an appreciation of
instrumental music. How long the seed lay germinating in Bach's mind we
know not. A new idea had taken possession of him, or, rather, he
contemplated the application of the principle of his former labors in
polyphony to instrumental music pure and simple.

At Koethen he supplemented his labors at Weimar. At Leipsic, whither we
shall presently follow him, he brought them to completion.

But we are anticipating. We have seen how patiently, how toilsomely,
Music has broken one by one the fetters of conventionality; how she has
grown in strength and beauty, anticipating the moment of her final
deliverance. It has come at last. With the patience and impatience of
genius Bach strikes in twain the last fetter of conventionality. He has
realized his quest. The boy who, far away in future thought, studied the
art-forms of his great predecessors and contemporaries in the lowly
chamber or by the light of the silent moon, has found his beloved, the
Tonal Muse. She stands free before him to serve his will--his will
purified by conception and incessant effort--and he will lead her in her
new-found freedom and place her in the path of progress.

Bach's compositions at this time include the early part of one of the
greatest of his works, the _Wohltemperirte Clavier_. In this work--the
second part of which was composed at Leipsic--Bach attained the full
mastery of form. The strivings and efforts of the great Netherland
masters found completion in this work of Bach. In it are compressed the
labors of centuries. The works of the masters, Okeghem, Dufay, Josquin
des Pres, and others, are but prophecies in tone, announcing a
realization of their ideal in the centuries yet to come, that ideal
which they felt so particularly, yet could not express. The
_Wohltemperirte Clavier_ then marks the first great climax of musical
art.

The evolution was certain, and it consummated in a kindred mind. The
deepest expression of human feeling, the agony of the dire distress and
conflict of life, the calm majesty of faith which enables the soul to
overcome every obstacle, its pathetic appeal to God for rest and
comfort, the strength of victory, are possible in music, are expressed
in music as no other art can express them, because of Bach.

True to his trust, he extracted all that was best in the works of his
predecessors and, vivifying it by his genius, created forms of
expression which the greatest that have followed him have utilized and
extolled.

But, as we have said, the great poet must perceive in things natural, in
the beauty of the universe around him, in the sacred feelings of human
emotion, a sacredness as worthy and as earnest, though less concentrated
in character, as that which exists in the more direct function of
religious worship. To the great poet, however he works, all things are
sacred. He it is who reveals the heaven that lies around us. He opens
the portals of Nature, and we enter in to find strength and consolation.

Bach does all this in the masterly work we are considering. Not to the
Italian, but to the German, did Nature at length disclose her choicest
method of expression, and this because the German had ever lived in
close contact with her. In all Bach's works at this period the work of
emancipation goes forward. Take, for instance, the Brandenburg concertos
leading to the combination of the present orchestra.

But a new sphere of action here again opens to Bach. His master and
friend, the Prince of Koethen, was distracted from the pursuit of music
by his wife's want of interest therein, and so Bach sorrowfully looks
around him for a more congenial appointment. This he found at Leipsic,
in 1723, as cantor to the school of St. Thomas. Leipsic, like Weimar,
was celebrated for its intellectual life; but the various vexations
which the great musician encountered from the action of the authorities
reflects but little credit upon them. Bach's labors here were simply
Titanic. There were four churches at Leipsic, the principal being St.
Nicholas and St. Thomas. Bach seems to have been responsible for the
musical service at each. How innate and healthy was his genius may be
inferred from the fact that for these musical services alone three
hundred eighty cantatas seem to have been composed. Bach entered upon
his labors at Leipsic at the age of thirty-eight, and continued therein
until his death, in 1750. Let us examine briefly the nature of these
labors, and endeavor to glean from them their characteristic principles.

When Bach came to Leipsic he came full of experience and power. As a
youth he had devoted himself to the perfecting of church music.
Untiringly, unceasingly, with steadfast love, he had brought the laws of
counterpoint and fugue to mingle with the grace of melody and the genius
of a noble imagination. At Koethen his poetic and artistic temperament
roamed through the realms of nature, and brought us near to the
understanding of their varied utterance. At Leipsic he finished the
education of his life and his career as a tone-poet. He seeks again the
shelter of the temple, but his genius has matured and ripened. He has
examined the mysteries of life. His enthusiasm for the pure and good is
stronger than ever, but life is still a mystery. Evil, pain, love deep
as hell and high as heaven, the Titanic conflict of opposing principles,
Nature and her decrees, sorrow, remorse, sweet, unaffected joy, and
tranquil resignation--what mean they all? The answer, the solution, is
on Calvary. There is no other solution. Intellect, deny it how it will,
is baffled by the complex problem. The solution is of love through
trouble and anguish. The Passion music of Bach rises to the sublime
understanding of this grand mystery, and again the evolution of the old
mystery and Passion-play consummates in a kindred mind. Again the
triumph of faith is with the German. Luther frees the understanding from
tyranny. Bach raises it to the region of genius and sympathy, and closes
the labors of a thousand years of Christian tonal effort by his Passion
music of the Redeemer. But while this is so, he initiated the modern
period of tonal art, leaving, however, this Passion music as his noblest
legacy, as if to warn men that no other solution of life exists.

But though Bach's genius was thus supreme, it was not because he was
undisturbed by the vexations of daily life. Rarely, if ever, has an
artist equally great produced in such boundless profusion the highest
works of genius, when engaged with men most frequently unable to
understand his thought, and immersed in the arduous duties of teacher in
an art noteworthy of producing fatigue and exhaustion of spirit. But his
enthusiasm and strength were equal to the task. With grand integrity,
and desire for the welfare of the congregations of the churches alluded
to, he obtained from their respective ministers the texts of their
discourses for the ensuing Sundays, and produced, apparently without
effort, hundreds of cantatas to convey to the hearers the inner meaning
of the words which fell from the preacher's lips. These cantatas
frequently opened with orchestral introduction followed by a chorus,
usually very impressive, and imbued with the meaning of the text. The
recitatives and solo airs would still further convey this meaning, while
a chorale or hymn in four parts, with elaborate instrumental
accompaniment, served to express the feelings of the whole congregation.
To each instrument was assigned a separate part, and the whole
accompaniment was separate from the singing.

But if Bach in the consummation of the chorale perfected Luther's work
in the realm of music, he in his Passion music finds worthy expression
of a nation's devotion. His genius, as it were, felt the spirit-life of
the past. His soul vibrated to the yearnings of the unknown millions of
his race who had passed away in the centuries preceding him, and whose
consolation in their humble toil, in the various hardships of their
lives, was the narrative of this Passion music of the Saviour Christ.
The rough, dramatic presentation accorded to this narrative gathered, as
time went on, elements of beauty and traditional treatment around it. It
was powerfully to affect the drama proper and oratorio, but in its
direct and proper functions it was to inspire the first, and in some
respects the greatest, of the great musicians of Germany to his utmost
effort, to his most lofty flight of genius, as his winged spirit soared
through the ages of the past toward the future ages yet to come.

This Passion music of St. Matthew is the noblest presentment of the
characteristics of the German mind, and is unsurpassed in the realm of
religious art. It is an unfolding of the German spirit, and evidences
qualities the possession of which makes for national greatness.

As we have said, Bach is the great lyric poet of his nation, the first
great German genius after the devastating horrors of war. Looming on the
sight, or as contemporaries, are Handel, Leibnitz, Wolf, Klopstock,
Lessing, and Winckelmann. The modern era, with its philosophy and
revolution, has arrived. The domain of thought is enwidened, and the
Middle Ages blend and fade in the historic vista of the past. But the
modern era commences with these great affirmations in art and poetry.
Bach takes the narrative of the Passion, and erects the Cross anew with
sympathetic genius of art and love. Handel, as if he had caught Isaiah's
prophetic fire, gave to Europe its most beautiful and noble epic, the
_Messiah_; and Klopstock, the first of the great line of Germany's
modern poets, devoted his genius and labor to the same subject. But with
Bach and Handel no miserable conflicting elements of theology sully the
conception of the Saviour Christ. These great artists rise to the
universal and the true. The highest art is absolute and knows no appeal.
It is in harmony with universal law, both spiritual and physical.

FOOTNOTES:

[28] Naumann.

SETTLEMENT OF GEORGIA

A.D. 1732

WILLIAM B. STEVENS

It was not only the beginning of a new commonwealth, destined to
become an important State of the American Union, but also the spirit
and purpose which led to it, that made the English colonization of
Georgia a great and unique event in the history of this country.

Seldom have military and philanthropic achievements been combined in
the career of one man. James Oglethorpe was already a distinguished
soldier and a member of the English Parliament when in 1732 he
sailed with one hundred twenty men and founded Savannah. His express
object was the settlement of Georgia, not only as a home for
insolvent debtors, who suffered in English jails, but also for
persecuted Protestants of the Continent. It was not the least of his
services that on his second visit to the future "Empire State of the
South" he took with him John and Charles Wesley, whose influence has
been so marked among the American people.

Prior to the undertaking of Sir Robert Montgomery in 1717, with
which Stevens' narrative begins, few white men had visited the
Georgia country, which was the home of various Indian tribes. De
Soto traversed it on his great westward expedition (1539-1542), but
little was known of it when in 1629 it was included in King Charles
I's Carolina grant to Sir Robert Heath, or even at the time of the
next Carolina grant (1663), when it passed to Monk, Clarendon, and
others. Under the later proprietors it became known to Englishmen
through such glowing descriptions as naturally aroused an interest
in its settlement.

It was not until 1717 that any effort was made to improve the lands
between the Savannah and the Altamaha. In that year Sir Robert
Montgomery, Bart., whose father was joined with Lord Cardross in his
measures for establishing a Scots colony in Port Royal, published _A
Discourse Concerning the Designed Establishment of a new Colony to the
South of Carolina_, in what he termed "the most delightful country in
the universe." This pamphlet was accompanied by a beautiful but fanciful
plan representing the form of settling the districts or county divisions
in his province, which he styled "the Margraviate of Azilia." In his
description of the country he writes "that Nature has not blessed the
world with any tract which can be preferable to it; that Paradise, with
all her virgin beauties, may be modestly supposed, at most, but equal to
its native excellencies."

Having obtained, from the Lords Proprietors of Carolina a grant of the
lands between Savannah and the Altamaha, he issued his proposals for
settling this "future Eden"; but, though garnished with the most glowing
descriptions, and set forth under the most captivating attractions, they
were issued in vain; and the three years having expired within which he
was to make the settlement or forfeit the land, the territory reverted
to Carolina, and his scheme of colonization came to an end. The
Margraviate of Azilia was magnificent upon the map, but was
impracticable in reality.

The Lords Proprietors of Carolina having failed in their scheme of
government, and their authority being crushed by the provincial
revolution of 1719, they sold their titles and interest in that province
to Parliament in 1729; reserving to Lord John Carteret, one of their
number, the remaining eight shares of the country, as he refused to join
the others in disposing of the colony. After the purchase of the
territory of Carolina, which then extended from the St. John's to
Albemarle Sound, it was deemed too large for one government, and was
therefore divided into two provinces, under the respective titles of
North and South Carolina. The territorial boundary of South Carolina,
however, on the south, was the Savannah River; the remaining portion
being then held in reserve by the British Crown.

The same year that the House of Commons resolved on an address to the
King to purchase the rights of the Lords Proprietors to this territory,
a committee was appointed by Parliament "to inquire into the state of
the gaols of the kingdom, and to report the same and their opinion
thereupon to the House." This committee, raised on the motion of James
Oglethorpe, Esq., in consequence of the barbarities which had fallen
under his own observation while visiting some debtors in the Fleet and
Marshalsea prisons, consisted of ninety-six persons, and Oglethorpe was
made its chairman. A more honorable or effective committee could
scarcely have been appointed. It embraced some of the first men in
England; among them thirty-eight noblemen, the chancellor of the
exchequer, the master of rolls, Admiral Vernon and Field Marshal Wade.
They entered upon their labors with zeal and diligence, and not only
made inquiries, through the Fleet prison, but also into the Marshalsea,
the prison of the king's bench, and the jail for the county of Surrey.

The philanthropy of Oglethorpe, whose feelings were easily enlisted in
the cause of misery, rested not with the discharge of his Parliamentary
duty, nor yet in the further benefit of relaxing the rigorous laws which
thrust the honest debtor into prisons which seemed to garner up disease
in its most loathsome forms--crime in its most fiend-like
works--humanity in its most shameless and degraded aspect; but it
prompted still further efforts--efforts to combine present relief with
permanent benefits, by which honest but unfortunate industry could be
protected, and the laboring poor be enabled to reap some gladdening
fruit from toils which now wrung out their lives with bitter and
unrequited labors. To devise and carry out such efforts himself Lord
Percival and a few other noblemen and gentlemen addressed a memorial to
the privy council, stating "that the cities of London, Westminster, and
parts adjacent do abound with great numbers of indigent persons who are
reduced to such necessity as to become burthensome to the public, and
who would be willing to seek a livelihood in any of his majesty's
plantations in America if they were provided with a passage and means of
settling there."

The memorialists promised to take upon themselves the entire charge of
this affair, to erect a province into a proprietary government, provided
the crown would grant them a portion of the land bought in 1729 by
Parliament from the Lords Proprietors of South Carolina, lying south of
the Savannah River; together with such powers as shall enable them to
receive the charitable contributions and benefactions of all such
persons as are willing to encourage so good a design.

This petition, referred at first to a committee of the privy council,
was by them submitted to the consideration of the board of trade, who,
after a second commitment, made their report, that the attorney and
solicitor-general should be directed to prepare a draft of the charter.
This report, being laid before his majesty, was by him approved and he
directed the proper officer to make out the charter. The charter thus
prepared was approved by the King, but in consequence of the formalities
of office did not pass under the great seal until June 9, 1732.

This instrument constituted twenty noblemen and gentlemen a body
corporate, by the name and style of "The Trustees for establishing a
Colony of Georgia, in America"; giving to the projected colony the name
of the monarch who had granted to them such a liberal territory for the
development of their benevolence.

The charter revealed two purposes as the object of this colonization:
the settling of poor but unfortunate people on lands now waste and
desolate, and the interposing of this colony as a barrier between the
northern colonies and the French, Spanish, and Indians on the south and
west. These designs the trustees amplified and illustrated in their
printed papers and official correspondence.

Oglethorpe, in his _New and Accurrate Account_, declares: "These
trustees not only give land to the unhappy who go thither, but are also
empowered to receive the voluntary contributions of charitable persons
to enable them to furnish the poor adventurers with all necessaries for
the expense of the voyage, occupying the land, and supporting them till
they find themselves comfortably settled. So that now the unfortunate
will not be obliged to bind themselves to a long servitude, to pay for
their passage, for they may be carried gratis into a land of liberty and
plenty, where they immediately find themselves in possession of a
competent estate in a happier climate than they knew before; and they
are unfortunate, indeed, if here they cannot forget their sorrows."

This was the main purpose of the settlement; and such noble views were
"worthy to be the source of an American republic." Other colonies had
been planted by individuals and companies for wealth and dominion; but
the trustees of this, at their own desire, were restrained by the
charter "from receiving any grant of lands in the province, or any
salary, fee, perquisite, or profit whatsoever, by or from this
undertaking." The proprietors of other colonies were looking to their
own interests; the motto of the trustees of this was "_Non sibi, sed
aliis_." The proprietors of other colonies were anxious to build up
cities and erect states that should bear their names to a distant
posterity; the trustees of this only busied themselves in erecting an
asylum, whither they invited the indigent of their own and the exiled
Protestants of other lands. It was the first colony ever founded by
charity. New England had been settled by Puritans, who fled thither for
conscience' sake; New York by a company of merchants and adventurers in
search of gain; Maryland, by papists retiring from Protestant
intolerance; Virginia, by ambitious cavaliers; Carolina by the scheming
and visionary Shaftesbury, and others, for private aims and individual
aggrandizement; but Georgia was planted by the hand of benevolence, and
reared into being by the nurturings of a disinterested charity.

But the colony was not to be confined to the poor and unfortunate. The
trustees granted portions of five hundred acres to such as went over at
their own expense, on condition that they carried over one servant to
every fifty acres, and did military service in time of war or alarm.
Thus the materials of the new colony consisted of three classes: the
upper, or large landed proprietors and officers; the middle, or
freeholders, sent over by the trustees; and the servants indented to
that corporation or to private individuals.

Subsidiary to the great design of philanthropy was the further purpose
of making Georgia a silk, wine, oil, and drug-growing colony. "Lying,"
as the trustees remark, "about the same latitude with part of China,
Persia, Palestine, and the Madeiras, it is highly probable that when
hereafter it shall be well peopled and rightly cultivated England may be
supplied from thence with raw silk, wine, oil, dyes, drugs, and many
other materials for manufactures which she is obliged to purchase from
southern countries."

Such were the principal purposes of the trustees in settling Georgia.
Extravagance was their common characteristic; for in the excited visions
of its enthusiastic friends, Georgia was not only to rival Virginia and
South Carolina, but to take the first rank in the list of provinces
depending on the British Crown. Neither the El Dorado of Raleigh nor the
Utopia of More could compare with the garden of Georgia; and the poet,
the statesman, and the divine lauded its beauties and prophesied its
future greatness. Oglethorpe, in particular, was quite enthusiastic in
his description of the climate, soil, productions, and beauties of this
American Canaan. "Such an air and soil," he writes, "can only be fitly
described by a poetical pen, because there is but little danger of
exceeding the truth."

With such blazoned exaggerations, strengthened by the interested efforts
of a noble and learned body of trustees, and by the personal supervision
of its distinguished originator, it is no matter of wonder that all
Europe was aroused to attention; and that Swiss and German, Scotch and
English, alike pressed forward to this promised land. Appeals were made
by the trustees to the liberal, the philanthropic, the public-spirited,
the humane, the patriotic, the Christian, to aid in this design of
mercy, closing their arguments with the noble thought: "To consult the
welfare of mankind, regardless of any private views, is the perfection
of virtue, as the accomplishing and consciousness of it are the
perfection of happiness."

These preliminaries settled, we are brought to the period when the plan,
the charity, the labors of the trustees, were to be put into efficient
operation. Fortunate was it for the corporation that they had among
their number one whose benevolence, whose fortune, and whose patriotism,
as well as his military distinction conspired to make him the fittest
leader and pioneer of so noble an undertaking. That one was James
Oglethorpe, the originator, the chief promotor, the most zealous
advocate of the colony; an honor conceded by his associates, and
acknowledged by all.

We are brought now to the dock-yard at Deptford, to behold the first
embarkation of the Georgia pilgrims.

The trustees, having selected from the throng of emigrants thirty-five
families, numbering in all about one hundred twenty-five "sober,
industrious, and moral persons," chartered the Ann, a galley of two
hundred tons, Captain John Thomas, and stationed her at Deptford, four
miles below London, to receive her cargo and passengers. In the mean
time the men were drilled to arms by sergeants of the guards; and all
needed stores were gathered to make them comfortable on the voyage and
to establish them on land.

It was not until the early part of November that the embarkation was
ready for sailing.

On the 16th they were visited by the trustees, "to see nothing was
wanting, and to take leave" of Oglethorpe; and having called the
families separately before them in the great cabin they inquired if they
liked their usage and voyage; or if they had rather return, giving them
even then the alternative of remaining in England if they preferred it;
and having found but one man who declined--on account of his wife, left
sick in Southwark--they bid Oglethorpe and the emigrants an affectionate
farewell. The ship sailed the next day, November 17, 1732, from
Gravesend, skirted slowly along the southern coast of England, and,
taking its departure from Sicily light, spread out its white sails to
the breezes of the Atlantic.

Day after day and week after week the voyagers seem the centre of the
same watery circle canopied by the same bending sky. No mile-stones tell
of their progress. The way-marks of the mariner are the sun by day and
the moon and stars by night; no kindred ship answers back its red-cross
signal; but there they float, the germ of a future nation, upon the
desert waters. Sailing a circuitous route, they did not reach the coast
of America until January 13, 1733, when they cast anchor in Rebellion
Roads, and furled their sails at last in the harbor of Charleston.

Oglethorpe immediately landed, and was received by the Governor and
Council of South Carolina with every mark of civility and attention. The
King's pilot was directed by them to carry the ship into Port Royal, and
small vessels were furnished to take the emigrants to the river
Savannah. Thus assisted, in about ten hours they resumed their voyage
and shortly dropped anchor within Port Royal bar.

The colony landed at Beaufort on January 20th, and had quarters given
them in the new barracks. Here they received every attention from the
officers of His Majesty's Independent Company and the gentlemen of the
neighborhood, and refreshed themselves after the fatigues and
discomforts of their long voyage and cramped accommodations.

Leaving his people here, Oglethorpe, accompanied by Colonel William
Bull, of South Carolina, went forward to the Savannah River to select a
site for the projected settlement. Winding among the inlets, which break
into numerous islands the low flat seaboard, their canoe at last shot
into the broad stream of the Savannah; and bending their course upward
they soon reached a bold, pine-crowned bluff, at the foot of which they
landed to inspect its localities.

Reaching its top, a beautiful prospect met their eyes. At their feet,
some fourteen yards below, flowed the quiet waters of the Savannah,
visible for some distance above and traceable through its green
landscape till it emptied itself into the ocean. Before them lay a
beautiful island of richest pasturage, beyond which was seen the north
branch of the Savannah bordered by the slopes of Carolina, with a dark
girdle of trees resting against the horizon. Behind them was the
unbroken forest of tall green pines, with an occasional oak draperied
with festoons of gray moss or the druidical mistletoe. A wide expanse of
varied beauty was before them; an ample and lofty plain around them;
and, though spring had not yet garnished the scene with her vernal
glories, sprinkling the woods with gay wild-flowers and charming
creepers, and making the atmosphere balmy with the bay, the jessamine,
and the magnolia, yet, even in winter, were there sufficient charms in
the spot to fix on it the heart of Oglethorpe, and cause him to select
it as the home of his waiting colony. "The landscape," he writes, "is
very agreeable, the stream being wide and bordered with high woods on
both sides," On the northern end of this bluff they found a
trading-house and an Indian village called Yamacraw. The chief of this
little tribe was Tomochichi; and the trader's name was Musgrove, married
to a half-breed, named Mary. By an ancient treaty of the Creeks with the
Governor of South Carolina, no white settlement was allowed to be made
south of the Savannah River without their consent.

Satisfied with the eligibility of this situation, Oglethorpe applied to
Mary Musgrove, who could speak both Indian and English, to obtain from
the tribe their agreement to his settlement. They at first appeared
uneasy and threatened to take up arms, but were pacified by her
representations of the benefits which would accrue to them; and she
gained from them a provisional treaty, until the consent of the whole
nation could be obtained. The Indians, once made sensible of the
advantages they would derive from the erection of a town within their
limits, hailed their coming with joy and busied themselves in many
offices of service and regard. The land selected, the consent of the
tribe obtained, and the services of Mary secured as an interpreter in
their subsequent intercourse with the red men, Oglethorpe returned to
Beaufort on January 24th; and the Sunday after was made a day of praise
and thanksgiving for their safe arrival in America, and the happy
auspices which clustered round the opening prospects of Georgia. During
the stay of the colonists in South Carolina they were treated with
genuine hospitality, and when they departed they were laden with most
substantial and valuable tokens of interest and benevolence.

Leaving the ship at Port Royal, Oglethorpe engaged a sloop of seventy
tons, and five plantation-boats, and embarked the colonists on Tuesday,
the 30th, but, detained by a storm, they did not reach their destination
until the afternoon of Thursday, February 12 (new style), 1733. The
people immediately pitched four large tents, being one for each tithing,
into which municipal divisions they had already been divided; and,
landing their bedding and other necessaries, spent their first night in
Georgia.

As soon as the tents had been pitched, the Indians came forward with
their formal salutations. In front advanced, with antic dancings, the
"medicine man," bearing in each hand a spread fan of white feathers
fastened to a rod hung from top to bottom with little bells; marching
behind this jingling symbol of peace and friendship, came the King and
Queen, followed by about twenty others, making the air ring with their
uncouth shouts. Approaching Oglethorpe, who walked out a few steps from
his tent to meet them, the medicine man came forward with his fans,
declaiming the while the deeds of their ancestors, and stroked him on
every side with the emblems of amity. This over, the King and Queen bade
him welcome and, after an interchange of compliments, they were
conducted to Oglethorpe's tent and partook of a pleasant entertainment
hastily prepared for the occasion.

And now all was bustle upon the bluff. The unlading of goods, the
felling of trees, the hewing of timber, the clearing of land, the
erection of palisades--all supervised by the watchful eye and directed
by the energetic mind of their leader--gave a brisk and industrious air
to the novel scene.

On the 9th Oglethorpe and Colonel Bull marked out the square, the
streets, and forty lots for houses; and the first clapboard-house of the
colony of Georgia was begun that day. On March 12th Oglethorpe writes:
"Our people still lie in tents; there being only two clapboard houses
built, and three sawed houses framed. Our crane, our battery of cannon,
and magazine are finished. This is all we have been able to do by reason
of the smallness of our numbers, of which many have been sick, and
others unused to labor, though I thank God they are now pretty well, and
we have not lost one since our arrival."

The most generous assistance was given them by South Carolina. The
Assembly, which met in Charleston three days after the arrival of the
emigrants, immediately resolved to furnish the colony with large
supplies of cattle and rice; to provide boats for the transportation of
the people from Port Royal to Savannah; and placed under Oglethorpe's
command the scout-boats and a troop of fifteen rangers for his
protection. They further appointed Colonel William Bull one of the
Governor's council, and a gentleman esteemed "most capable of assisting
Oglethorpe in settling the colony by reason of his experience in
colonial affairs, the nature of lands and the intercourse with Indians,"
to attend him and offer him his advice and assistance. Such was the
readiness of all to assist him that the Governor wrote, "Had not our
Assembly been sitting I would have gone myself."

Nor was private benevolence in any way behind public munificence. It is
pleasant, in looking over the list of individual benefactions, to read
such records as these:

_February._--"Colonel Bull came to Savannah with four laborers, and
assisted the colony for a month; he himself measuring the scantling, and
setting out the work for the sawyers, and giving the proportion of the
houses. Mr. Whitaker and his friends sent the colony one hundred head of
cattle. Mr. St. Julian came to Savannah and stayed a month, directing
the people in building their houses and other work. Mr. Hume gave a
silver boat and spoon for the first child born in Georgia, which being
born of Mrs. Close, were given accordingly. Mr. Joseph Bryan himself,
with four of his sawyers, gave two months' work in the colony. The
inhabitants of Edisto sent sixteen sheep. Mr. Hammerton gave a drum.
Mrs. Ann Drayton sent two pair of sawyers to work in the colony. Colonel
Bull and Mr. Bryan came to Savannah with twenty servants, whose labor
they gave to the colony. His excellency Robert Johnson gave seven
horses, valued at twenty-five pounds, Carolina currency."

These, with many other like records, evince their spirit in promoting
the settlement of Georgia. And well they might; for the planting of this
colony to the south of the Savannah increased their security from
invasion by the Spaniards, and from the incursions and massacres of the
Indian tribes, and still further operated as a preventive to the
enticing lures held out to the negroes, by which desertion was rendered
common and insurrection always dreaded. They were prepared, therefore,
to hail the new colony as a bulwark against their Floridian and savage
enemies, as opening further opportunities of trade, and as enhancing the
value of their frontier possessions, which, according to the best
authorities, were raised to five times their former value about Port
Royal and the Savannah River.

The fostering care of South Carolina was to be repaid by the protecting
service of Georgia. The labors of the colonists were great, but they had
much to cheer them; and the assiduity and attention of Oglethorpe won
upon their hearts so that they styled him "Father," and he exercised his
paternal care by unremitting efforts to advance their welfare. He spared
not himself in any personal efforts, but took his turn regularly in
doing night-guard duty, as an example to the rest, and at times worked
at the hardest labor to encourage their industry.

Having put Savannah in a posture of defence, supplied it with
provisions, and taken hostages of the Indians, Oglethorpe set out for
Charleston, attended by Tomochichi and his two nephews, being desirous
of cultivating the acquaintance and securing the good offices of the
Governor, council, and Assembly of South Carolina. At Charleston he was
met at the water-side by his excellency the Governor and council, who
conducted him to Governor Johnson's house, where the speaker and House
of Assembly came to present their official congratulations on his
arrival. His solicitations for assistance were promptly answered. The
Assembly voted two thousand pounds currency for the assistance of
Georgia the first year, and soon after the committee of supply brought
in a bill for granting eight thousand pounds currency for the use of the
new colony the ensuing year. The citizens also subscribed one thousand
pounds currency, five hundred pounds of which were immediately paid
down.

Grateful for this munificence Oglethorpe returned to Georgia to meet the
great council of the towns of the Lower Creeks, whom he had desired to
meet him in Savannah to strengthen the provisional treaty already made
with Tomochichi, and secure their abiding amity for the future. In
answer to this desire, eighteen chief men and their attendants, making
in all about fifty, came together from the nine tribes of the nation,
and met him in solemn council on the afternoon of May 18th. Speeches,
not lacking in interest, but full of Indian hyperbole and the inflations
of interpreters, were made by the chiefs, and answered by Oglethorpe
through the medium of Messrs. Wiggin and Musgrove; and on May 21st the
treaty was concluded.

The principal stipulations of it were that the trustees' people should
trade in the Indian towns; their goods being sold according to fixed
rates mutually agreed upon: thus, a white blanket was set down at five
buckskins, a gun at ten; a hatchet at three doeskins, a knife at one,
and so on. Restitution and reparation were to be made for injuries
committed and losses sustained by either party; the criminals to be
tried by English law. Trade to be stopped with any town violating any
article of the treaty. All lands not used by the Indians were to be
possessed by the English, but, upon the settling of any new town,
certain lands agreed on between the chiefs and the magistrates were to
be reserved for the former. All runaway negroes were to be restored to
Carolina, the Indians receiving for each one thus recovered four
blankets and two guns, or the value thereof in other goods. And lastly,
they agreed, with "straight hearts" and "true love," to allow no other
white people to settle on their lands, but ever to protect the English.
The Indians, having received suitable presents, were dismissed in amity
and peace; while Oglethorpe left the same day for Charleston, satisfied
at having obtained, by such honorable means, the cession of such a fine
country to the crown of England. This treaty was ratified by the
trustees the following October.

The judicious and honorable conduct of Oglethorpe toward the Indians was
of more security to the colony than its military defences. For a long
time he had regarded the Indians with kindly feelings. At his
suggestion Bishop Wilson, one of the bright and shining lights of the
English Church, wrote _An Essay Toward an Instruction for the Indians_,
which he dedicated to Oglethorpe; and, now that he met them on their
native soil, he evinced the same care for their interests, and through
life manifested in all his acts his regard for their welfare. He was the
red man's friend; showing in his intercourse with him the honorableness
of William Penn, without his private interests to subserve; the
generosity of Lord Baltimore, without a patent of immense tracts to
secure to his descendants; the compassion of Roger Williams, without his
mercantile views, to incite him to foster among the Indians kindness and
regard.

Oglethorpe stands superior to all, because he had no private end to
gratify, no lands to secure, no property to invest, no wealth to
accumulate from or among the tribes whose amity he cultivated.

The art of the painter has commemorated the treaty of Penn with the Leni
Lenapes, under the elm-tree of Shakamaxon; but neither this scene on the
north edge of Philadelphia, nor the treaty of Roger Williams with "the
old Prince Caconicas" at Seconke, nor the alliance of Leonard Calvert
with the Susquehannas at Yoacomoco, excels, in any element of
philanthropy or in any trait of nobleness, the treaty of Oglethorpe with
the tribes of the Muscogees, under the "four pine-trees" on the bluff of
Yamacraw.

RISE OF METHODISM

PREACHING OF THE WESLEYS AND OF WHITEFIELD

A.D. 1738

WILLIAM E.H. LECKY

Next to the founders of the world's great religions, the principal
figures in religious history are the leaders of its new movements,
the founders of sects or denominations. In this subordinate class
few names outrank that of John Wesley, while those of his brother,
Charles, and George Whitefield, their eloquent colleague, are
inseparably associated with that of the great founder of Methodism,
one of the most striking of the epochal religious movements of
modern times.

Although not intending to break with the Anglican Church, Wesley and
his followers were carried out upon independent lines which led to
the upbuilding of a distinct type of religious faith and
organization, whose power has been especially marked in Great
Britain and America, and has been increasingly spread throughout the
world.

Between Whitefield and John Wesley, in 1741, a separation occurred
on points of doctrine, Whitefield adhering to a rigid Calvinism,
while Wesley inclined to Arminianism, and thenceforth they followed
their several paths. Although Whitefield founded no sect, he exerted
a widespread influence by his presence and voice. Before their
separation both preachers had been in America, and the personality
and eloquence of Whitefield not only wrought a spell upon the
multitude, but even exercised a degree of fascination over such a
philosophical spirit as Franklin. Wesley's work in America was
deeper and more enduring, and is still a growing feature of the
country's religious development.

Nothing could be happier for the present purpose than the treatment
of this great religious movement, in its beginnings, as it is here
dealt with by the dispassionate historian of England during the
century in which the movement arose.

The Methodist movement was a purely religious one. All explanations
which ascribe it to the ambition of its leaders, or to merely
intellectual causes, are at variance with the facts of the case. The
term Methodist was a college nickname bestowed upon a small society of
students at Oxford who met together, between 1729 and 1735, for the
purpose of mutual improvement. They were accustomed to communicate every
week, to fast regularly on Wednesdays and Fridays and on most days
during Lent; to read and discuss the Bible in common, to abstain from
most forms of amusement and luxury, and to visit sick persons, and
prisoners in the jail.

John Wesley, the master spirit of this society, and the future leader of
the religious revival of the eighteenth century, was born in 1703, and
was the second surviving son of Samuel Wesley, the rector of Epworth, in
Lincolnshire. His father, who had early abandoned Nonconformity, and
acquired some reputation by many works both in prose and verse, had
obtained his living from the government of William, and had led for many
years a useful and studious life, maintaining a far higher standard of
clerical duty than was common in his time. His mother was the daughter
of an eminent Nonconformist minister, who had been ejected in 1662, and
was a woman of rare mental endowments, of intense piety, and of a
strong, original, and somewhat stern character.

Their home was not a happy one. Discordant dispositions and many
troubles darkened it. The family was very large. Many children died
early. The father sank slowly into debt. His parishioners were fierce,
profligate, and recalcitrant. When John Wesley was only six years old
the rectory was burned to the ground, and the child was forgotten among
the flames, and only saved at the last moment by what he afterward
deemed an extraordinary providence.

All these circumstances doubtless deepened the natural and inherited
piety for which he was so remarkable; and some strange and unexplained
noises which during a long period were heard in the rectory, and which
its inmates concluded to be supernatural, contributed to that vein of
credulity which ran through his character. He was sent to the
Charterhouse, and from thence to Oxford, where at the age of
twenty-three he was elected fellow of Lincoln. He had some years before
acquired from his brother a certain knowledge of Hebrew, and he was
speedily distinguished by his extraordinary logical powers, by the
untiring industry with which he threw himself into the studies of the
place, and above all by the force and energy of his character.

His religious impressions, which had been for a time somewhat obscured,
revived in their full intensity while he was preparing for ordination in
1725. He was troubled with difficulties, which his father and mother
gradually removed, about the damnatory clauses in the Athanasian Creed,
and about the compatibility of the articles with his decidedly Arminian
views concerning election; and he was deeply influenced by the
_Imitation_ of St. Thomas à Kempis, by the _Holy Living and Dying_ of
Jeremy Taylor, and by Law's _Serious Call_. His life at Oxford became
very strict. He rose every morning at four, a practice which he
continued till extreme old age. He made pilgrimages on foot to William
Law to ask for spiritual advice. He abstained from the usual fashion of
having his hair dressed, in order that he might give the money so saved
to the poor. He refused to return the visits of those who called on him,
that he might avoid all idle conversation. His fasts were so severe that
they seriously impaired his health, and extreme abstinence and gloomy
views about religion are said to have contributed largely to hurry one
of the closest of his college companions to an early and a clouded
death.

The society hardly numbered more than fifteen members, and was the
object of much ridicule at the university; but it included some men who
afterward played considerable parts in the world. Among them was
Charles, the younger brother of John Wesley, whose hymns became the
favorite poetry of the sect, and whose gentler, more submissive, and
more amiable character, though less fitted than that of his brother for
the great conflicts of public life, was very useful in moderating the
movement and in drawing converts to it by personal influence. Charles
Wesley appears to have been the first to originate the society at
Oxford; he brought Whitefield into its pale, and, besides being the most
popular poet, he was one of the most persuasive preachers of the
movement.

There, too, was James Hervey, who became one of the earliest links
connecting Methodism with general literature. During most of his short
life he was a confirmed invalid. His affected language, his feeble,
tremulous, and lymphatic nature formed a curious contrast to the robust
energy of Wesley and Whitefield; but he was a great master of a kind of
tumid and over-ornamented rhetoric which has an extraordinary
attraction to half-educated minds. His _Meditations_ was one of the most
popular books of the eighteenth century. His _Theron and Aspasio_, which
was hardly less successful, was an elaborate defence of evangelical
opinions; and though at this time the pupil and one of the warmest
admirers of Wesley, he afterward became conspicuous in the Calvinistic
section of the party, and wrote with much acerbity against his old
master.

There, too, above all, was George Whitefield, in after-years the
greatest pulpit orator of England. He was born in 1714, in Gloucester,
in the Bell Inn, of which his mother was proprietor, and where upon the
decline of her fortunes he was for some time employed in servile
functions. He had been a wild, impulsive boy, alternately remarkable for
many mischievous pranks and for strange outbursts of religious zeal. He
stole money from his mother, and he gave part of it to the poor. He
early declared his intention one day to preach the Gospel, but he was
the terror of the Dissenting minister of his neighborhood, whose
religious services he was accustomed to ridicule and interrupt. He
bought devotional books, read the Bible assiduously, and on one
occasion, when exasperated by some teasing, he relieved his feelings, as
he tells us, by pouring out in his solitude the menaces of Psalm cxviii;
but he was also passionately fond of card-playing, novel-reading, and
the theatre; he was two or three times intoxicated, and he confesses
with much penitence to "a sensual passion" for fruits and cakes. His
strongest natural bias was toward the stage. He indulged it on every
possible occasion, and at school he wrote plays and acted in a female
part.

Owing to the great poverty of his mother, he could only go to Oxford as
a servitor, and his career there was a very painful one. St. Thomas à
Kempis, Drelincourt's _Defence against Death_, and Law's devotional
works had all their part in kindling his piety into a flame. He was
haunted with gloomy and superstitious fancies, and his religion assumed
the darkest and most ascetic character. He always chose the worst food,
fasted twice a week, wore woollen gloves, a patched gown, and dirty
shoes, and was subject to paroxysms of a morbid devotion. He remained
for hours prostrate on the ground in Christ Church Walk in the midst of
the night, and continued his devotions till his hands grew black with
cold. One Lent he carried his fasting to such a point that when Passion
Week arrived he had hardly sufficient strength to creep upstairs, and
his memory was seriously impaired. In 1733 he came in contact with
Charles Wesley, who brought him into the society. To a work called _The
Life of God in the Soul of Man_, which Charles Wesley put into his
hands, he ascribed his first conviction of that doctrine of free
salvation which he afterward made it the great object of his life to
teach.

With the exception of a short period in which he was assisting his
father at Epworth, John Wesley continued at Oxford till the death of his
father, in 1735, when the society was dispersed, and the two Wesleys
soon after accepted the invitation of General Oglethorpe to accompany
him to the new colony of Georgia. It was on his voyage to that colony
that the founder of Methodism first came in contact with the Moravians,
who so deeply influenced his future life. He was surprised and somewhat
humiliated at finding that they treated him as a mere novice in
religion; their perfect composure during a dangerous storm made a
profound impression on his mind, and he employed himself while on board
ship in learning German, in order that he might converse with them. On
his arrival in the colony he abandoned, after a very slight attempt, his
first project of converting the Indians, and devoted himself wholly to
the colonists at Savannah. They were of many different nationalities,
and it is a remarkable proof of the energy and accomplishments of Wesley
that, in addition to his English services, he officiated regularly in
German, French, and Italian, and was at the same time engaged in
learning Spanish, in order to converse with some Jewish parishioners.

His character and opinions at this time may be briefly described. He was
a man who had made religion the single aim and object of his life, who
was prepared to encounter for it every form of danger, discomfort, and
obloquy; who devoted exclusively to it an energy of will and power of
intellect that in worldly professions might have raised him to the
highest positions of honor and wealth. Of his sincerity, of his
self-renunciation, of his deep and fervent piety, of his almost
boundless activity, there can be no question. Yet with all these
qualities he was not an amiable man. He was hard, punctilious,
domineering, and in a certain sense even selfish. A short time before
he left England, his father, who was then an old and dying man, and who
dreaded above all things that the religious fervor which he had spent
the greater part of his life in kindling in his parish should dwindle
after his death, entreated his son in the most pathetic terms to remove
to Epworth, in which case he would probably succeed to the living, and
be able to maintain his mother in her old home.

Wesley peremptorily refused to leave Oxford, and the reason he assigned
was very characteristic. "The question," he said, "is not whether I
could do more good to others there than here; but whether I could do
more good to myself, seeing wherever I can be most holy myself there I
can most promote holiness in others." "My chief motive," he wrote when
starting for Georgia, "is the hope of saving my own soul. I hope to
learn the true sense of the Gospel of Christ by preaching it to the
heathen." He was at this time a High-Churchman of a very narrow type,
full of exaggerated notions about church discipline, extremely anxious
to revive obsolete rubrics, and determined to force the strictest
ritualistic observances upon rude colonists, for whom of all men they
were least adapted. He insisted upon adopting baptism by immersion, and
refused to baptize a child whose parents objected to that form. He would
not permit any non-communicant to be a sponsor, repelled one of the
holiest men in the colony from the communion-table because he was a
Dissenter; refused for the same reason to read the burial-service over
another; made it a special object of his teaching to prevent ladies of
his congregation from wearing any gold ornament or any rich dress, and
succeeded in inducing Oglethorpe to issue an order forbidding any
colonist from throwing a line or firing a gun on Sunday. His sermons, it
was complained, were all satires on particular persons. He insisted upon
weekly communions, desired to rebaptize Dissenters who abandoned their
Nonconformity, and exercised his pastoral duties in such a manner that
he was accused of meddling in every quarrel and prying into every
family.

A more unpropitious commencement for a great career could hardly be
conceived. Wesley returned to England in bad health and low spirits. He
redoubled his austerities and his zeal in teaching, and he was tortured
by doubts about the reality of his faith. It was at this time and in
this state of mind that he came in contact with Peter Boehler, a
Moravian teacher, whose calm and concentrated enthusiasm, united with
unusual mental powers, gained a complete ascendency over his mind. From
him Wesley for the first time learned that form of the doctrine of
justification by faith which he afterward regarded as the fundamental
tenet of Christianity. He had long held that in order to be a real
Christian it was necessary to live a life wholly differing from that of
the world around him, and that such a renewal of life could only be
effected by the operation of the divine Spirit; and he does not appear
to have had serious difficulties about the doctrine of imputed
righteousness, although the ordinary evangelical doctrine on this matter
was emphatically repudiated and denounced by Law.

From Boehler he first learned to believe that every man, no matter how
moral, how pious, or how orthodox he may be, is in a state of damnation,
until, by a supernatural and instantaneous process wholly unlike that of
human reasoning, the conviction flashes upon his mind that the sacrifice
of Christ has been applied to and has expiated his sins; that this
supernatural and personal conviction or illumination is what is meant by
saving faith, and that it is inseparably accompanied by an absolute
assurance of salvation and by a complete dominion over sin. It cannot
exist where there is not a sense of the pardon of all past and of
freedom from all present sins. It is impossible that he who has
experienced it should be in serious and lasting doubt as to the fact;
for its fruits are constant peace--not one uneasy thought; "freedom from
sin--not one unholy desire." Repentance and fruits meet for repentance,
such as the forgiveness of those who have offended us, ceasing from evil
and doing good, may precede this faith, but good works in the
theological sense of the term spring from, and therefore can only
follow, faith.

Such, as clearly as I can state it, was the fundamental doctrine which
Wesley adopted from the Moravians. His mind was now thrown, through
causes very susceptible of a natural explanation, into an exceedingly
excited and abnormal condition, and he has himself chronicled with great
minuteness in his journal the incidents that follow. On Sunday, March
5, 1738, he tells us that Boehler first fully convinced him of the want
of that supernatural faith which alone could save. The shock was very
great, and the first impulse of Wesley was to abstain from preaching,
but his new master dissuaded him, saying: "Preach faith till you have
it; and then because you have faith you will preach faith." He followed
the advice, and several weeks passed in a state of extreme religious
excitement, broken, however, by strange fits of "indifference, dulness,
and coldness." While still believing himself to be in a state of
damnation, he preached the new doctrine with such passionate fervor that
he was excluded from pulpit after pulpit. He preached to the criminals
in the jails. He visited, under the superintendence of Boehler, some
persons who professed to have undergone the instantaneous and
supernatural illumination. He addressed the passengers whom he met on
the roads or at the public tables in the inns. On one occasion, at
Birmingham, he abstained from doing so, and he relates, with his usual
imperturbable confidence, that a heavy hailstorm which he afterward
encountered was a divine judgment sent to punish him for his neglect.

This condition could not last long. At length, on May 24th, a day which
he ever after looked back upon as the most momentous in his life--the
cloud was dispelled. Early in the morning, according to his usual
custom, he opened the Bible at random, seeking for a divine guidance,
and his eye lighted on the words, "There are given unto us exceeding
great and precious promises, even that we would be partakers of the
divine nature." Before he left the house he again consulted the oracle,
and the first words he read were, "Thou art not far from the kingdom of
God." In the afternoon he attended service in St. Paul's Cathedral, and
the anthem, to his highly wrought imagination, seemed a repetition of
the same hope. The sequel may be told in his own words: "In the evening
I went very unwillingly to a society in Aldersgate Street, where one was
reading Luther's preface to the Epistle to the Romans. About a quarter
before nine, while he was describing the change which God works in the
heart through faith in Christ, I felt my heart strangely warmed; I felt
I did trust in Christ, Christ alone for salvation; and an assurance was
given me that he had taken away _my_ sins, even mine, and saved me from
the law of sin and death. I began to pray with all my might for those
who had in a more especial manner despitefully used me and persecuted
me. I then testified openly to all what I now first felt in my heart."

Pictures of this kind are not uncommon in the lives of religious
enthusiasts, but they usually have a very limited interest and
importance. It is, however, scarcely an exaggeration to say that the
scene which took place at that humble meeting in Aldersgate Street forms
an epoch in English history. The conviction which then flashed upon one
of the most powerful and most active intellects in England is the true
source of English Methodism. Shortly before this, Charles Wesley, who
had also fallen completely under the influence of Boehler, had passed
through a similar change; and Whitefield, without ever adopting the
dangerous doctrine of perfection which was so prominent in the Methodist
teaching, was at a still earlier period an ardent preacher of
justification by faith of the new birth. It was characteristic of John
Wesley that ten days before his conversion he wrote a long, petulant,
and dictatorial letter to his old master, William Law, reproaching him
with having kept back from him the fundamental doctrine of Christianity,
and intimating in strong and discourteous language his own conviction,
and that of Boehler, that the spiritual condition of Law was a very
dangerous one.

It was no less characteristic of the indefatigable energy which formed
another and a better side of his nature, that immediately after this
change he started on a pilgrimage to Herrnhut, the head-quarters of
Moravianism, in order that he might study to the best advantage what he
now regarded as the purest type of a Christian church. He returned
objecting to many things, but more than ever convinced of his new
doctrine, and more than ever resolved to spend his life in diffusing it.
In the course of 1738 the chief elements of the movement were already
formed. Whitefield had returned from Georgia. Charles Wesley had begun
to preach the doctrine with extraordinary effect to the criminals in
Newgate and from every pulpit into which he was admitted. Methodist
societies had already sprung up under Moravian influence. The design of
each was to be a church within a church, a seed-plot of a more fervent
piety, the centre of a stricter discipline and a more energetic
propagandism, than existed in religious communities at large.

In these societies the old Christian custom of love-feasts was revived.
The members sometimes passed almost the whole night in the most
passionate devotions, and voluntarily submitted to a spiritual tyranny
that could hardly be surpassed in a Catholic monastery. They were to
meet every week, to make an open and particular confession of every
frailty, to submit to be cross-examined on all their thoughts, words,
and deeds. The following, among others, were the questions asked at
every meeting: "What known sin have you committed since our last
meeting? What temptations have you met with? How were you delivered?
What have you thought, said, or done of which you doubt whether it be
sin or not? Have you nothing you desire to keep secret?"

Such rules could only have been accepted under the influence of an
overpowering religious enthusiasm, and there was much truth in the
judgment which the elder brother of John Wesley passed upon them in
1739. "Their societies," he wrote to their mother, "are sufficient to
dissolve all other societies but their own. Will any man of common-sense
or spirit suffer any domestic to be in a band engaged to relate to five
or ten people anything without reserve that concerns the person's
conscience, how much soever it may concern the family? Ought any married
person to be there unless husband and wife be there together?"

From this time the leaders of the movement became the most active of
missionaries. Without any fixed parishes they wandered from place to
place, proclaiming their new doctrine in every pulpit to which they were
admitted, and they speedily awoke a passionate enthusiasm and a bitter
hostility in the Church. Nothing, indeed, could appear more irregular to
the ordinary parochial clergyman than those itinerant ministers who
broke away violently from the settled habits of their profession, who
belonged to and worshipped in small religious societies that bore a
suspicious resemblance to conventicles, and whose whole tone and manner
of preaching were utterly unlike anything to which he was accustomed.
They taught in language of the most vehement emphasis, as the cardinal
tenet of Christianity, the doctrine of a new birth in a form which was
altogether novel to their hearers. They were never weary of urging that
all men are in a condition of damnation who have not experienced a
sudden, violent, and supernatural change, or of inveighing against the
clergy for their ignorance of the very essence of Christianity.
"Tillotson," in the words of Whitefield, "knew no more about true
Christianity than Mahomet." _The Whole Duty of Man_, which was the most
approved devotional manual of the time, was pronounced by the same
preacher, on account of the stress it laid upon good works, to have
"sent thousands to hell."

The Methodist preacher came to an Anglican parish in the spirit and with
the language of a missionary going to the most ignorant heathens; and he
asked the clergyman of the parish to lend him his pulpit, in order that
he might instruct the parishioners--perhaps for the first time--in the
true Gospel of Christ. It is not surprising that the clergy should have
resented such a movement; and the manner of the missionary was as
startling as his matter. The sermons of the time were almost always
written, and the prevailing taste was cold, polished, and fastidious.
The new preachers preached extempore, with the most intense fervor of
language and gesture, and usually with a complete disregard of the
conventionalities of their profession. Wesley frequently mounted the
pulpit without even knowing from what text he would preach, believing
that when he opened his Bible at random the divine Spirit would guide
him infallibly in his choice. The oratory of Whitefield was so
impassioned that the preacher was sometimes scarcely able to proceed for
his tears, while half the audience were convulsed with sobs. The love of
order, routine, and decorum, which was the strongest feeling in the
clerical mind, was violently shocked. The regular congregation was
displaced by an agitated throng who had never before been seen within
the precincts of the church. The usual quiet worship was disturbed by
violent enthusiasm or violent opposition, by hysterical paroxysms of
devotion or remorse, and when the preacher had left the parish he seldom
failed to leave behind him the elements of agitation and division.

We may blame, but we can hardly, I think, wonder at the hostility all
this aroused among the clergy. It is, indeed, certain that Wesley and
Whitefield were at this time doing more than any other contemporary
clergymen to kindle a living piety among the people. It is equally
certain that they held the doctrines of the Articles and the Homilies
with an earnestness very rare among their brother-clergymen, that none
of their peculiar doctrines were in conflict with those doctrines, and
that Wesley at least was attached with an even superstitious reverence
to ecclesiastical forms. Yet before the end of 1738 the Methodist
leaders were excluded from most of the pulpits of the Church, and were
thus compelled, unless they consented to relinquish what they considered
a divine mission, to take steps in the direction of separation.

Two important measures of this nature were taken in 1739. One of them
was the creation of Methodist chapels, which were intended, not to
oppose or replace, but to be supplemental and ancillary to, the
churches, and to secure that the doctrine of the new birth should be
faithfully taught to the people. The other, and still more important
event, was the institution by Whitefield of field-preaching. The idea
had occurred to him in London, where he found congregations too numerous
for the church in which he preached, but the first actual step was taken
in the neighborhood of Bristol. At a time when he was thus deprived of
the chief normal means of exercising his talents his attention was
called to the condition of the colliers of Kingswood. He was filled with
horror and compassion at finding in the heart of a Christian country,
and in the immediate neighborhood of a great city, a population of many
thousands sunk in the most brutal ignorance and vice, and entirely
excluded from the ordinances of religion. Moved by such feelings, he
resolved to address the colliers in their own haunts. The resolution was
a bold one, for field-preaching was then utterly unknown in England, and
it needed no common courage to brave all the obloquy and derision it
must provoke, and to commence the experiment in the centre of a
half-savage population.

Whitefield, however, had a just confidence in his cause and in his
powers. Standing himself upon a hillside, he took for his text the first
words of the Sermon which was spoken from the Mount, and he addressed
with his accustomed fire an astonished audience of some two hundred men.
The fame of his eloquence spread far and wide. On successive occasions
five, ten, fifteen, even twenty thousand were present. It was February,
but the winter sun shone clear and bright. The lanes were filled with
the carriages of the more wealthy citizens, whom curiosity had drawn
from Bristol. The trees and hedges were crowded with humbler listeners,
and the fields were darkened by a compact mass. The face of the preacher
paled with a thrilling power to the very outskirts of that mighty
throng. The picturesque novelty of the occasion and of the scene, the
contagious emotion of so great a multitude, a deep sense of the
condition of his hearers and of the momentous importance of the step he
was taking, gave an additional solemnity. His rude auditors were
electrified. They stood for a time in rapt and motionless attention.
Soon tears might be seen forming white gutters down cheeks blackened
from the coal-mine. Then sobs and groans told how hard hearts were
melting at his words. A fire was kindled among the outcasts of
Kingswood, which burned long and fiercely, and was destined in a few
years to overspread the land.

It was only with great difficulty that Whitefield could persuade the
Wesleys to join him in this new phase of missionary labor. John Wesley
has left on record, in his journal, his first repugnance to it,
"having," as he says, "been all my life (till very lately) so tenacious
of every point relating to decency and order, that I should have thought
the saving of souls almost a sin if it had not been done in a church."
Charles Wesley, on this as on most other occasions, was even more
strongly conservative. The two brothers adopted their usual
superstitious practice of opening their Bibles at random, under the
belief that the texts on which their eyes first fell would guide them in
their decision. The texts were ambiguous and somewhat ominous, relating
for the most part to violent deaths; but on drawing lots the lot
determined them to go. It was on this slender ground that they resolved
to give the weight of their example to this most important development
of the movement. They went to Bristol, from which Whitefield was
speedily called, and continued the work among the Kingswood colliers and
among the people of the city; while Whitefield, after a preaching tour
of some weeks in the country, reproduced on a still larger scale the
triumphs of Kingswood by preaching with marvellous effect to immense
throngs of the London rabble at Moorfields and on Kennington Common.
From this time field-preaching became one of the most conspicuous
features of the revival.

The character and genius of the preacher to whom this most important
development of Methodism was due demand a more extended notice than I
have yet given them. Unlike Wesley, whose strongest enthusiasm was
always curbed by a powerful will, and who manifested at all times and on
all subjects an even exaggerated passion for reasoning, Whitefield was
chiefly a creature of impulse and emotion. He had very little logical
skill, no depth or range of knowledge, not much self-restraint, nothing
of the commanding and organizing talent, and, it must be added, nothing
of the arrogant and imperious spirit so conspicuous in his colleague. At
the same time a more zealous, a more single-minded, a more truly
amiable, a more purely unselfish man it would be difficult to conceive.
He lived perpetually in the sight of eternity, and a desire to save
souls was the single passion of his life. Of his labors it is sufficient
to say that it has been estimated that in the thirty-four years of his
active career he preached eighteen thousand times, or on an average ten
times a week; that these sermons were delivered with the utmost
vehemence of voice and gesture, often in the open air, and to
congregations of many thousands; and that he continued his exertions to
the last, when his constitution was hopelessly shattered by disease.
During long periods he preached forty hours, and sometimes as much as
sixty hours, a week. In the prosecution of his missionary labors he
visited almost every important district in England and Wales. At least
twelve times he traversed Scotland, three times he preached in Ireland,
thirteen times he crossed the Atlantic.

Very few men placed by circumstances at the head of a great religious
movement have been so absolutely free from the spirit of sect. Very few
men have passed through so much obloquy with a heart so entirely
unsoured, and have retained amid so much adulation so large a measure of
deep and genuine humility. There was indeed not a trace of jealousy,
ambition, or rancor in his nature. There is something singularly
touching in the zeal with which he endeavored to compose the differences
between himself and Wesley, when so many of the followers of each leader
were endeavoring to envenom them; in the profound respect he continually
expressed for his colleague at the time of their separation; in the
exuberant gratitude he always showed for the smallest act of kindness to
himself; in the tenderness with which he guarded the interests of the
inmates of that orphanage at Georgia around which his strongest earthly
affections were entwined; in the almost childish simplicity with which
he was always ready to make a public confession of his faults.

CONQUESTS OF NADIR SHAH

CAPTURE OF DELHI

A.D. 1739

SIR JOHN MALCOLM

It was the fortune of Persia to be delivered from the Afghan yoke at
a time when, under a feeble and corrupt ruler, the national life had
been almost crushed out by foreign tyranny. This deliverance was
wrought by a man who raised himself from the lowest condition to the
head of the kingdom which he restored. Besides this achievement for
Persia, Nadir Shah performed deeds of conquest which placed his name
among those who have won lasting celebrity by the subjugation of
empires.

The Afghans had in 1722 captured Ispahan, the Persian capital, then
an important metropolis with six hundred thousand inhabitants. They
sacked the city and killed all of the royal family except Hasan, the
weak ruler, his son Tamasp, and two grandchildren. From this blow
the once magnificent capital of Persia has never recovered. Tamasp
became shah in 1727.

How the brief rule of the conquering Afghans was terminated by Nadir
Shah, and how he pursued his own bloody path of conquest, Sir John
Malcolm, the historian of Persia, relates in a most graphic and
comprehensive manner.

Nadir Shah was born in the province of Khorasan. Persian historians pass
over the early occurrences of his life, and the first event that these
notice is the birth of his eldest son, Reza Kuli, which occurred when he
was thirty-one years of age. He had before that experienced great
vicissitudes of fortune, and had given proofs both of valor and talent.
When only seventeen he was taken prisoner by the Usbegs, who made annual
incursions into Khorasan; but he effected his escape after a captivity
of four years. His occupation from that period till he entered into the
service of Shah Tamasp can only merit notice as it is calculated to show
that the character of this extraordinary man was always the same. He was
at one time in the service of a petty chief of his native province, whom
he murdered, and whose daughter he carried off and married. After this,
he obtained a precarious subsistence by heading a band of robbers; from
which occupation he passed, by an easy transition in such troubled
times, into the employment of the Afghan Governor of Khorasan, by whom
he was at first raised to rank and command, as a reward for his valor in
actions with the Usbegs, and afterward degraded and punished with the
bastinado on account of his insolent and turbulent conduct.

Irritated at the disgrace he had suffered, Nadir left the city of
Mushed, and went to the fort of Khelat in the same province, which was
in the possession of his uncle, who appears at this period to have been
at the head of a small branch of the Affshars. He resided there but a
short time, before his relation, alarmed at his violence and ambition,
compelled him to retire. He appears next to have resumed his occupation
of a robber; but his depredations were now on a more extended scale. The
Afghans had become masters of Ispahan; and the rule of the Suffavean
monarchs over the distant provinces of the kingdom was subverted,
without that of their conquerors being firmly established. At such a
moment a plunderer of known valor and experience could not want
followers; and in the course of a short time we find Nadir, a chief of
reputation, at the head of a body of three thousand men, levying large
contributions on the inhabitants of Khorasan.

His uncle, alarmed at his increasing power, sought his friendship. He
addressed a kind letter to him, and proposed that he should enter the
service of Shah Tamasp, and aid that Prince in expelling the Afghans
from Persia. Nadir pretended to listen to this overture, and earnestly
desired that the King should grant him a pardon for his past offences.
This was easily obtained; and he went to Khelat to receive it. He
appears to have always deemed the Governor of that place as the chief
obstacle to his rise; and at this moment he laid a plan to destroy him
and to seize his fortress. He completely succeeded in both; and, after
having slain his uncle with his own hand, he proceeded to employ the
means he had acquired by this crime in overthrowing the Afghan ruler of
Khorasan. This popular attack upon the enemies of his country enabled
him to obtain a second pardon from Shah Tamasp, whose service he
entered, and to whose cause he brought a great accession of strength and
reputation.

Shah Tamasp early entertained the greatest jealousy of Nadir: and upon
his disobeying a mandate he had sent him to return from an expedition on
which he was engaged, the weak monarch ventured to proclaim him a rebel
and a traitor. The indignant chief, the moment he heard of these
proceedings, marched against the court, which he soon compelled to
submit on the terms he chose to dictate. From the occurrence of this
open rupture we may date the annihilation of the little power Tamasp had
ever enjoyed. Nadir continued to treat him with respect till he deemed
the time mature for his usurpation of the throne; but we discover that,
as early as his first expedition into Khorasan, he began to prepare the
minds of his countrymen for his future elevation.

Like Ardisheer, the founder of the Sassanian race of Persian kings, he
had his visions of future grandeur. He saw, we are told, in one of
these, a water-fowl and a white fish with four horns; he dreamt that he
shot the bird; and, after all his attendants had failed in their
attempts to seize the extraordinary fish, he stretched out his hand and
caught it with the greatest ease. The simple fact of his dreaming of a
bird and a fish, he was informed by flattering astrologers, was a
certain presage of his attaining imperial power; and his historian has
had a less difficult task in discovering, from subsequent events, that
the four horns of the fish were types of the kingdoms of Persia,
Khaurizm, India, and Tartary, which were all destined to be conquered by
this hero. Such trifles are not unworthy of notice; they show the art or
superstition of him who uses or believes in them, and portray better
than the most elaborate descriptions the character of those minds upon
which they make an impression.

The expulsion of the Afghans from Persia seemed the sole effort of the
genius of Nadir; and no reward, therefore, appeared too great for the
man who was liberating his country from its cruel oppressors. The grant
made by Tamasp to this chief, of the four finest provinces of the
empire, was considered only as a just recompense for the great services
that he had performed. We are told that in the same letter by which
Tamasp conveyed the grant of these countries, or, in other words,
alienated half his kingdom, his victorious general was requested to
assume the title of sultan, and a diadem, richly set with jewels, was
sent by one of the noblemen of the court. Nadir accepted all the honors
except the title of sultan; that high name he thought would excite envy
without conferring benefit; he, however, took advantage of this
proffered elevation to the rank of a prince, to exercise one of the most
important privileges which attach to monarchs. He directed that his army
should be paid in coin brought from the province of Khorasan, and that
it should be struck in his own name, which virtually amounted to an
assumption of the independent sovereignty of that country.

The armies of the Turks occupied some of the finest parts of the
province of Irak and all Azerbaijan. Nadir marched against them as soon
as his troops were refreshed from the fatigues they had endured in the
pursuit of the Afghans. He encountered the united force of two Turkish
pachas on the plains of Hamadan, overthrew them, and made himself
master, not only of the city, but of all the country in its vicinity. He
hastened to Azerbaijan, where the same success attended him. Tabriz,
Ardabil, and all the principal cities of that quarter had surrendered;
and the conqueror was preparing to besiege Erivan, the capital of
Armenia, when he received from his brother, whom he had left in the
government of Khorasan, an account of an alarming rebellion of the
Afghans of that province. He hastened to its relief; and his success
against the rebels was completed by the reduction of the fortresses of
Furrah and Herat. An event occurred, during the siege of the latter
city, which marked the barbarous character of this war. Nadir had
obtained a victory over a large division of the Afghan force, and
resolved to celebrate it with a splendid feast. Among other guests were
several prisoners of high rank. During the festivities the heads of
three hundred Afghans, who had been slain in the action, were held up on
the tops of spears. "At this sight," says the flattering historian of
Nadir, "the chiefs of our enemies fixed their eyes upon the ground, and
never dared to raise them again, notwithstanding the extraordinary
kindness with which they were treated by their great and generous
conqueror!"

While Nadir was employed at the siege of Herat the Persian nobles at
Ispahan persuaded the weak Tamasp to place himself at the head of an
army and march against the Turks, who were again assembling on the
frontier. The reverses which the arms of that nation had sustained in
Persia had caused a revolution at Constantinople, where the janizaries
had first murdered the vizier, and afterward dethroned Achmet, and
placed his nephew, Mahmud, upon the throne. To this Prince Nadir had
sent an envoy, demanding that the Turks should evacuate the province of
Azerbaijan; and Shah Tamasp had sent another with what a Persian
historian indignantly terms "a sweet-scented letter of congratulation"
upon his elevation to the throne. Before the result of the mission sent
by Nadir could be known, Tamasp had marched to besiege Erivan, had
retreated from before that fortress, been defeated by a Turkish army,
and had lost in one month all that the genius and valor of his general
had gained during the preceding season. To render the effects of his
weakness complete, the alarmed monarch had agreed to a peace, by which
he abandoned the whole of the country beyond the Araxes to the Turks,
and ceded five districts of the province of Kirmanshahan to Achmet, the
reigning pacha of Bagdad, by whom this treaty was negotiated. The
disgrace of this engagement was aggravated by its containing no
stipulation for the release of the Persians who had been made prisoners
during the war.

The moment that Nadir received accounts of the peace it seems to have
occurred to his mind that it afforded an excellent pretext for the
consummation of those projects he had so long cherished: but, although
bold and impatient, he was compelled to proceed with caution to the
extinction of a race of kings to whom obedience had become a habit, and
who were at that moment represented by a prince who, though weak and
despicable, was endeared to many of his subjects by his misfortunes. His
first step was to issue a proclamation, in which he inveighed with
bitterness against a treaty which bounded the great empire of Persia by
the river Araxes, and left many of the inhabitants of that kingdom
prisoners in the hands of cruel enemies. "Such a treaty," he said, "is
contrary to the will of Heaven: and the angels who guard the tomb of the
holy Ali call aloud for the deliverance of his followers from the
bondage in which they are now held by vile heretics."

There is no country, however abject its inhabitants may appear, where
the most daring and ambitious can venture to usurp the supreme power
without first obtaining a hold on public opinion; we cannot have a
stronger proof of this fact, as applicable to Persia, than what we find
in the conduct of Nadir upon this memorable occasion. Though that chief
had revived the military spirit of his country, and roused a nation sunk
in sloth and luxury to great and successful exertion, yet neither this
success, the imbecility of Shah Tamasp, nor a reliance upon his own fame
and strength could induce him to take the last step of usurpation, until
he had, by his arts, excited in the minds of his countrymen that
complete contempt for the reigning sovereign, and that pride in his
glory, which were likely to make his elevation appear more the
accomplishment of their wishes than of his ambition.

At the same time that Nadir published the proclamation which has been
mentioned, he addressed letters to all the military chiefs of the
country. In that to the Governor of Fars, which has been preserved, he
informs him of the great success he has had against the Afghans and of
the conquest of Herat. He then proceeds to state the astonishment and
indignation with which he has learnt the particulars of the treaty
concluded with Turkey. "You will no doubt," he observes, "be rejoiced to
hear that, as it was to be hoped from the goodness of God, this peace
with the Turks is not likely to endure; and you may rest in expectation
of my approach; for, by the blessing of the Most High, I will advance
immediately, with an army elated with success, skilled in sieges,
numerous as emmets, valiant as lions, and combining with the vigor of
youth the prudence of age. Let the cup-bearer," he exclaims, quoting
from a popular poet, "tell our enemy, the worshipper of fire, to cover
his head with dust, for the water that had departed is returned into its
channel." He concludes this letter by threatening, with excommunication
and destruction, all Shiahs, or, in other words, all Persians who are
adverse to the renewal of hostilities. "Those Shiahs," he observes, "who
are backward on this great occasion, and are reconciled to this shameful
peace, shall be expelled from the faithful sect and forever counted
among its enemies. To slaughter them will be meritorious; to permit
their existence impious."

The actions of Nadir corresponded with these declarations. He sent an
officer to Constantinople, the duties of whose mission to the Emperor
Mahmud were limited to this short message: "Restore the provinces of
Persia or prepare for war." A messenger was deputed to Achmet, the
Pacha of Bagdad, to apprise him that "the deliverer of Persia" was
approaching. A peace had been concluded with the Russians, by which it
was stipulated that they should abandon all the conquests they had made
on the shores of the Caspian; and Nadir despatched two officers to that
quarter to see that there was no delay in the execution of this treaty.

After adopting these measures Nadir marched to Ispahan. He first
upbraided Shah Tamasp, and then pretended to be reconciled to him; but
the scene of his mock submission to this Prince drew to a close. Tamasp
was invited to the tents of his general to share in the joys of a feast,
which terminated in his being seized and dethroned. He was sent to
Khorasan. The Mahometan author who records these events is careful in
informing us that the generosity of Nadir desired that Tamasp, though a
prisoner, should be accompanied by all his ladies, and enjoy every other
comfort that could be deemed necessary to pleasurable existence.

The time did not yet appear to Nadir to be ripe for his seizing the
crown of Persia. The officers of his army and some venal nobles of the
court earnestly requested that he, who was alone worthy to wear the
diadem, would place it upon his head; but he rejected their entreaties,
from pretended respect for the blood of the Suffavean kings. The son of
Tamasp, an infant only eight months old, was seated upon the throne, and
Nadir accepted the name and power of regent of the empire.

When the ceremonies necessary at this coronation were over, Nadir
marched with a large army to the attack of Bagdad. The Governor of that
city, Achmet Pacha, was not more distinguished for his talents as a
soldier than a statesman; and the Persian leader had made his
preparations in the expectation of an obstinate defence; but neither the
valor nor skill of Achmet would have saved his city had not the Turkish
general Topal Osman advanced, at the head of an immense army, to his
relief. Nadir instantly resolved to hazard a battle. He left a small
part of his army in his lines, and led the remainder to attack Topal
Osman, who was encamped on the banks of the Tigris, near the village of
Samarra, which is situated about sixty miles from Bagdad. The action
that ensued was one of the most bloody ever fought between the Turks
and Persians. It was at first favorable to the latter, whose cavalry put
the enemy to flight; but the Turkish infantry advanced and restored the
battle. A corps of Arabs, from whom Nadir expected support, fell upon
one of his flanks. His men, who had been exposed all day to the intense
rays of a summer sun, fainted with heat and thirst. He himself twice
fell to the ground, in the midst of his enemies, from his horses being
shot; and his standard-bearer, conceiving him slain, fled from the
field. All these causes combined to give the victory to Topal Osman;
and, after a contest of more than eight hours, the army of Nadir was
completely defeated. The moment the news of this event reached Bagdad,
the inhabitants of that city fell on the troops left to guard the
trenches, who were also routed. The loss of the Persians in this battle
was estimated by their enemies at sixty thousand men; and it probably
amounted to more than one-third of that number. The Turks suffered
almost as severely; but their triumph was very complete; for Nadir did
not reassemble the whole of his broken and dispersed army till he
reached the plains of Hamadan, a distance of more than two hundred miles
from the field of action.

There is no period in the life of Nadir at which he appears to more
advantage than after this great misfortune. Instead of reproaching his
soldiers with their defeat, he loaded them with praises and with favors.
Their losses in money and horses were more than repaid, and they were
encouraged by the exhortations as well as the actions of their politic
commander to desire nothing so much as an opportunity of revenging
themselves upon their enemies. This conduct increased his reputation and
popularity to so great a degree that recruits from every part of Persia
hastened to join his standard; and in less than three months after this
action Nadir descended again into the plains of Bagdad with an army more
numerous than before.

His brave antagonist, Topal Osman, had jealous rivals at the court of
Constantinople; and these, alarmed at the great fame he had acquired,
not only prevented, by their intrigues, his being reënforced with men,
but, by withholding the supplies of money that were necessary to pay his
troops, compelled him to separate his force. He, nevertheless, made the
greatest efforts to oppose this second invasion of Nadir. He sent a
corps of cavalry to arrest the progress of the Persians; but the latter,
eager for revenge, made such a sudden and furious attack on this body
that they completely routed it. On hearing this intelligence, the
Turkish general advanced with all the troops he had been able to draw
together to his support; but his own army partook of the panic of their
flying comrades. Topal Osman endeavored in vain to rally them. He was
himself so infirm that he always rode in a litter. His attendants, in
the hope that he might escape, lifted him, when the flight became
general, upon a horse; but his rich dress attracted the eye of a Persian
soldier, who pierced him with his lance, and then, separating his head
from his body, carried it to his commander. We are pleased to find that
Nadir respected the remains of his former conqueror. His head and corpse
were sent by an officer of rank to the Turkish army, that they might
receive those honorable rites of sepulture which in all nations are
considered due to a great and valiant soldier.

After the death of Topal Osman and the defeat of his army Nadir
proceeded to invest Bagdad; but being alarmed at the account of a
serious revolt in the province of Fars, he readily listened to the terms
which the ruler of the city proposed, which were that the governments of
Turkey and Persia should repossess the countries that belonged to them
in the reign of Sultan Hasan before the Afghan invasion. The rebellion
which had compelled him to retire from the Turkish territories had
hardly been suppressed before he learned that the Emperor of
Constantinople had refused to ratify the engagements made by the Pacha
of Bagdad, and had sent a general, named Abdallah, at the head of a
large force, with orders either to conclude peace or to continue the
war, as circumstances should render it expedient. Nadir hastened to
occupy Armenia and Georgia, which were the principal of the disputed
provinces. He threw a bridge over the rapid Araxes; and at once invested
the cities of Tiflis, Gunjah, and Erivan, in the hope that the danger
with which they were threatened would lead the Turkish general to hazard
an action. Nor was he deceived.

Abdallah, encouraged by his superior numbers, left the intrenchments
with which he had covered his army, and attacked the Persians on the
plains of Baghavund, near Erivan. The Persian leader, when he saw him
advancing, addressed his troops in the most animated language. "Their
enemies," he said, "outnumbered them eight to one; but that was only an
incitement to glorious exertion. He had dreamt on the past night," he
told them, "that a furious animal had rushed into his tent, which, after
a long struggle, he had slain. With such an omen," he exclaimed,
"success is certain to those who fight under the protection of his great
arm, who raiseth the weak to glory, and casteth down the proudest
oppressors." If his troops were encouraged by this speech, they were
still more so by his example. After his skill had made the most able
disposition of his army, he rushed upon the enemy at the head of his
bravest men; and wherever he led, the Persians were irresistible. In one
of these charges Abdallah Pacha was slain by a soldier, who brought his
head to Nadir; and as the battle still raged, he directed it to be fixed
upon a spear and to be displayed where it would be best seen by the
enemy. The effect was as he anticipated. The Turks, perceiving their
general was slain, fled in every direction and left the plain covered
with their dead. This victory was followed by the submission of the
cities of Gunjah and Tiflis; and those of Kars and Erivan, with all the
former possessions of the Persians in that quarter, were soon afterward
ceded to him by the policy of the Ottoman court, who, taught by
misfortune, were glad to conclude a peace on the basis which had been
before settled by the Pacha of Bagdad.

The period was now arrived when Nadir thought he might lay aside the
veil which he had hitherto used. An account was brought that the infant
sovereign of Persia had died at Ispahan, and consequently that the
throne was vacant. It has always been the usage of the kings of Persia
to observe the Nuroze, or vernal equinox, as a great festival; and on it
all the chief officers, civil and military, of the government appear at
court. Nadir issued an order that not only these, but every person of
rank and consideration in the kingdom, should meet him on the day of
that festival, on the plains of Chowal Mogam, where he ordered a number
of temporary buildings to be erected and made every preparation to
receive them with splendor and magnificence. We are informed that upward
of one hundred thousand persons attended this celebrated meeting; and if
this includes the troops, the amount is probably not exaggerated.

Nadir, his historian informs us, assembled the principal nobles and
officers on the morning of the festival, and addressed them in the
following terms: "Shah Tamasp and Shah Abbas were your kings, and the
princes of their blood are the heirs to the throne. Choose one of them
for your sovereign, or some other person whom you know to be great and
virtuous. It is enough for me that I have restored the throne to its
glory and delivered my country from the Afghans, the Turks, and the
Russians." He retired, that their deliberations might seem more free,
but was soon recalled to hear their unanimous request that he who had
saved his country and was alone able to protect it, would accept the
crown. He refused this offer, protesting solemnly that the idea of
ascending the throne of Persia had never once entered his imagination!
The same scene was enacted every day for a month, till Nadir, appearing
to be subdued by their earnest solicitations, agreed to comply with
their wishes, but said, when he made this apparent concession: "I must
insist that, as I sacrifice so much for Persia, the inhabitants of that
nation shall, in consideration for one who has no object but their
tranquillity, abandon that belief which was introduced by Shah Ismail,
the founder of the Suffavean dynasty, and once more acknowledge the
legitimate authority of the four first caliphs. Since the schism of
Shiah has prevailed," he added, "this country has been in continued
distraction; let us all become Sunnis, and that will cease. But as every
national religion should have a head, let the holy imam Jaffer, who is
of the family of the Prophet, and whom we all venerate, be the head of
ours." After the assembly had consented to this change, and a royal
mandate had been issued to proclaim it, Nadir informed them that he
would communicate what had been done to the Emperor of Constantinople,
and require that monarch to give full effect to this advance to general
concord among Mahometans; and he would also insist that, as there were
now four orthodox sects among Sunnis, the Persians, under the name of
the sect of Jaffer, should be admitted as the fifth, and that another
column should be added to the four which already decorated the temple at
Mecca, in honor of this new branch of the true religion.

The historian of Nadir is careful in informing us that the crown of
Persia was placed upon the head of the conqueror exactly at twenty
minutes past eight on the morning of February 26, 1736. The moment, no
doubt, had been fixed by the most skilful astrologers. The ceremony was
performed in a splendid hall erected for the occasion, and Nadir was
seated on a throne covered with precious jewels. Various coins were
immediately struck in his name, on which was the following inscription:
"The impression stamped on this gold proclaims to the world the
sovereignty of Nadir, native of the land of Persia, and the monarch who
subdues the earth." On the reverse was a short Arabic sentence, which
signified "That which has happened is the best." But even the flatterer
who records these particulars confesses that there were malicious wits
who made free with the latter sentence, and, by the alteration of the
position of one letter, made it signify "That which has happened is not
the best."

Nadir Shah, soon after his elevation to the throne, marched to Ispahan;
but the short time he spent in that capital was solely devoted to
military preparations; he had resolved on the entire extinction of the
Afghans as a separate power, and that could not be effected without the
reduction of the city and province of Kandahar, which was then in
possession of a prince called Hasan Khan, the brother of the celebrated
Mahmud; but before he proceeded upon this expedition he adopted every
measure that could secure the internal tranquillity of Persia during his
absence. The peace of the country round Ispahan had been much disturbed
by the depredations of a numerous and barbarous tribe, called
Bukhteearees, who inhabit the mountains that stretch from near this
capital to the vicinity of Shuster. The subjugation of these plunderers
had ever been deemed possible. Their lofty and rugged mountains abound
with rocks and caverns, which in times of danger serve them as
fastnesses and dens. But Nadir showed that this fancied security, which
had protected them for ages, was a mere delusion. He led his veteran
soldiers to the tops of their highest mountains; parties of light troops
hunted them from the cliffs and glens in which they were concealed, and
in the space of one month the tribe was completely subdued. Their chief
was taken prisoner and put to death; but the policy of Nadir treated
those of his followers who escaped the first fury of his troops with
lenity and favor; he assigned them better but more accessible lands than
what they before possessed; he also took a number of them into his army;
and this corps, by its extraordinary bravery at the siege of Kandahar,
confirmed the wisdom of his generous conduct.

Nadir marched with an army of eighty thousand men through Khorasan and
Sistan to Kandahar. He met with no resistance of any consequence before
he reached that city; but he found its defences were too formidable to
give him hopes of its early surrender. His first resolution was to
subdue it by blockade; and he not only made permanent cantonments for
his army in its vicinity, but ordered the lines of a new city to be
traced out, which he called Nadirabad, or the "Abode of Nadir." He also
built towers all around Kandahar, and so connected them with small
batteries that it became impossible for the besieged to maintain any
intercourse with the surrounding country. Observing, however, that the
Afghans were not intimidated by the indications which his conduct gave
of his determined resolution to conquer them, and that they had still
abundance of provisions, he was compelled, after a year had been wasted
in the blockade, to commence a more active course of operations.

The city of Kandahar stood on the face of a hill, and was defended by a
wall and by a number of small towers. The Persians made themselves
masters of some of the most commanding eminences, to which they
conveyed, with incredible labor, both cannon and mortars. Aided by the
fire of these, they successively assailed the different towers. At some
they were repulsed with great loss; at others they succeeded; but the
bravery of the corps of Bukhteearees, who have been before mentioned,
was successful in carrying a principal tower, which enabled them to
enter the citadel, and placed the whole town at their mercy. The
Governor, however, with the principal part of the garrison, still held
out in a detached fort; but seeing that resistance was vain, he offered
to capitulate, and Nadir readily gave him a promise of forgiveness and
protection. It appears at this period to have been the policy of the
conqueror to conciliate the Afghans. He had in a very great degree
disarmed the prejudices of that nation, by the proclamation which he
issued, on ascending the throne, against the tenets of the Shiahs; and
he now sought, not merely to soften that resentment, but to attach them
to his person and government by favors. He completely succeeded; some of
the tribes of that nation continued during his life to rank among the
bravest soldiers of his army and formed a powerful check upon the
discontent and turbulence of his own countrymen.

While Nadir was employed in besieging Kandahar his generals had been
successful in reducing the strongholds in its vicinity; and his eldest
son, Reza Kuli, had, during this short period, obtained a fame which
seemed to promise that his name would one day equal that of his father.
The Afghan Prince of Kandahar had expected aid from the chief of Bulkh,
against whom Nadir detached his son, with a chosen body of twelve
thousand horse. The Prince not only defeated this ruler and took his
capital, but passed the Oxus, and did not hesitate to give battle to the
monarch of the Usbegs, who had advanced from Bokhara with an army far
outnumbering the Persians. The rash valor of Reza Kuli was crowned with
a signal victory; and the career of the young hero was only arrested by
a mandate from his father, who desired him to recross the Oxus.

Nadir at the same time addressed two letters to the King of the Usbegs,
and to the other chiefs of that part of Tartary, informing them that he
had sent orders to his son to retreat within the limits of the Persian
empire, and not to disturb countries which were the inheritance of the
race of Genghis Khan and of high Turkoman families.

This conduct, which was evidently the result of that policy which
affects moderation, that it may better accomplish its ambitious
purposes, has been ascribed by some to a jealousy which they conceive
Nadir, even at this early period, entertained of the rising reputation
of his son; but those who impute it to this cause forget that Reza Kuli,
when he returned, was not only received with extraordinary favor and
affection, but soon afterward was intrusted with all the power of a
sovereign, and left to govern Persia, while his father proceeded with
his vast designs of subjugating to his authority the distant regions of
India.

When Nadir Shah marched against the Afghans he had sent an ambassador to
Delhi requesting the monarch of India would give orders to the governors
of his northern provinces not to permit the enemies of Persia to find a
refuge from an avenging sword in the territories of an ally. No
satisfactory answer had been received to this mission; and, while the
Afghans were allowed to take shelter within the limits of the Indian
empire, obstacles were thrown in the way of the return of the Persian
envoy. Nadir, incensed at these proceedings, pursued the fugitives to
Kabul, and not only made himself master of that city, but of all the
country in its vicinity. After this conquest he addressed another letter
to the Emperor of India, in which he reproached him, in the bitterest
terms, for his past conduct, but still professed a desire of maintaining
the relations of friendship. The bearer of this letter was slain by the
Afghan chief: and Nadir, perhaps, did not regret an event which added to
the pretexts that before existed to justify him to the world in
undertaking the most splendid of all his enterprises--the invasion of
India (1738).

The progress of Nadir from Kabul to India was rapid and successful:
almost all the governors of the principal provinces through which he
passed anticipated the fate of the empire by their submission; but the
conqueror has, in a letter to his son, Reza Kuli, given us the most
authentic account we could desire to possess of events from the day on
which he left Lahore till that on which he resolved to restore the
vanquished Mahomet Shah to the throne of his ancestors. After informing
that Prince of an advantage which his troops had gained over an advanced
party of his enemies, and describing an ineffectual attempt he had made
to prevent the junction of an army under Saadut Khan with Mahomet Shah,
he states that the Indian monarch considered himself so strong from his
reënforcement that he left his intrenchments, and drew up his troops in
order of battle. The result will be best told in Nadir's own words.

"We," he observes, "who wished for such a day, after appointing guards
for our camp, and invoking the support of an all-powerful Creator,
mounted, and advanced to the charge. For two complete hours the action
raged with violence, and a heavy fire from cannon and musketry was kept
up. After that, by the aid of the Almighty, our lion-hunting heroes
broke the enemy's line and chased them from the field of battle,
dispersing them in every direction. This battle lasted two hours; and
for two hours and a half more were our conquering soldiers engaged in
pursuit. When one hour of the day remained, the field was entirely
cleared of the enemy; and as the intrenchments of their camp were strong
and the fortifications formidable, we would not permit our army to
assault it.

"An immense treasure, a number of elephants, part of the artillery of
the Emperor, and rich spoils of every description were the reward of our
victory. Upward of twenty thousand of the enemy were slain on the field
of battle, and a much greater number were made prisoners. Immediately
after the action was over we surrounded the Emperor's army, and took
measures to prevent all communication with the adjacent country;
preparing at the same time our cannon and mortars to level with the
ground the fortifications which had been erected.

"As the utmost confusion reigned in the imperial camp, and all
discipline was abandoned, the Emperor, compelled by irresistible
necessity, after the lapse of one day, sent Nizam-ul-mulk, on Thursday,
the 17th Zilkadeh, to our royal camp; and the day following, Mahomet
Shah himself, attended by his nobles, came to our heaven-like presence,
in an afflicted state.

"When the Emperor was approaching, as we ourselves are of a Turkoman
family, and Mahomet Shah is a Turkoman and the lineal descendant of the
noble house of Gurgan, we sent our dear son, Nassr Ali Khan, beyond the
bounds of our camp to meet him. The Emperor entered our tents, and we
delivered over to him the signet of our empire. He remained that day a
guest in our royal tent. Considering our affinity as Turkomans, and also
reflecting on the honors that befitted the majesty of a king of kings,
we bestowed such upon the Emperor, and ordered his royal pavilions, his
family, and his nobles to be preserved; and we have established him in a
manner equal to his great dignity.

"At this time the Emperor, with his family and all the lords of
Hindustan, who marched from camp, are arrived in Delhi; and on Thursday,
the 29th of Zilkadeh, we moved our glorious standard toward that
capital.

"It is our royal intention, from the consideration of the high birth of
Mahomet Shah, of his descent from the house of Gurgan, and of his
affinity to us as a Turkoman, to fix him on the throne of the empire and
to place the crown of royalty upon his head. Praise be to God, glory to
the Most High, who has granted us the power to perform such an action!
For this great grace which we have received from the Almighty we must
ever remain grateful.

"God has made the seven great seas like unto the vapor of the desert,
beneath our glorious and conquering footsteps and those of our faithful
and victorious heroes. He has made in our royal mind the thrones of
kings and the deep ocean of earthly glory more despicable than the light
bubble that floats upon the surface of the wave; and no doubt his
extraordinary mercy, which he has now shown, will be evident to all
mankind."

The facts stated in this letter are not contradicted either by Persian
of Indian historians; though the latter find reasons for the great
defeat of their countrymen suffered at Karnal, in the rashness of some
of their leaders and the caution of others; and they state that even
after the victory the conqueror would have returned to Persia on
receiving two millions sterling, if the disappointed ambition of an
Indian minister had not urged him to advance to Delhi. But it is not
necessary to seek for causes for the overthrow of an army who were so
panic-struck that they fled at the first charge, and nearly twenty
thousand of whom were slain with hardly any loss to their enemies; and
our knowledge of the character of Nadir Shah forbids our granting any
belief to a tale which would make it appear that the ultimate advantages
to be obtained from this great enterprise, and the unparalleled success
with which it had been attended, depended less upon his genius than upon
the petty jealousies and intrigues of the captive ministers of the
vanquished Mahomet Shah.

The causes which led Nadir to invade India have been already stated; nor
were they groundless. The court of Delhi had certainly not observed the
established ties of friendship. It had given shelter to the Afghans who
fled from the sword of the conqueror; and this protection was likely to
enable them to make another effort to regain their lost possessions, and
consequently to reinvolve Persia in war. The ambassadors of Nadir, who
had been sent to make remonstrances on this subject, had not only been
refused an answer, but were prevented from returning, in defiance of the
reiterated and impatient applications of that monarch. This proceeding,
we are told, originated more in irresolution and indecision than from a
spirit of hostility; but it undoubtedly furnished a fair and justifiable
pretext for Nadir's advance. Regarding the other motives which induced
him to undertake this enterprise, we can conjecture none but an
insatiable desire of plunder, a wish to exercise that military spirit he
had kindled in the Persians, or the ambitious view of annexing the vast
dominions of the sovereign of Delhi to the crown of Persia. But if he
ever cherished this latter project he must have been led by a near view
of the condition of the empire of India, to reject it as wholly
impracticable. We are, however, compelled to respect the greatness of
that mind which could resolve, at the very moment of its achievement,
upon the entire abandonment of so great a conquest; for he did not even
try to establish a personal interest at the court of Delhi, except
through the operation of those sentiments which his generous conduct in
replacing him upon his throne might make upon the mind of Mahomet Shah.

Nadir claimed, as a prize which he had won, the wealth of the Emperor
and a great proportion of that of his richest nobles and subjects. The
whole of the jewels that had been collected by a long race of
sovereigns, and all the contents of the imperial treasury, were made
over by Mahomet Shah to the conqueror. The principal nobles, imitating
the example of their monarch, gave up all the money and valuables which
they possessed. After these voluntary gifts, as they were termed, had
been received, arrears of revenue were demanded from distant provinces,
and heavy impositions were laid upon the richest of the inhabitants of
Delhi. The great misery caused by these impositions was considerably
augmented by the corrupt and base character of the Indian agents
employed, who actually farmed the right of extortion of the different
quarters of the city to wretches who made immense fortunes by the
inhuman speculation, and who collected, for every ten thousand rupees
they paid into Nadir's treasury, forty and fifty thousand from the
unhappy inhabitants, numbers of whom perished under blows that were
inflicted to make them reveal their wealth; while others, among whom
were several Hindus of high rank, became their own executioners rather
than bear the insults to which they were exposed, or survive the loss of
that property which they valued more than their existence.

The approach of Nadir Shah to Delhi had filled the inhabitants of that
city with dread; but the strict discipline which his troops observed on
their first arrival restored confidence to all. This, however, was but
of short duration. The monarch himself had occupied a palace in the
city, and had sent some troops to different quarters of it to maintain
tranquillity and to protect the inhabitants from insult and injury. The
conqueror entered the capital on March 8th, and on that and the two
succeeding days all was quiet; but on the night of the 10th it was
reported that Nadir was dead. This report, which was first circulated by
some designing persons, instantly spread, and a thoughtless mob made a
furious assault upon the Persians who were scattered about the town as
safeguards. These, who were divided in small parties, and quite
unsuspicious of attack, were almost all murdered; and we must cease to
cherish any general sentiments of pity for the depraved nobles of Delhi,
when assured by concurring authorities that most of those at whose
palaces troops were stationed for their protection gave them up without
effort to the fury of the populace, and even in some instances assisted
in their destruction.

Nadir, when he first heard of this tumult, sent several persons to
explain to the populace their delusion and their danger; but his
messengers were slain. He remained with all the Persians he could
assemble in the palace which he occupied till the day dawned, when he
mounted his horse and rode forth to endeavor, by his presence, to quell
the tumult. But his moderation only inflamed the insolence and fury of
those whom, even Indian historians inform us, it was his desire to
spare; and he at last gave his troops, who had arrived from their
encampment near the city, orders for a general massacre. He was too well
obeyed: the populace, the moment the Persians began to act, lost all
their courage; and from sunrise till twelve o'clock Delhi presented a
scene of shocking carnage, the horrors of which were increased by the
flames that now spread to almost every quarter of that capital.

Nadir, after he had issued the fatal orders, went into the small mosque
of Roshin-u-dowlah, which stands near the centre of the city, and
remained there in a deep and silent gloom that none dared to disturb. At
last the unhappy Mahomet Shah, attended by two of his ministers, rushed
into his presence, exclaiming, "Spare my people!" Nadir replied, "The
Emperor of India must never ask in vain," and he instantly commanded
that the massacre should cease. The prompt obedience which was given to
this command is remarked by all his historians as the strongest proof of
the strict discipline which he had introduced into his army.

The number of persons slain on this occasion has been differently
estimated, and from the nature of the scene it could not be correctly
ascertained. An author who has been often referred to conjectures that
about one hundred twenty thousand perished; while another European
writer nearly doubles this amount. But an Indian historian of
respectability reduces this exaggerated estimate to the moderate
calculation of eight thousand persons: and there is every reason to
conclude that his statement is nearer the truth than any of those which
have been mentioned. Two nobles who were supposed to have caused the
riot fled, with conscious guilt, to a small fortress near Delhi. They
were pursued, taken, and put to death with those who were deemed their
accomplices, who amounted to about four hundred persons.

A very few days after the occurrence of these events, a marriage was
celebrated between the second son of Nadir and a princess of the
imperial house of Timur; and the succession of festivities that attended
these nuptials gave a color of joy to scenes which abounded with misery;
but the majority of the inhabitants of Delhi appear to have been of a
light and dissolute character. We are indeed told by an Indian author
that numbers regretted the departure of the Persians. The drolls and
players of the capital began, immediately after they went away, to amuse
their countrymen with a ludicrous representation of their own disgrace;
and the fierce looks and savage pride of their conquerors, which had
been so late their dread, became in these imitations one of their chief
sources of entertainment.

Nadir remained at Delhi fifty-eight days (1739). Before he quitted it,
he had a long and secret conference with Mahomet Shah, in which it is
supposed he gave him such counsel as he deemed best to enable him to
preserve that power to which he was restored. To all the nobles of the
court he spoke publicly, and warned them to preserve their allegiance to
the Emperor, as they valued his favor or dreaded his resentment. To
those who were absent he wrote in similar terms; he informed them that
he was so united in friendship with Mahomet Shah that they might be
esteemed as having one soul in two bodies; and, after desiring them to
continue to walk in the path of duty to the imperial house of Timur, he
concluded these circular-letters in the following words: "May God
forbid! but if accounts of your rebelling against your Emperor should
reach our ears we will blot you out of the pages of the book of
creation."

The conqueror had behaved with considerable moderation and kindness
toward the chief omrahs of the court of Delhi; but he must have despised
their luxurious and effeminate habits. We, indeed, learn his sentiments
from a remarkable anecdote. When speaking one day to Kummer-u-din, who
was then vizier, he demanded how many ladies he had? "Eight hundred
fifty," was the reply. "Let one hundred fifty of our female captives,"
said Nadir, "be sent to the vizier, who will then be entitled to the
high military rank of a _mim-bashee_, or commander of a thousand."

The march of Nadir from India was literally encumbered with spoil. The
amount of the plunder that he carried from that country has been
estimated variously. The highest calculation makes it upward of seventy
millions sterling; the lowest is considerably more than thirty. A great
part of this was in precious stones, of which Nadir was immoderately
fond. When on his march from India he was informed that several of the
most valuable crown-jewels had been secreted by some of his followers,
he made this a pretext for searching the baggage of every man in his
army, and appropriating all the jewels that were found to himself. The
soldiers murmured, but submitted; and their not resisting this despotic
act is an extraordinary proof of the subordination which he had
established. He was, however, in general kind and liberal to his troops:
he had given to each man a gratuity of three months' pay at the fall of
Kandahar; he gave them as much more after the victory of Karnal; and
they received a still greater bounty before he marched from Delhi.

The troops of Nadir, we are told, suffered much in their retreat from
India by the intense heat to which they were exposed. Their passage over
the rivers of the Punjab and the Indus was delayed by accidents to the
temporary bridges which he had constructed, and in one instance by the
threatened attack of the mountaineers of Kabul, whose forbearance the
proud conqueror did not disdain to purchase; and when we consider the
nature of the country through which he had to pass, the immense train of
baggage with which his army was accompanied, and the danger that might
have arisen from the slightest confusion, we cannot blame the prudence
with which he acted upon this occasion.

The greatest expectation was excited in Persia at the prospect of the
return of their victorious monarch. The inhabitants of that country had
already felt the benefit of his triumphs. He had commanded that all
taxes should be remitted for three years: and they began to anticipate
scenes of unheard-of joy and abundance. The most exaggerated reports
were circulated of the vast riches which their sovereign and his
soldiers had acquired; and all conceived that Nadir was disposed to
enjoy himself, from the number of artificers and musicians which he
brought from India. Curiosity, too, was eager to behold the train of
elephants which attended his march. That noble animal had become a
stranger to the plains of Persia; and the natives of that country were
only familiar with its shape from seeing its figure represented in the
sculpture of ancient times. Sanguine minds were led, by a natural
association of ideas, to believe that their present ruler was the
destined restorer of their country to its former glory; and the
conqueror was hailed, at his return, as a hero whose fame had eclipsed
that of a Sapor or a Nushirwan.

The soldiers of Nadir were, we are informed, after the expedition to
India, most anxious for repose; but that Prince was too well acquainted
with the consequences of this indulgence to permit them to enjoy it. He
had, after he passed the Indus, led them through the deserts of Sind to
the attack of a feudatory chief, who had established himself in the
government of that province. This ruler had courted Nadir Shah when he
first threatened the invasion of India, as he deemed such a measure
favorable to his views of independence; but when his possessions were
made over to the Persian monarch he changed his policy; and, lodging all
his treasure and property in the fortress of Amerkote, made a feeble
attempt at opposition; but his capital was taken and plundered, and he
was compelled to surrender himself to the mercy of the conqueror; who,
however, satisfied with his submission and the possession of his wealth,
restored him to the government of the province, which he agreed
henceforth to hold as a tributary to the crown of Persia.

After this expedition Nadir marched to Herat, where he made a proud
display of the jewels and plunder he had acquired in India; among which
the most remarkable was the celebrated throne of the Emperor of Delhi,
made in the shape of a peacock, and ornamented with precious stones of
every description. This gorgeous exhibition took place on June 4, 1740;
and on that day and several others the court, army, and populace were
amused with pageants, shows, and entertainments of every kind; but
Nadir, though satisfied that this public celebration of triumph was
calculated to raise his fame with his subjects and to gratify the vanity
of his soldiers, appears always to have dreaded the danger of inaction.
He moved his army from Herat; and after meeting his son, Reza Kuli, and
bestowing valuable presents upon him and the other princes of his
family, he moved toward Bulkh, where he had ordered preparations to be
made for his crossing the Oxus to punish the sovereign of Bokhara, who,
unmindful of his established alliance, had taken advantage of his
absence in India to make inroads into the province of Khorasan.

The motives which induced Nadir to proceed upon this expedition were
soon apparent. He had no desire to extend the boundary of his empire in
a direction where he knew it could not be maintained, but he wished to
visit upon the inhabitants of this part of Tartary those calamities
which they were in the annual habit of inflicting upon the frontier
provinces of Persia. Abul Fyze Khan, who was the ruler of the Usbegs at
this period, boasted a lineal descent from Genghis; but he appears to
have inherited none of the spirit of his great ancestor. He was
terrified into submission at the approach of Nadir, and sent his vizier
to deprecate the wrath of that monarch. The minister was well received,
but told that his master must immediately surrender if he desired to
save himself from destruction and his country from ruin. While these
negotiations were carried on the Persian army advanced by rapid marches
to Bokhara, and on August 23d, five days after they had crossed the
Oxus, encamped within twelve miles of that capital, where his short
expedition was brought to a close by the personal submission of Abul
Fyze Khan, who, attended by all his court, proceeded to the tents of
Nadir Shah, and laid his crown and other ensigns of royalty at the feet
of the conqueror, who assigned him an honorable place in his assembly;
and a few days afterward restored him to his throne on the condition
that the Oxus should remain, as it had been in former periods, the
boundary of the two empires. This treaty was cemented by an alliance
between the daughter of the ruler of Bokhara and the nephew of his
conqueror; and after its conclusion a great number of Tartars were, with
the concurrence of their own monarch, enrolled in the Persian army,
whose commander probably esteemed the services of these hardy warriors
as of more consequence to the peace of his own dominions and the
fulfilment of his future views of ambition than all the wealth he had
brought from India.

The arms of Nadir were next directed against the kingdom of Khaurizm,
which is situated to the westward of Bokhara, and stretches along both
banks of the Oxus to the shores of the Caspian Sea. The Prince of this
country, whose name was Ilburz, neither merited nor received such human
treatment as Abul Fyze Khan. He had committed frequent depredations upon
the Persian territories; and, conceiving that the strength of his
fortresses would secure him from vengeance, he resolved on resistance.
The King of Bokhara had sent a mission to advise him to submit to the
arms of Nadir: he not only treated this friendly counsel with disdain,
but, in violation of laws which the most savage nations respect, he slew
those through whom it was conveyed. This conduct greatly irritated the
monarch of Persia, who, after he had defeated his army and made him
prisoner, doomed him and twenty of his chief officers to death. The
possessions of Ilburz were bestowed upon Taher Khan, a cousin of the
sovereign of Bokhara, and consequently a direct descendant of the
celebrated Genghis.

When the winter of this year was far advanced, Nadir marched to Khelat,
to which place he continued from his most early years to be much
attached. He had directed that its fortifications should be improved,
that a palace should be built, and that aqueducts should be constructed
to improve the fertility of its fields. He had also ordered that all his
treasures should be carried thither; and a peaceful retirement to this
cherished spot, after the toils and dangers of war were at an end, was
one of the most innocent of those dreams which amused the fancy of this
indefatigable conqueror.

After a short residence at Khelat Nadir proceeded to Mushed, which he
made the capital of his empire; and during three months that he remained
in this city his time was passed in constant festivities. Five monarchs
had been subdued in five years. The empire of Persia had not only been
rescued from a foreign yoke, but its limits had been extended as far as
the Oxus to the north and the Indus to the east; and the hero by whom
all this had been accomplished promised his exulting subjects that the
Turks should soon be driven from the banks of the Tigris and the
Euphrates; but honor required that, before any other expedition was
undertaken, Nadir should revenge the blood of his brother, Ibrahim Khan,
who had been slain in an attack of the Lesghis.

When the army was on its march to Daghestan an event occurred which cast
a dark cloud over all the fair prospects that dawned upon Persia, and
exhibited in the strongest view the miserable condition of those empires
whose fate hangs upon the disposition and talents of a despotic
sovereign. An advanced corps, chiefly composed of Afghans, had, by their
extraordinary valor, gained the greatest advantages over the Lesghis;
and Nadir was hastening by the way of Mazandaran to their support, when,
pursuing his march through one of the forests in that country, a ball
from an assassin, who had concealed himself behind a tree, wounded him
in the hand and killed his horse. The Prince, Reza Kuli, who was near
him, galloped toward the spot from which the shot had been fired; but
neither his efforts nor those of his guards that aided him could succeed
in the attempts to seize the fugitive, who, favored by the thickness of
the wood, effected his escape. He was afterward taken; and the historian
of Nadir asserts that he was the agent of a chief of a barbarous tribe
who cherished a secret resentment against the conqueror.

This accident, though it made a deep and indelible impression upon the
mind of Nadir, did not prevent his proceeding to attack the Lesghis; but
he never engaged in an enterprise of more hazard. These mountaineers
defended themselves with the most desperate bravery; and the rugged
nature of the whole country of Daghestan, which they inhabit, made it
almost impossible to subdue them. The bravest troops of the Persian army
were worn out with the fatigue of this harassing war; and the
preparations which the Russians began to make at Astrakhan, though
dictated by a fear that Nadir meant to invade their country after he had
subdued the Lesghis, gave the latter every encouragement to persevere in
their resistance; and the Persian monarch was compelled to retire from
this expedition with very partial success and very great loss.

Nadir had, from the day on which his life was attempted, entertained
suspicions of his eldest son, Reza Kuli. He summoned him to his
presence. The Prince instantly obeyed, and was on his arrival made
prisoner and deprived of sight. A respectable European writer, who went
to Persia two years after this event, asserts that the assassin who
fired at Nadir in the wood of Mazandaran was employed by the prince Reza
Kuli; who, he informs us, though brave and able, was violent and
oppressive. He had, this author asserts, on hearing that Nadir was dead
when on his expedition to India, declared himself king, and at the same
time put the unfortunate Shah Tamasp, who was confined at Subzawar, in
Khorasan, to death. The same writer assures us that Nadir, though
convinced of the guilt of his son, addressed him in the mildest and most
human terms, and offered him complete pardon if he would only confess
his crime and promise repentance; but that the fierce youth rejected
this offer, and said he gloried in the attempt he had made to rid the
world of a tyrant, and provoked his fate by the coarsest abuse of his
father and sovereign. It is probable that this author received the
account which he has given of this transaction from some person who was
desirous of palliating the guilt of a reigning tyrant; but we are
compelled to refuse our credit of this statement.

The flattering historian of Nadir expressly informs us that that
sovereign was deceived, by the gross misrepresentations of infamous men,
into the commission of this great crime. The European physician who
attended that monarch during the latter years of his life asserts the
innocence of Reza Kuli. He adds that Nadir was so penetrated with
remorse after the deed of horror was done that he vented his fury on all
around him; and fifty noblemen, who had witnessed the dreadful act, were
put to death on the pretext that they should have offered their lives as
sacrifices to save the eyes of a prince who was the glory of their
country. It is also to be remarked that the impressions which have been
transmitted regarding a fact comparatively recent are all against Nadir,
who is believed to have had no evidence of his son's guilt but his own
suspicions. From the moment that his life had been attempted in
Mazandaran that monarch had become gloomy and irritable. His bad
success against the Lesghis had increased the natural violence of his
temper and, listening to the enemies of Reza Kuli, he, in a moment of
rage, ordered him to be blinded.

"Your crimes have forced me to this dreadful measure," was, we are told,
the speech that Nadir made to his son. "It is not my eyes you have put
out," replied Reza Kuli, "but those of Persia." The prophetic truth of
this answer sunk deep into the soul of Nadir; and we may believe his
historian, who affirms that he never afterward knew happiness nor
desired that others should enjoy it. All his future actions were deeds
of horror, except the contest which he carried on against the Turks for
three years; and even in it he displayed none of that energy and heroic
spirit which marked his first wars with that nation.

The Persian army had made unsuccessful efforts to reduce the cities of
Basra, of Bagdad, and of Mussul. Nadir marched early in the succeeding
year to meet a large Turkish force which had advanced to near Erivan;
and we are told that he desired to encounter his enemies in battle on
the same plain where he had ten years before acquired such renown; but
their general, subdued by his own fears, fled and was massacred by his
soldiers; who, thrown into confusion at this event, were easily routed
by the Persians. This was the last victory of Nadir, and it was gained
merely by the terror of his name. Sensible of his own condition he
hastened to make peace. His pretensions regarding the establishment of a
fifth sect among orthodox Mahometans and the erection of a fifth pillar
in the Mosque of Mecca were abandoned. It was agreed that prisoners on
both sides should be released; that Persian pilgrims going to the holy
cities of Mecca and Medina should be protected; and that the whole of
the provinces of Irak and Azerbaijan should remain with Persia, except
an inconsiderable territory that had belonged to the Turkish government
in the time of Shah Ismail, the first of the Suffavean kings.

The conduct of Nadir to his own subjects during the last five years of
his reign had been described, even by a partial historian, as exceeding
in barbarity all that has been recorded of the most bloody tyrants. The
acquisition of the wealth of India had at first filled the mind of this
monarch with the most generous and patriotic feelings. He had proclaimed
that no taxes should be collected from Persia for three years. But the
possession of riches had soon its usual effect of creating a desire for
more; and while the vast treasures he had acquired were hoarded at the
fort of Kelat, which, with all the fears of a despot, he continually
labored to render inaccessible, he not only paid his armies, but added
to his golden heaps, from the arrears of remitted revenue, which he
extorted with the most inflexible rigor.

Nadir knew that the attack which he had made upon the religion of his
country had rendered him unpopular, and that the priests, whom he
peculiarly oppressed, endeavored to spread disaffection. This made him
suspect those who still adhered to the tenets of the Shiah sect, or, in
other words, almost all the natives of Persia. The troops in his army
upon whom he placed most reliance were the Afghans and Tartars, who were
of the Sunni persuasion. Their leaders were his principal favorites; and
every pretext was taken to put to death such Persian chiefs as possessed
either influence or power. These proceedings had the natural effect of
producing rebellion in every quarter, and the spirit of insurrection
which now displayed itself among his subjects changed the violence of
Nadir into outrageous fury. His murders were no longer confined to
individuals: the inhabitants of whole cities were massacred; and men, to
use the words of his historian, left their abodes, and took up their
habitations in caverns and deserts, in the hope of escaping his savage
ferocity. We are told--and the events which preceded render the tale not
improbable--that when on his march to subdue one of his nephews who had
rebelled in Sistan, he proposed to put to death every Persian in his
army. There can be little doubt that his mind was at this moment in a
state of frenzy which amounted to insanity. Some of the principal
officers of his court, who learned that their names were in the list of
proscribed victims, resolved to save themselves by the assassination of
Nadir. The execution of the plot was committed to four chief men who
took advantage of their stations, and, under the pretext of urgent
business, rushed past the guards into the inner tents, where the tyrant
was asleep. The noise awoke him; and he had slain two of the meaner
assassins, when a blow from Salah Beg deprived him of existence.

FIRST MODERN NOVEL

A.D. 1740

EDMUND GOSSE

"Let me make the ballads of a nation," said Fletcher of Saltoun,
"and I care not who makes the laws." The place which the ancient
ballads held in forming the characters of the people is in our day
more than filled by the novels. Everybody reads them, especially in
the younger generation, and every character is more or less moulded
by the sentiments and teachings they contain.

The novel has been almost entirely a modern English development. Two
centuries ago our ancestors did not read fiction: they had
practically none to read. So that the production of the first
English novel in 1740, leading as it has to the present state of
affairs, may fairly be counted a most important event in the history
of our race. Nowadays ten thousand novels are published every year,
and for some of these is claimed the enormous circulation of half a
million copies.

There is nothing offensive to the dignity of literary history in
acknowledging that the most prominent piece of work effected by
literature in England during the eighteenth century is the creation--for
it can be styled nothing less--of the modern novel. In the seventeenth
century there had been a very considerable movement in the direction of
prose fiction. The pastoral romances of the Elizabethans had continued
to circulate; France had set an example in the heroic stories of D'Urfé
and La Calprenède, which English imitators and translators had been
quick to follow, even as early as 1647. The _Francion_ of Sorel and the
_Roman Bourgeois_ of Furetière--the latter, published in 1666, of
especial interest to students of the English novel--had prepared the way
for the exact opposite to the heroic romance; namely, the realistic
story of every-day life. Bunyan and Richard Head, Mrs. Behn and
Defoe--each had marked a stage in the development of English fiction.
Two noble forerunners of the modern novel, _Robinson Crusoe_ and
_Gulliver's Travels_, had inflamed the curiosity and awakened the
appetite of British readers; but, although there were already great
satires and great romances in the language, the first quarter of the
eighteenth century passed away without revealing any domestic genius in
prose fiction, any master of the workings of the human heart. Meanwhile
the drama had decayed. The audiences which had attended the poetic plays
of the beginning and the comedies of the close of the seventeenth
century now found nothing on the boards of the theatre to satisfy their
craving after intellectual excitement. The descendants of the men and
women who had gone out to welcome the poetry of Shakespeare and the wit
of Congreve were now rather readers than play-goers, and were most ready
to enjoy an appeal to their feelings when that appeal reached them in
book form. In the playhouse they came to expect bustle and pantomime
rather than literature. This decline in theatrical habits prepared a
domestic audience for the novelists, and accounts for that feverish and
apparently excessive anxiety with which the earliest great novels were
awaited and received.

Meanwhile the part taken by Addison and Steele in preparing for this
change of taste must not be overlooked, and the direct link between
Addison, as a picturesque narrative essayist, and Richardson, as the
first great English novelist, is to be found in Pierre de Marivaux
(1688-1763), who imitated the _Spectator_, and who is often assumed,
though somewhat too rashly, to have suggested the tone of _Pamela_. Into
this latter question we shall presently have need to inquire again. It
is enough to point out here that when the English novel did suddenly and
irresistibly make its appearance, it had little in common with the
rococo and coquettish work which had immediately preceded it in France,
and which at first, even to judges so penetrating as the poet Gray, was
apt to seem more excellent because more subtle and refined. The rapidity
with which the novel became domiciled among us, and the short space of
time within which the principal masterpieces of the novelists were
produced, are not more remarkable than the lassitude which fell upon
English fiction as soon as the first great generation had passed away.
The flourishing period of the eighteenth-century novel lasted exactly
twenty-five years, during which time we have to record the publication
of no less than fifteen eminent works of fiction.

These fifteen are naturally divided into three groups. The first
contains _Pamela_, _Joseph Andrews_, _David Simple_, and _Jonathan
Wild_. In these books the art is still somewhat crude, and the science
of fiction incompletely understood. After a silence of five years we
reach the second and greatest section of this central period, during
which there appeared in quick succession _Clarissa_, _Roderick Random_,
_Tom Jones_, _Peregrine Pickle_, _Amelia_, and _Sir Charles Grandison_.
As though invention had been exhausted by the publication of this
incomparable series of masterpieces, there followed another silence of
five years, and then were issued, each on the heels of the other,
_Tristram Shandy_, _Rasselas_, _Chrysal_, _The Castle of Otranto_, and
_The Vicar of Wakefield_. Five years later still, a book born out of due
time appeared, _Humphrey Clinker_, and then, with one or two such
exceptions as _Evelina_ and _Caleb Williams_, no great novel appeared
again in England for forty years, until, in 1811, the new school of
fiction was inaugurated by _Sense and Sensibility_. The English novel,
therefore, in its first great development, should be considered as
comprised within the dates 1740 and 1766; and it may not be
uninstructive, before entering into any critical examination of the
separate authors, to glance at this chronological list of the first
fifteen great works of English fiction.

The novels contained in the catalogue just given, however widely they
differed from one another in detail, had this in common: that they dealt
with mental and moral phenomena. Before 1740 we possessed romances,
tales, prose fiction of various sorts, but in none of these was essayed
any careful analysis of character or any profound delineation of
emotion. In Defoe, where the record of imaginary fact was carried on
with so much ingenuity and knowledge, the qualities we have just
mentioned are notably absent; nor can it be said that we find them in
any prose-writer of fiction earlier than Richardson, except in some very
slight and imperfect degree in Aphra Behn, especially in her Rousseauish
novel of _Oroonoko_.

The first great English novelist, Samuel Richardson (1689-1761), was
born and bred in Derbyshire. He records of himself that when still a
little boy he had two peculiarities: he loved the society of women best,
and he delighted in letter-writing. Indeed, before he was eleven, he
wrote a long epistle to a widow of fifty, rebuking her for unbecoming
conduct. The girls of the neighborhood soon discovered his insight into
the human heart, and his skill in correspondence, and they employed the
boy to write their love-letters for them. In 1706 Richardson was
apprenticed to a London printer, served a diligent apprenticeship, and
worked as a compositor until he rose, late in life, to be master of the
Stationers' Company. He was fifty years of age before he showed symptoms
of any higher ambition than that of printing correctly acts of
Parliament and new editions of law-books. In 1739 the publishers,
Rivington and Osborne, urged him to compose for them a volume of
_Familiar Letters_, afterward actually produced as an aid to illiterate
persons in their correspondence. Richardson set about this work, gave it
a moral flavor, and at last began to write what would serve as a caution
to young serving-women who were exposed to temptation. At this point he
recollected a story he had heard long before, of a beautiful and
virtuous maid-servant who succeeded in marrying her master; and then,
laying the original design aside, Richardson, working rapidly, wrote in
three months his famous story of _Pamela_.

All Richardson's novels are written in what Mrs. Barbauld has
ingeniously described as "the most natural and the least probable way of
telling a story," namely, in consecutive letters. The famous heroine of
his first book is a young girl, Pamela Andrews, who describes in letters
to her father and mother what goes on in the house of a lady with whom
she had lived as maid, and who is just dead when the story opens. The
son of Pamela's late mistress, a Mr. B.--it was Fielding who wickedly
enlarged the name to Booby--becomes enamoured of her charms, and takes
every mean advantage of her defenceless position; but, fortunately,
Pamela is not more virtuous than astute, and after various agonies,
which culminate in her thinking of drowning herself in a pond, she
brings her admirer to terms, and is discovered to us at last as the
rapturous though still humble Mrs. B. There are all sorts of faults to
be found with this crude book. The hero is a rascal, who comes to a good
end, not because he has deserved to do so, but because his clever wife
has angled for him with her beauty, and has landed him at last, like an
exhausted salmon.

So long as Pamela is merely innocent and frightened, she is charming,
but her character ceases to be sympathetic as she grows conscious of the
value of her charms, and even the lax morality of the day was shocked at
the craft of her latest manoeuvres. But all the world went mad with
pleasure over the book. What we now regard as tedious and prolix was
looked upon as so much linked sweetness long drawn out. The fat printer
had invented a new thing, and inaugurated a fresh order of genius. For
the first time the public was invited, by a master of the movements of
the heart, to be present at the dissection of that fascinating organ,
and the operator could not be leisurely enough, could not be minute
enough, for his breathless and enraptured audience.

In France, for some ten years past there had been writers--Crébillon,
Marivaux, Prévost--who had essayed this delicate analysis of emotion,
but these men were the first to admit the superiority of their rough
English rival. In _Marianne_, where the heroine tells her own story,
which somewhat resembles that of Pamela, the French novelist produced a
very refined study of emotion, which will probably be one day more
largely read than it now is, and which should be looked through by every
student of the English novel. This book is prolix and languid in form,
and undoubtedly bears a curious resemblance to Richardson's novel. The
English printer, however, could not read French,[29] and there is
sufficient evidence to show that he was independent of any influences
save those which he took from real life. None the less, of course,
Marivaux, who has a name for affectation which his writings scarcely
deserve, has an interest for us as a harbinger of the modern novel.
_Pamela_ was published in two volumes in 1740. The author was
sufficiently ill-advised to add two more in 1741. In this latter
instalment Mrs. B. was represented as a dignified matron, stately and
sweet under a burden of marital infidelity. But this continuation is
hardly worthy to be counted among the works of Richardson.

The novelist showed great wisdom in not attempting to repeat too quickly
the success of his first work. He allowed the romances of Henry and
Sarah Fielding, the latter as grateful to him as the former were
repugnant, to produce their effect upon the public, and it was to an
audience more able to criticise fiction that Richardson addressed his
next budget from the mail-bag. _Clarissa; or, The History of a Young
Lady_, appeared, in instalments, but in seven volumes in all, in 1748,
with critical prefaces prefixed to the first and fourth volumes. In this
book the novelist put his original crude essay completely into the
shade, and added one to the masterpieces of the world. Released from the
accident which induced him in the pages of _Pamela_ to make his heroine
a servant-girl, in _Clarissa_, Richardson depicted a lady, yet not of so
lofty a rank as to be beyond the range of his own observation. The story
is again told entirely in letters; it is the history of the abduction
and violation of a young lady by a finished scoundrel, and ends in the
death of both characters. To enable the novelist to proceed, each
personage has a confidant. The beautiful and unhappy Clarissa Harlowe
corresponds with the vivacious Miss Howe; Robert Lovelace addresses his
friend and quondam fellow-reveller, John Belford. The character of
Clarissa is summed up in these terms by her creator: "A young Lady of
great Delicacy, Mistress of all the Accomplishments, natural and
acquired, that adorn the Sex, having the strictest Notions of filial
Duty." Her piety and purity, in fact, are the two loadstars of her moral
nature, and the pursuit of each leads her life to shipwreck.

By the universal acknowledgment of novel-readers, Clarissa is one of the
most sympathetic, as she is one of the most lifelike, of all the women
in literature, and Richardson has conducted her story with so much art
and tact that her very faults canonize her, and her weakness crowns the
triumph of her chastity. In depicting the character of Lovelace, the
novelist had a difficult task, for to have made him a mere ruffian would
have been to ruin the whole purpose of the piece. He is represented as
witty, versatile, and adroit, the very type of the unscrupulous
gentleman of fashion of the period. He expiates his crimes, at the close
of a capital duel, by the hands of Colonel Morden, a relative of the
Harlowe family, who has seen Clarissa die. The success of _Clarissa_,
both here and in France, was extraordinary. As the successive volumes
appeared, and readers were held in suspense as to the fate of the
exquisite heroine, Richardson was deluged with letters entreating him to
have mercy. The women of England knelt sobbing round his knees, and
addressed him as though he possessed the power of life and death.

The slow and cumbrous form of _Clarissa_ has tended to lessen the number
of its students, but there is probably no one who reads at all widely
who has not at one time or another come under the spell of this
extraordinary book. In France its reputation has always stood very high.
Diderot said that it placed Richardson with Homer and Euripides,
Rousseau openly imitated it, and Alfred de Musset has styled it the best
novel in the world. To those who love to see the passions taught to move
at the command of sentiment, and who are not wearied by the excessively
minute scale, as of a moral miniature-painter, on which the author
designs his work, there can scarcely be recommended a more thrilling and
affecting book. The author is entirely inexorable, and the reader must
not hope to escape until he is thoroughly purged with terror and pity.

After the further development of Fielding's genius, and after the advent
of a new luminary in Smollett, Richardson once more presented to the
public an elaborate and ceremonious novel of extreme prolixity. The
_History of Sir Charles Grandison_, in seven (and six) volumes, appeared
in the spring of 1754, after having been pirated in Dublin during the
preceding winter. Richardson's object in this new adventure was, having
already painted the portraits of two virtuous young women--the one
fortunate, the other a martyr--to produce this time a virtuous hero, and
to depict "the character and actions of a man of true honor," as before,
in a series of familiar letters. There is more movement, more plot, in
this novel than in the previous ones; the hero is now in Italy, now in
England, and there is much more attempt than either in _Pamela_ or
_Clarissa_ to give the impression of a sphere in which a man of the
world may move. Grandison is, however, a slightly ludicrous hero. His
perfections are those of a prig and an egoist, and he passes like the
sun itself over his parterre of adoring worshippers. The ladies who are
devoted to Sir Charles Grandison are, indeed, very numerous, but the
reader's interest centres in three of them--the mild and estimable
Harriet Byron, the impassioned Italian Clementina della Porretta, and
the ingenuous ward Emily Jervois. The excuse for all this is that this
paragon of manly virtue has "the most delicate of human minds," and
that women are irresistibly attracted to him by his splendid perfections
of character. But posterity has admitted that the portrait is
insufferably overdrawn, and that Grandison is absurd. The finest scenes
in this interesting but defective novel are those in which the madness
of Clementina is dwelt upon in that long-drawn patient manner of which
Richardson was a master. The book is much too long.

Happy in the fame which "the three daughters" of his pen had brought
him, and enjoying prosperous circumstances, Richardson's life closed in
a sort of perpetual tea-party, in which he, the only male, sat
surrounded by bevies of adoring ladies. He died in London, of apoplexy,
on July 4, 1761. His manners were marked by the same ceremonious
stiffness which gives his writing an air of belonging to a far earlier
period than that of Fielding or Smollett; but his gravity and
sentimental earnestness only helped to endear him to the women. Of the
style of Richardson there is little to be said; the reader never thinks
of it. If he forces himself to regard it, he sees that it is apt to be
slipshod, although so trim and systematic. Richardson was a man of
unquestionable genius, dowered with extraordinary insight into female
character, and possessing the power to express it; but he had little
humor, no rapidity of mind, and his speech was so ductile and so
elaborate that he can scarcely compete with later and sharper talents.

FOOTNOTES:

[29] It is, however, now certain that there existed an English version
of _Marianne_.

FREDERICK THE GREAT SEIZES SILESIA

MARIA THERESA APPEALS TO THE HUNGARIANS

A.D. 1740

WILLIAM SMYTH

Maria Theresa, the "Empress Queen," stands out among the most heroic
and romantic figures of the eighteenth century. She was the daughter
of Charles VI, last of the real Hapsburg emperors of Germany and
rulers of Austria. With him ended the male line of the mighty
family, but the descendants of his daughter and her husband, the
Duke of Lorraine, were known as the house of Hapsburg-Lorraine, and
gradually the second name disappeared from common usage, leaving
only the more famous half.

Having no male heirs Charles was determined that his daughter,
Maria, should succeed to all the vast Hapsburg estates, and he
entered into treaties upon the subject with the various chief powers
of Europe, yielding them substantial advantages in return for their
gossamer promise to support her in her inheritance. The moment
Charles died (1740) these treaties were thrown to the winds. Each
state planned to snatch what territory it could from the young and
apparently helpless Maria Theresa.

Frederick II of Prussia, afterward called the Great, was the first
of the robbers to move. He also had just come into power in the new
kingdom, which his father, Frederick I, had created. Part of his
inheritance was a splendid standing army, the best-drilled and most
powerful in Europe. With this he promptly overran Silesia, a
borderland composed of many little duchies and accounted one of the
most valuable provinces of the Austrian crown. Frederick openly and
cynically announced the maxim which seems in secret to have guided
many monarchs, that personal honesty had no part in the business of
being a king. His rash and conscienceless seizure of Silesia was
successful, but it proved the prelude to a quarter-century of
repeated wars which involved almost the whole of Europe and brought
his own country to the verge of ruin.

In 1740 Maria Theresa ascends the throne of her ancestors--possessed, it
seems, of a commanding figure, great beauty, animation and sweetness of
countenance, a pleasing tone of voice, fascinating manners, and uniting
feminine grace with a strength of understanding and an intrepidity above
her sex. But her treasury contained only one hundred thousand florins,
and these claimed by the Empress Dowager; her army, exclusive of the
troops in Italy and the Low Countries, did not amount to thirty thousand
effective men; a scarcity of provisions and great discontent existed in
the capital; rumors were circulated that the government was dissolved,
that the Elector of Brunswick was hourly expected to take possession of
the Austrian territories; apprehensions were entertained of the distant
provinces--that the Hungarians, supported by the Turks, might revive the
elective monarchy; different claimants on the Austrian succession were
expected to arise; besides, the Elector of Bavaria, the Elector of
Cologne, and the Elector Palatine were evidently hostile; the ministers
themselves, while the Queen was herself without experience or knowledge
of business, were timorous, desponding, irresolute, or worn out with
age. To these ministers, says Mr. Robinson, in his despatches to the
English court, "the Turks seemed already in Hungary, the Hungarians
themselves in arms, the Saxons in Bohemia, the Bavarians at the gates of
Vienna, and France the soul of the whole." The Elector of Bavaria,
indeed, did not conceal his claims to the kingdom of Bohemia and the
Austrian dominions; and, finally, while the Queen had scarcely taken
possession of her throne, a new claimant appeared in the person of
Frederick of Prussia, who acted with "such consummate address and
secrecy"--as it is called by the historian--that is, with such
unprincipled hypocrisy and cunning, that his designs were scarcely even
suspected when his troops entered the Austrian dominions.

Silesia was the province which he resolved, in the present helpless
situation of the young Queen, to wrest from the house of Austria. He
revived some antiquated claims on parts of that duchy. The ancestors of
Maria Theresa had not behaved handsomely to the ancestors of Frederick,
and the young Queen was now to become a lesson to all princes and states
of the real wisdom that always belongs to the honorable and scrupulous
performance of all public engagements. Little or nothing, however, can
be urged in favor of Frederick. Prescription must be allowed at length
to justify possession in cases not very flagrant. The world cannot be
perpetually disturbed by the squabbles and collisions of its rulers; and
the justice of his cause was, indeed, as is evident from all the
circumstances of the case, and his own writings, the last and the least
of all the many futile reasons which he alleged for the invasion of the
possessions of Maria Theresa, the heiress of the Austrian dominions,
young, beautiful, and unoffending, but inexperienced and unprotected.

The common robber has sometimes the excuse of want; banditti, in a
disorderly country, may pillage, and, when resisted, murder; but the
crimes of men, even atrocious as these, are confined at least to a
contracted space, and their consequences extend not beyond a limited
period. It was not so with Frederick. The outrages of his ambition were
to be followed up by an immediate war. He could never suppose that, even
if he succeeded in getting possession of Silesia, the house of Austria
could ever forget the insult and the injury that had thus been received;
he could never suppose, though Maria Theresa might have no protection
from his cruelty and injustice, that this illustrious house would never
again have the power, in some way or other, to avenge their wrongs. One
war, therefore, even if successful, was not to be the only consequence;
succeeding wars were to be expected; long and inveterate jealousy and
hatred were to follow; and he and his subjects were, for a long
succession of years, to be put to the necessity of defending, by
unnatural exertions, what had been acquired--if acquired--by his own
unprincipled ferocity. Such were the consequences that were fairly to be
expected. What, in fact, took place?

The seizure of this province of Silesia was first supported by a war,
then by a revival of it, then by the dreadful Seven Years' War. Near a
million of men perished on the one side and on the other. Every measure
and movement of the King's administration flowed as a direct consequence
from this original aggression: his military system, the necessity of
rendering his kingdom one of the first-rate powers of Europe, and, in
short, all the long train of his faults, his tyrannies, and his crimes.
We will cast a momentary glance on the opening scenes of this contest
between the two houses.

As a preparatory step to his invasion of Silesia, the King sent a
message to the Austrian court. "I am come," said the Prussian envoy to
the husband of Maria Theresa, "with safety for the house of Austria in
one hand, and the imperial crown for your royal highness in the other.
The troops and money of my master are at the service of the Queen, and
cannot fail of being acceptable at a time when she is in want of both,
and can only depend on so considerable a prince as the King of Prussia
and his allies, the maritime powers, and Russia. As the King, my master,
from the situation of his dominions, will be exposed to great danger
from this alliance, it is hoped that, as an indemnification, the Queen
of Hungary will not offer him less than the whole duchy of Silesia."
"Nobody," he added, "is more firm in his resolutions than the King of
Prussia: he must and will enter Silesia; once entered, he must and will
proceed; and if not secured by the immediate cession of that province,
his troops and money will be offered to the electors of Saxony and
Bavaria." Such were the King's notifications to Maria Theresa. Soon
after, in a letter to the same Duke of Lorraine, the husband of Maria
Theresa, "My heart," says Frederick--for he wrote as if he conceived he
had one--"My heart," says Frederick, "has no share in the mischief which
my hand is doing to your court."

The feelings of the young Queen may be easily imagined, powerful in the
qualities of her understanding, with all the high sensibilities which
are often united to a commanding mind, and educated in all the lofty
notions which have so uniformly characterized her illustrious house. She
resisted; but her arms proved in the event unsuccessful. She was not
prepared; and even if she had been, the combination was too wide and
powerful against her. According to the plan of her enemies, more
particularly of France (her greatest enemy), Bohemia and Upper Austria,
spite of all her efforts, were likely to be assigned to the Elector of
Bavaria; Moravia and Upper Silesia to the Elector of Saxony; Lower
Silesia and the country of Glatz to the King of Prussia; Austria and
Lombardy to Spain; and some compensation to be allotted to the King of
Sardinia.

It was therefore, at last, necessary to detach the King of Prussia from
the general combination by some important sacrifice. The sufferings, the
agonies, of the poor Queen were extreme. Lord Hyndford, on the part of
England as a mediating power, prevailed on the helpless Maria Theresa to
abate something of her lofty spirit, and make some offers to the King.
"At the beginning of the war," said Frederick, "I might have been
contented with this proposal, but not now. Shall I again give the
Austrians battle, and drive them out of Silesia? You will then see that
I shall receive other proposals. At present I must have _four_ duchies,
and not _one_. Do not, my lord," said the King, "talk to me of
magnanimity; a prince ought first to consult his own interests. I am not
averse to peace; but I expect to have four duchies, and will have them."

At a subsequent period the same scene was to be renewed, and Mr.
Robinson, the English ambassador, who was very naturally captivated with
the attractions and spirit of Maria Theresa, endeavored to rouse her to
a sense of her danger. "Not only for political reasons," replied the
Queen, "but from conscience and honor, I will not consent to part with
much in Silesia. No sooner is one enemy satisfied than another starts
up; another, and then another, must be contented, and all at my
expense." "You must yield to the hard necessity of the times," said Mr.
Robinson. "What would I not give, except in Silesia?" replied the
impatient Queen. "Let him take all we have in Gelderland; and if he is
not to be gained by that sacrifice, others may. Let the King, your
master, only speak to the Elector of Bavaria! Oh, the King, your
master--let him only march! let him march only!"

But England could not be prevailed upon to declare war. The dangers of
Maria Theresa became more and more imminent, and a consent to further
offers was extorted from her. "I am afraid," said Mr. Robinson, "some of
these proposals will be rejected by the King." "I wish he may reject
them," said the Queen. "Save Limburg, if possible, were it only for the
quiet of my conscience. God knows how I shall answer for the cession,
having sworn to the states of Brabant never to alienate any part of
their country."

Mr. Robinson, who was an enthusiast in the cause of the Queen, is
understood to have made some idle experiment of his own eloquence on the
King of Prussia; to have pleaded her cause in their next interview; to
have spoken, not as if he was addressing a cold-hearted, bad man, but as
if speaking in the House of Commons of his own country, in the assembly
of a free people, with generosity in their feelings and uprightness and
honor in their hearts. The King, in all the malignant security of
triumphant power, in all the composed consciousness of great
intellectual talents, affected to return him eloquence for eloquence;
said his ancestors would rise out of their tombs to reproach him if he
abandoned the rights that had been transmitted to him; that he could not
live with reputation if he lightly abandoned an enterprise which had
been the first act of his reign; that he would sooner be crushed with
his whole army, etc. And then, descending from his oratorical elevation,
declared that he would _now_ "not only have the four duchies, but all
Lower Silesia, with the town of Breslau. If the Queen does not satisfy
me in six weeks, I will have four duchies more. They who want peace will
give me what I want. I am sick of ultimatums; I will hear no more of
them. My part is taken; I again repeat my demand of all Lower Silesia.
This is my final answer, and I will give no other." He then abruptly
broke off the conference, and left Mr. Robinson to his own reflections.

The situation of the young Queen now became truly deplorable. The King
of Prussia was making himself the entire master of Silesia; two French
armies poured over the countries of Germany; the Elector of Bavaria,
joined by one of them, had pushed a body of troops within eight miles of
Vienna, and the capital had been summoned to surrender. The King of
Sardinia threatened hostilities; so did the Spanish army. The Electors
of Saxony, Cologne, and Palatine joined the grand confederacy; and
abandoned by all her allies but Great Britain, without treasure, without
an army, and without ministers, she appealed, or rather fled for refuge
and compassion, to her subjects in Hungary.

These subjects she had at her accession conciliated by taking the oath
which had been abolished by her ancestor Leopold, the confirmation of
their just rights, privileges, and approved customs. She had taken this
oath at her accession, and she was now to reap the benefit of that sense
of justice and real magnanimity which she had displayed, and which, it
may fairly be pronounced, sovereigns and governments will always find it
their interest, as well as their duty, to display, while the human heart
is constituted, as it has always been, proud and eager to acknowledge
with gratitude and affection the slightest condescensions of kings and
princes, the slightest marks of attention and benevolence in those who
are illustrious by their birth or elevated by their situation.

When Maria Theresa had first proposed to repair to these subjects, a
suitor for their protection, the gray-headed politicians of her court
had, it seems, assured her that she could not possibly succeed; that the
Hungarians, when the Pragmatic Sanction had been proposed to them by her
father, had declared that they were accustomed to be governed only by
men; and that they would seize the opportunity of withdrawing from her
rule, and from their allegiance to the house of Austria.

Maria Theresa, young and generous and high-spirited herself, had
confidence in human virtue. She repaired to Hungary; she summoned the
states of the Diet; she entered the hall, clad in deep mourning; habited
herself in the Hungarian dress; placed the crown of St. Stephen on her
head, the cimeter at her side; showed her subjects that she could
herself cherish and venerate whatever was dear and venerable in their
sight; separated not herself in her sympathies and opinions from those
whose sympathies and opinions she was to awaken and direct, traversed
the apartment with a slow and majestic step, ascended the tribune whence
the sovereigns had been accustomed to harangue the states, committed to
her chancellor the detail of her distressed situation, and then herself
addressed them in the language which was familiar to them, the immortal
language of Rome, which was not now for the first time to be employed
against the enterprises of injustice and the wrongs of the oppressor.

To the cold and relentless ambition of Frederick, to a prince whose
heart had withered at thirty, an appeal like this had been made in vain;
but not so to the freeborn warriors, who saw no possessions to be
coveted like the conscious enjoyment of honorable and generous
feelings--no fame, no glory like the character of the protectors of the
helpless and the avengers of the innocent. Youth, beauty, and distress
obtained that triumph, which, for the honor of the one sex, it is to be
hoped will never be denied to the merits and afflictions of the other. A
thousand swords leaped from their scabbards and attested the unbought
generosity and courage of untutored nature. "_Moriamur pro rege
nostro_, Maria Theresa!" was the voice that resounded through the hall
("We will die for our sovereign, Maria Theresa!"). The Queen, who had
hitherto preserved a calm and dignified deportment, burst into tears--I
tell but the facts of history. Tears started to the eyes of Maria
Theresa, when standing before her heroic defenders--those tears which no
misfortunes, no suffering, would have drawn from her in the presence of
her enemies and oppressors. "Moriamur pro rege nostro, Maria Theresa!"
was again and again heard. The voice, the shout, the acclamation that
reëchoed around her, and enthusiasm and frenzy in her cause, were the
necessary effect of this union of every dignified sensibility which the
heart can acknowledge and the understanding honor.

It is not always that in history we can pursue the train of events, and
find our moral feelings gratified as we proceed; but in general we may.
Philip II overpowered _not_ the Low Countries, nor Louis, Holland; and
even on this occasion of the distress and danger of Maria Theresa we may
find an important, though not a perfect and complete, triumph. The
resolutions of the Hungarian Diet were supported by the nation; Croats,
Pandours, Slavonians, flocked to the royal standard, and they struck
terror into the disciplined armies of Germany and France. The genius of
the great General Kevenhuller was called into action by the Queen;
Vienna was put into a state of defence; divisions began to rise among
the Queen's enemies; a sacrifice was at last made to Frederick--he was
bought off by the cession of Lower Silesia and Breslau; and the Queen
and her generals, thus obtaining a respite from this able and
enterprising robber, were enabled to direct, and successfully direct,
their efforts against the remaining hosts of plunderers that had
assailed her. France, that with perfidy and atrocity had summoned every
surrounding power to the destruction of the house of Austria, in the
moment of the helplessness and inexperience of the new sovereign--France
was at least, if Frederick was not, defeated, disappointed, and
disgraced.

The interest that belongs to a character like that of Maria Theresa, of
strong feelings and great abilities, never leaves the narrative, of
which she is the heroine. The student cannot expect that he should
always approve the conduct or the sentiments that but too naturally
flowed from qualities like these, when found in a princess like Maria
Theresa--a princess placed in situations so fitted to betray her into
violence and even rancor--a princess who had been a first-rate sovereign
of Europe at four-and-twenty, and who had never been admitted to that
moral discipline to which ordinary mortals, who act in the presence of
their equals, are so happily subjected. That the loss of Silesia should
never be forgotten--the King of Prussia never forgiven--that his total
destruction would have been the highest gratification to her, cannot be
objects of surprise. The mixed character of human nature seldom affords,
when all its propensities are drawn out by circumstances, any proper
theme for the entire and unqualified praises of a moralist; but
everything is pardoned to Maria Theresa, when she is compared, as she
must constantly be, with her great rival, Frederick. Errors and faults
we can overlook when they are those of our common nature;
intractability, impetuosity, lofty pride, superstition, even bigotry, an
impatience of wrongs, furious and implacable--all these, the faults of
Maria Theresa, may be forgiven, may at least be understood. But
Frederick had no merits save courage and ability; these, great as they
are, cannot reconcile us to a character with which we can have no
sympathy--of which the beginning, the middle, and the end, the
foundation and the essence, were entire, unceasing, inextinguishable,
concentrated selfishness.

I do not detain my hearers with any further reference to Maria Theresa.
She long occupies the pages of history--the interesting and captivating
princess--the able and still attractive Queen--the respected and
venerable matron, grown prudent by long familiarity with the uncertainty
of fortune, and sinking into decline amid the praises and blessings of
her subjects.

DEFEAT OF THE YOUNG PRETENDER AT CULLODEN

LAST OF THE STUARTS

A.D. 1746

JUSTIN McCARTHY

Obstinate tenacity of purpose--a leading characteristic of the
Stuart sovereigns--showed a remarkable survival in the vain attempt
of the grandson of James II to recover the throne of England. The
chief historical significance of that attempt lies in the fact that
its failure marks the end of the Stuart endeavor for renewed power.

Charles Edward Louis Philip Casimir, known as the "Young Pretender,"
also as the "Young Chevalier" and "Bonnie Prince Charlie," was born
in Rome in 1720. From his earliest years he was the hope of the
Jacobites, as the political descendants of the partisans of James II
were called. In 1743 Charles headed an abortive expedition for the
invasion of England from France. In August, 1745, he landed with
seven followers in the Hebrides, and on the 19th raised the standard
of his father in Glenfinnan, Scotland. There at once the Highland
clans rallied to his support and began what is known as the "Rising
of '45" or the "Forty-five," the beginning and ending of which are
told here in McCarthy's most brilliant manner.

From the first young Charles Stuart might well have come to regard
himself as the favorite of fortune. The history of the "Forty-five"
divides itself into two distinct parts: the first a triumphant record of
brilliant victories, and the picture of a young prince marching through
conquest after conquest to a crown; the second part prefaced by a
disastrous resolution leading to overwhelming defeat and ending in
ignominious flight and the extinction of the last Stuart hope. From the
moment when the Stuart standard fluttered its folds of white and crimson
on the Highland wind it seemed as if the Stuart luck had turned. Charles
might well conceive himself happy. Upon his sword sat laurel victory.
Smooth success was strewn before his feet. The blundering and
bewildered Cope[30] actually allowed Charles and his army to get past
him. Cope was neither a coward nor a traitor, but he was a terrible
blunderer, and while the English general was marching upon Inverness
Charles was triumphantly entering Perth. From Perth the young Prince,
with hopeless, helpless Cope still in his rear, marched on Edinburgh.

The condition of Edinburgh was peculiar: although a large proportion of
its inhabitants, especially those who were well-to-do, were stanch
supporters of the house of Hanover, there were plenty of Jacobites in
the place, and it only needed the favor of a few victories to bring into
open day a great deal of latent Jacobitism that was for the moment
prudently kept under by its possessors. The lord-provost himself was
more than suspected of being a Jacobite at heart. The city was miserably
defended. Such walls as it possessed were more ornamental than useful,
and in any case were sadly in want of repair. All the military force it
could muster to meet the advance of the clans was the small but fairly
efficient body of men who formed the town guard; the train-bands, some
thousand strong, who knew no more than so many spinsters of the division
of a battle; the small and undisciplined Edinburgh regiment, and a
scratch collection of volunteers hurriedly raked together from among the
humbler citizens of the town, and about as useful as so many puppets to
oppose to the daring and the ferocity of the clans.

Edinburgh opinion had changed very rapidly with regard to that same
daring and ferocity. When the first rumors of the Prince's advance were
bruited abroad the adherents of the house of Hanover in Edinburgh made
very merry over the gang of ragged rascals, hen-roost robbers, and
drunken rogues upon whom the Pretender relied in his effort to "enjoy
his ain again." But as the clans came nearer and nearer, as the air grew
thicker with flying rumors of the successes that attended upon the
Prince's progress, as the capacity of the town seemed weaker for holding
out, and as the prospect of reënforcements seemed to grow fainter and
fainter, the opinion of Hanoverian Edinburgh concerning the clans
changed mightily. Had the Highlanders been a race of giants, endowed
with more than mortal prowess, and invulnerable as Achilles, they could
hardly have struck more terror into the hearts of loyal and respectable
Edinburgh citizens.

Still, there were some stout hearts in Edinburgh who did their best to
keep up the courage of the rest and to keep out the enemy. Andrew
Fletcher and Duncan Forbes were of the number. M'Laurin, the
mathematician, turned his genius to the bettering of the fortifications.
Old Dr. Stevenson, bedridden but heroic, kept guard in his arm-chair for
many days at the Netherbow gate. The great question was, would Cope come
in time? Cope was at Aberdeen. Cope had put his army upon transports.
Cope might be here to-morrow, the day after to-morrow, to-day, who
knows? But in the mean time the King's Dragoons, whom Cope had left
behind him when he first started out to meet the Pretender, had steadily
and persistently retreated before the Highland advance. They had now
halted--they can hardly be said to have made a stand--at Corstorphine,
some three miles from Edinburgh, and here it was resolved to do
something to stay the tide of invasion. Hamilton's Dragoons were at
Leith. These were ordered to join the King's Dragoons at Corstorphine
and to collect as many Edinburgh volunteers as they could on their way.
Inside the walls of Edinburgh it was easy enough to collect volunteers,
and quite a little army of them marched out with drums beating and
colors flying at the heels of Hamilton's Dragoons. But on the way to the
town gates the temper of the volunteers changed, and by the time that
the town gates were reached and passed the volunteers had dwindled to so
pitiable a handful that they were dismissed, and Hamilton's Dragoons
proceeded alone to join Cope's King's Dragoons at Corstorphine.

But the united force of dragoons did not stay long at Corstorphine. The
fame of the fierce Highlanders had unhinged their valor, and it only
needed a few of the Prince's supporters to ride within pistol-shot and
discharge their pieces at the royal troops to set them into as
disgraceful a panic as ever animated frightened men. The dragoons,
ludicrously unmanned, turned tail and rode for their lives, rode without
drawing bridle and without staying spur till they came to Leith, paused
there for a little, and then, on some vague hint that the Highlanders
were on their track, they were in the saddle again and riding for their
lives once more. Dismayed Edinburgh citizens saw them sweep along what
now is Prince's Street, a pitiable sight; saw them, bloody with
spurring, fiery hot with haste, ride on--on into the darkness. On and on
the desperate cowards scampered, sheep-like in their shameful fear, till
they reached Dunbar, and behind its gates allowed themselves to breathe
more freely and to congratulate themselves upon the dangers they had
escaped. Such is the story of the famous, or infamous, "Canter of
Coltbrigg," one of the most disgraceful records of the abject collapse
of regular troops before the terror of an almost unseen foe that are to
be found in history. Well might loyal Edinburgh despair if such were its
best defenders. The town was all tumult, the loyalists were in utter
gloom, the secretly exulting Jacobites were urging the impossibility of
resistance, and the necessity for yielding while yielding was still an
open question.

On the top of all this came a summons from the Prince demanding the
immediate surrender of the city. A deputation was at once despatched to
Gray's Mill, where the Prince had halted, to confer with him. Scarcely
had the deputation gone when rumor spread abroad in the town that
Cope--Cope the long expected, the almost given up--was actually close at
hand, and the weather-cock emotions of the town veered to a new quarter.
Perhaps they might be able to hold out after all. The great thing was to
gain time. The deputation came back to say that Prince Charles must have
a distinct answer to his summons before two o'clock in the morning, and
it was now ten at night. Still spurred by the hope of gaining time, and
allowing Cope to arrive, if, indeed, he were arriving, the deputation
was sent back again. But the Prince refused to see them, and the
deputation returned to the city and all unconsciously decided the fate
of Edinburgh. Lochiel and Murray, with some five hundred Camerons, had
crept close to the walls under the cover of the darkness of the night,
in the hope of finding some means of surprising the city. Hidden close
by the Netherbow port they saw the coach which had carried the
deputation home drive up and demand admittance. The admittance, which
was readily granted to the coach, could not well be refused to the
Highlanders, who leaped up the moment the doors were opened, overpowered
the guard, and entered the town. Edinburgh awoke in the morning to find
its doubts at an end. It was in the hands of the Highlanders.

Jacobite Edinburgh went wild with delight over its hero Prince. He
entered Holyrood with the white rose in his bonnet and the star of St.
Andrew on his breast, through enthusiastic crowds that fought eagerly
for a nearer sight of his face or the privilege of touching his hand.
The young Prince looked his best; the hereditary melancholy which cast
its shadow over the faces of all the Stuarts was for the moment
dissipated. Flushed with easy triumph, popular applause, and growing
hope, the young Prince entered the palace of his ancestors like a king
returning to his own. James Hepburn, of Keith, with drawn sword, led the
way; beautiful women distributed white cockades to enraptured Jacobites;
the stateliest chivalry of Scotland made obeisance to its rightful
Prince. The intoxicating day ended with a great ball at the palace, at
which the youthful grace of Charles Stuart confirmed the charm that
already belonged to the adventurous and victorious Prince of Wales.
September 17, 1745, was one of the brightest days in the Stuart
calendar.

The conquest of Edinburgh was but the prelude to greater glories. Cope
was rallying his forces at Dunbar--was marching to the relief of
Edinburgh. Charles, acting on the advice of his generals, marched out to
meet him. Cope's capacity for blundering was by no means exhausted. He
affected a contemptuous disregard for his foes, delayed attack in
defiance of his wisest generals, was taken unawares in the gray morning
of the 21st, at Prestonpans, and routed completely and ignominiously in
five minutes.

Seldom has it been the misfortune of an English general to experience so
thorough, so humiliating a defeat. The wild charges of the Highlandmen
broke up the ordered ranks of the English troops in hopeless confusion;
almost all the infantry was cut to pieces, and the cavalry escaped only
by desperate flight. Cope's Dragoons were accustomed to flight by this
time; the clatter of their horses' hoofs as they cantered from Coltbrigg
was still in their ears, and as they once again tore in shameless flight
up the Edinburgh High Street they might well have reflected upon the
rapidity with which such experiences repeated themselves. General
Preston, of the castle, refused to admit the cowards within his gate, so
there was nothing for them but to turn their horses' heads again, and
spur off into the west country. As for Cope, he managed to collect some
ragged remnant of his ruined army about him, and to make off with all
speed to Berwick, where he was received by Lord Mark Ker with the
scornful assurance that he was the first commander-in-chief in Europe
who had brought with him the news of his own defeat.

The victorious Highlanders were unable, if they had wished, to follow up
the flight, owing to their lack of cavalry. They remained on the field
to ascertain their own losses and to count their spoil. The losses were
trifling, the gain was great. Only thirty Highlanders were killed, only
seventy wounded, in that astonishing battle. As for the gain, not merely
were the honorable trophies of victory, the colors and the standards,
left in Highland hands, but the artillery and the supplies, with some
two thousand pounds in money, offered the Prince's troops a solid reward
for their daring. It is to the credit of Charles that after the fury of
attack was over he insisted upon the wounded enemy and the prisoners
being treated with all humanity. An incident is told of him which brings
into relief the better qualities of his race. One of his officers,
pointing to the ghastly field all strewn with dead bodies, with severed
limbs and mutilated trunks, said to the Prince, "Sir, behold your
enemies at your feet." The Prince sighed. "They are my father's
subjects," he said sadly, as he turned away.

The battle of Prestonpans is enshrined in Jacobite memories as the
battle of Gladsmuir, for a reason very characteristic of the Stuarts and
their followers. Some queer old book of prophecies had foretold, more
than a century earlier, that there should be a battle at Gladsmuir. The
battle of Prestonpans was not fought really on Gladsmuir at all.
Gladsmuir lies a good mile away from the scene of Charles' easy triumph
and Cope's inglorious rout; but for enthusiastic Jacobite purposes it
was near enough to seem an absolute fulfilment of the venerable
prediction. A battle was to be fought at Gladsmuir; go to, then--a
battle _was_ fought at Gladsmuir, or _near_ Gladsmuir, which is very
much the same thing: anyhow, not very far away from Gladsmuir. And so
the Jacobites were contented, and more than ever convinced of the
advantages of prophecy in the affairs of practical politics.

Some busy days were passed in Edinburgh in which councils of war
alternated with semiregal entertainments, and in which the Prince
employed his ready command of language in paying graceful compliments to
the pretty women who wore the white cockade, and in issuing
proclamations in which the Union was dissolved and religious liberty
promised. One thing the young Prince could not be induced to do: none of
the arguments of his counsellors could prevail upon him to threaten
severe measures against the prisoners fallen into his hands. It was
urged that unless the government treated their prisoners as prisoners of
war and not as rebels, the Prince would be well advised to retaliate by
equal harshness to the captives in his power. But on this point the
Prince was obdurate. He would not take in cold blood the lives that he
had saved in the heat of action.

Then, and all through this meteoric campaign, the conduct of Charles was
characterized by a sincere humanity, which stands out in startling
contrast with the cruelties practised later by his enemy, the "Butcher
of Cumberland." It prevented the Prince from gaining an important
military advantage by the reduction of Edinburgh castle. He attempted
the reduction of the castle by cutting off its supplies, but, when the
general in command threatened to open fire upon the town in consequence,
Charles immediately rescinded the order, although his officers urged
that the destruction of a few houses, and even the loss of a few lives,
was, in a military sense, of scant importance in comparison with the
capture of so valuable a stronghold as Edinburgh castle. The Prince held
firmly to his resolve, and Edinburgh castle remained to the end in the
hands of the royal troops. Charles displayed a great objection, too, to
any plundering or lawless behavior on the part of his wild Highland
army. We learn from the Bland Burges papers that when the house of Lord
Somerville, who was opposed to the Prince, was molested by a party of
Highlanders, the Prince, on hearing of it, sent an apology to Lord
Somerville, and an officer's guard to protect him from further
annoyance.

But time was running on, and it was necessary to take action again.
England was waking up to a sense of its peril. Armies were gathering.
The King had come back from Hanover, the troops were almost all recalled
from Flanders. It was time to make a fresh stroke. Charles resolved upon
the bold course of striking south at once for England, and early in
November he marched. He set off on the famous march south. In this
undertaking, as before, the same extraordinary good-fortune attended
upon the Stuart arms. His little army of less than six thousand men
reached Carlisle, reached Manchester, without opposition. On December
4th he was at Derby, only one hundred twenty-seven miles from London.
Once again, by skill or by good-fortune, he had contrived to slip past
the English general sent out to bar his way. Cumberland with his forces
was at Stafford, nine miles farther from the capital than the young
Prince, who was now only six days from the city, with all his hopes and
his ambitions ahead of him, and behind him the hostile army of the
general he had eluded.

Never, perhaps, in the history of warfare did an invader come so near
the goal of his success and throw it so wantonly away; for that is what
Charles did. With all that he had come for apparently within his reach,
he did not reach out to take it; the crown of England was in the hollow
of his hand, and he opened his hand and let the prize fall from it. It
is difficult to understand now what curious madness prompted the
Prince's advisers to counsel him as they did, or the Prince to act upon
their counsels. He was in the heart of England; he was hard by the
capital, which he would have to reach if he was ever to mount the throne
of his fathers. He had a devoted army with him--it would seem as if he
had only to advance and to win--and yet, with a fatuity which makes the
student of history gasp, he actually resolved to retreat, and did
retreat.

It is true, and must not be forgotten, that Charles did not know, and
could not know, all his advantages; that many of the most urgent
arguments for advance could not present themselves to his mind. He could
not know the panic in which Hanoverian London was cast; he could not
know that desperate thoughts of joining the Stuart cause were crossing
the craven mind of the Duke of Newcastle; he could not know that the
frightened _bourgeoisie_ were making a maddened rush upon the Bank of
England; he could not know that the King of England had stored all his
most precious possessions on board of yachts that waited for him at the
Tower stairs, ready at a moment's notice to carry him off again into the
decent obscurity of the electorship of Hanover. He could not know the
exultation of the metropolitan Jacobites; he could not know the
perturbation of the Hanoverian side; he could not know the curious
apathy with which a large proportion of the people regarded the whole
proceeding, people who were as willing to accept one king as another,
and who would have witnessed with absolute unconcern "George the
Elector" scuttling away from the Tower stairs at one end of the town,
while "Charles the Prince" entered it from another. These factors in his
favor he did not know, could not know, could hardly be expected even to
guess.

But what he could know, what he did know, was this: he was at the head
of a devoted army, which if it was small had hitherto found its career
marked by triumph after triumph. He was in the heart of England, and had
already found that the Stuart war-cry was powerful enough to rally many
an English gentleman to his standard. Sir Walter Williams Wynn, whom men
called the "King of Wales," was on his way to join the Prince of Wales.
So was Lord Barrymore, the member of Parliament; so was many another
gallant gentleman of name, of position, of wealth. Manchester had given
him the heroic, the ill-fated, James Dawson, and a regiment three
hundred strong. Lord James Drummond had landed at Montrose with men,
money, and supplies. The Young Chevalier's troops were eager to advance;
they were flushed with victories, their hearts were high; they believed,
in the wild Gaelic way, in the sanctity of their cause; they believed
that the Lord of Hosts was on their side, and such a belief strengthened
their hands.

For a prince seeking his principality it would seem that there was one
course, and one only, to pursue. He might go and take it, and win the
great game he played for; or, failing that, he might die as became a
royal gentleman, sword in hand and fighting for his rights. The
might-have-beens are indeed for the most part a vanity, but we can
fairly venture to assert now that if Charles had pushed on he would, for
the time at least, have restored the throne of England to the house of
Stuart. We may doubt, and doubt with reason, whether any fortuitous
succession of events could have confirmed the Stuart hold upon the
English crown; but we can scarcely doubt that the hold would have been
for the time established, that the Old Pretender would have been King
James III, and that George the Elector would have been posting, bag and
baggage, to the rococo shades of Herrenhausen. But, as we have said,
failing that, if Charles had fallen in battle at the head of his
defeated army, how much better that end would have been than the
miserable career which was yet to lend no tragic dignity to the
prolonged, pitiful, pitiable life of the Young Pretender!

However, for good or evil, the insane decision was made. Charles'
council of war persistently argued for retreat. There were thirty
thousand men in the field against them. If they were defeated they would
be cut to pieces, and the Prince, if he escaped slaughter, would escape
it only to die as a rebel on Tower Hill, whereas, if they were once back
in Scotland, they would find new friends, new adherents, and even if
they failed to win the English crown, might at least count, with
reasonable security, upon converting Scotland, as of old, into a
separate kingdom with a Stuart king on its throne. By arguments such as
these the Prince's officers caused him to throw away the one chance he
had of gaining all that he had crossed the seas to gain.

It is only fair to remember that the young Prince himself was from the
first to last in favor of the braver course of boldly advancing upon
London. When his too prudent counsellors told him that if he advanced he
would be in Newgate in a fortnight, he still persisted in pressing his
own advice. Perhaps he thought that where the stake was so great, and
the chance of success not too forbidding, failure might as well end in
Newgate as in the purlieus of petty foreign courts. But, with the
exception of his Irish officers, he had nobody on his side. The Duke of
Perth and Sir John Gordon had a little plan of their own. They thought
that a march into Wales would be a good middle course to adopt, but
their suggestion found no backers. All Charles' other counsellors were
to a man in favor of retreat, and Charles, after at first threatening to
regard as traitors all who urged such a course, at last gave way.
Sullenly he issued the disastrous order to retreat, sullenly he rode in
the rear of that retreat, assuming the bearing of a man who is no longer
responsible for failure. The cheery good-humor, the bright heroism,
which had so far characterized him he had now completely lost, and he
rode, a dejected, a despairing, almost a doomed man, among his
disheartened followers. It is dreary reading the record of that
retreat; yet it is starred by some bright episodes. At Clifton there was
an engagement where the retreating Highlanders held their own, and
inflicted a distinct defeat upon Cumberland's army. Again, when they
were once more upon Scottish soil, they struck a damaging blow at
Hawley's army at Falkirk. But the end came at last on the day when the
dwindling, discouraged, retreating army tried its strength with
Cumberland at Culloden.

Men of the Cumberland type are to be found in all ages and in history of
all nations. Men in whom the beast is barely under the formal restraint
of ordered society, men in whom a savage sensuality is accompanied by a
savage cruelty, men who take a hideous physical delight in bloodshed,
darken the pages of all chronicles. It would be unjust to the memory of
Cumberland to say that in his own peculiar line he had many, if any,
superiors; that many men are more worthy of the fame which he won. To be
remembered with a just loathing as a man by whom brutalities of all
kinds were displayed, almost to the point of madness, is not the kind of
memory most men desire; it is probably not the kind of memory that even
Cumberland himself desired to leave behind him. But if he had cherished
the ambition of handing down his name to other times, "linked with one
virtue and a thousand crimes"; if he had deliberately proposed to force
himself upon the attention of posterity as a mere abominable monster, he
could hardly have acted with more persistent determination toward such a
purpose. In Scotland, for long years after he was dead and dust, the
mention of his name was like a curse; and even in England, where the
debt due to his courage counted for much, no one has been found to
palliate his conduct or to whitewash his infamy. As "Butcher" Cumberland
he was known while he lived; as Butcher Cumberland he will be remembered
so long as men remember the "Forty-five" and the horrors after Culloden
fight. Some of those horrors no doubt were due to the wild fury of
revenge that always follows a wild fear. The invasion of the young
Stuart had struck terror; the revenge for that terror was bloodily
taken.

Everything contributed to make Culloden fatal to the fortunes of the
Pretender. The discouragement of some of the clans, the disaffection of
others, the wholesale desertions which had thinned the ranks of the
rebel army, the Prince's sullen distrust of his advisers, the position
of the battle-field, the bitter wintry weather, which drove a blinding
hail and snow into the eyes of the Highlanders--all these were so many
elements of danger that would have seriously handicapped a better
conditioned army than that which Charles Stuart was able to oppose to
Cumberland. But the Prince's army was not well conditioned: it was
demoralized by retreat, hungry, ragged, dizzy with lack of sleep. Even
the terrors of the desperate Highland attack were no longer so terrible
to the English troops. Cumberland had taught his men, in order to
counteract the defence which the target offered to the bodies of the
Highlanders, to thrust with their bayonets in a slanting direction--not
against the man immediately opposite to its point, but at the unguarded
right side of the man attacking their comrade on the right.

After enduring for some time the terrible cannonade of the English, the
battle began when the Macintoshes charged with all their old desperate
valor upon the English. But the English were better prepared than
before, and met the onslaught with such a volley as shattered the
Highland attack and literally matted the ground with Highland bodies.
Then the royal troops advanced, and drove the rebels in helpless rout
before them. The fortunes of the fight might have gone very differently
if all the Highlanders had been as true to their cause as those who
formed this attacking right wing. "English gold and Scotch traitors,"
says an old ballad of another fight, "won," "but no Englishman." To no
English gold can the defeat of Culloden be attributed, but unhappily
Scotch treason played its part in the disaster.

The Macdonalds had been placed at the left wing of battle instead of at
the right, which they considered to be their proper place. Furious at
what they believed to be an insult, they took no part whatever in the
fight after they had discharged a single volley, but stood and looked on
in sullen apathy while the left wing and centre of the Prince's army
were being whirled into space by the Royalist advance. The Duke of Perth
appealed desperately and in vain to their hearts, reminded them of their
old-time valor, and offered, if they would only follow his cry of
"Claymore," to change his name and be henceforward called Macdonald. In
vain Keppoch rushed forward almost alone, and met his death, moaning
that the children of his tribe had deserted him. There are few things in
history more tragic than the picture of that inert mass of moody
Highlanders, frozen into traitors through an insane pride and savage
jealousy, witnessing the ruin of their cause and the slaughter of their
comrades unmoved, and listening impassively to the entreaties of the
gallant Perth and the death groans of the heroic Keppoch. In a few
minutes the battle was over, the rout was complete; the rebel army was
in full retreat, with a third of its number lying on the field of
battle; the Duke of Cumberland was master of the field, of all the
Highland baggage and artillery, of fourteen stands, and more than two
thousand muskets. Culloden was fought and won.

It is not necessary to believe the stories that have been told of
Charles Stuart, attributing to him personal cowardice on the fatal day
of Culloden. The evidence in favor of such stories is of the slightest;
there is nothing in the Prince's earlier conduct to justify the
accusation, and there is sufficient evidence in favor of the much more
likely version, that Charles was with difficulty prevented from casting
away his life in one desperate charge when the fortune of the day was
decided. It is part of a prince's business to be brave, and if Charles
Stuart had been lacking in that essential quality of sovereignty he
could scarcely have concealed the want until the day of Culloden, or
have inspired the clans with the personal enthusiasm which they so
readily evinced for him. Through all those stormy and terrible days,
over which poetry and romance have so often and so fondly lingered, the
fugitive found that he had still in the season of his misfortunes
friends as devoted as he had known in the hours of his triumph. His
adventures in woman's dress, his escape from the English ship, the
touching devotion of Flora Macdonald, the loyalty of Lochiel, the
fidelity of Cluny Macpherson--all these things have been immortalized in
a thousand tales and ballads, and will be remembered in the North
Country as long as tales and ballads continue to charm. At last, at
Lochnanuagh, the Prince embarked upon a French ship that had been sent
for him, and early in October, 1746, he landed in Brittany.

FOOTNOTES:

[30] Sir John Cope, commander-in-chief of King George's forces.

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN EXPERIMENTS WITH ELECTRICITY

A.D. 1747

JOHN BIGELOW AND BENJAMIN FRANKLIN

It was not only by his demonstration that lightning is identical
with electricity that Franklin did an important work in connection
with electrical science. He is also entitled to great credit for the
stimulus imparted by his experiments and writings to further
discoveries in this field. Franklin was by far the most practical
among the natural philosophers of his time; and the development of
science in the knowledge and application of electricity has
continued to reflect upon mankind his genius for the useful.

The ancients had no scientific acquaintance with electricity. The
early Greeks, so far as known, observed but a single phenomenon in
connection with it--the electrification of amber by friction.
Aristotle and Pliny note the production of electricity by certain
fishes, especially the torpedo, a ray possessing an electrical
apparatus with which it kills or stuns its prey and defends itself
against its enemies. Not before the sixteenth century of the
Christian era was there any recorded scientific study of electrical
phenomena. The early predecessors of Franklin, such as Gilbert,
Boyle, and others, are considered to have created the science of
electricity and magnetism. The invention of the Leyden jar or vial,
in 1745, said to have been "hit upon by at least three persons
working independently," was a very important advance.

The work of Franklin, following so soon upon the then latest step of
progress in Europe, is best made known to the world through his own
writings, particularly in the letters, selected by Bigelow, which
appear in the present account of the philosopher's experiments.

While on a visit to Boston in 1746 Franklin witnessed some electrical
experiments performed by a Mr. Spence, recently arrived from Scotland.
Shortly after his return to Philadelphia the Library Company received
from Mr. Collinson, of London, and a member of the Royal Society, a
glass tube, with instructions for making experiments with it. With this
tube Franklin began a course of experiments which resulted in
discoveries which, humanly speaking, seem to be exerting a larger
material influence upon the industries of the world than any other
discovery of the human intellect. Dr. Stuber, then a resident of
Philadelphia, and author of the first continuation of Franklin's _Life_,
who seems to have enjoyed peculiar opportunities of obtaining full and
authentic information upon the subject, gives us the following account
of the observations which this letter brought for the first time to the
notice of the world through Mr. Collinson.

"His observations," says Dr. Stuber, "he communicated, in a series of
letters, to his friend Collinson, the first of which is dated March 28,
1747. In these he shows the power of points in drawing and throwing off
the electrical matter which had hitherto escaped the notice of
electricians. He also made the grand discovery of a plus and minus, or
of a positive and negative, state of electricity. We give him the honor
of this without hesitation; although the English have claimed it for
their countryman, Dr. Watson. Watson's paper is dated January 21, 1748;
Franklin's, July 11, 1747, several months prior. Shortly after Franklin,
from his principles of the plus and minus state, explained in a
satisfactory manner the phenomena of the Leyden vial, first observed by
Mr. Cuneus, or by Professor Muschenbroeck, of Leyden, which had much
perplexed philosophers. He showed clearly that when charged the bottle
contained no more electricity than before, but that as much was taken
from one side as was thrown on the other; and that to discharge it
nothing was necessary but to produce a communication between the two
sides, by which the equilibrium might be restored, and that then no sign
of electricity would remain. He afterward demonstrated by experiments
that the electricity did not reside in the coating, as had been
supposed, but in the pores of the glass itself. After a vial was charged
he removed the coating, and found that upon applying a new coating the
shock might still be received. In the year 1749 he first suggested his
idea of explaining the phenomena of thunder-gusts and of the aurora
borealis upon electrical principles. He points out many particulars in
which lightning and electricity agree, and he adduces many facts, and
reasonings from facts, in support of his positions.

"In the same year he received the astonishingly bold and grand idea of
ascertaining the truth of his doctrine by actually drawing down the
lightning, by means of sharp-pointed iron rods raised into the region
of the clouds. Even in this uncertain state his passion to be useful to
mankind displayed itself in a powerful manner. Admitting the identity of
electricity and lightning, and knowing the power of points in repelling
bodies charged with electricity, and in conducting their fires silently
and imperceptibly, he suggested the idea of securing houses, ships,
etc., from being damaged by lightning, by erecting pointed rods that
should rise some feet above the most elevated part, and descend some
feet into the ground or water. The effect of these he concluded would be
either to prevent a stroke by repelling the cloud beyond the striking
distance, or by drawing off the electrical fire which it contained; or,
if they could not effect this, they would at least conduct the electric
matter to the earth without any injury to the building.

"It was not till the summer of 1752 that he was enabled to complete his
grand and unparalleled discovery by experiment. The plan which he had
originally proposed was to erect, on some high tower or other elevated
place, a sentry-box, from which should rise a pointed iron rod,
insulated by being fixed in a cake of resin. Electrified clouds passing
over this would, he conceived, impart to it a portion of their
electricity, which would be rendered evident to the senses by sparks
being emitted when a key, the knuckle, or other conductor was presented
to it. Philadelphia at this time afforded no opportunity of trying an
experiment of this kind. While Franklin was waiting for the erection of
a spire, it occurred to him that he might have more ready access to the
region of clouds by means of a common kite. He prepared one by fastening
two cross sticks to a silken handkerchief, which would not suffer so
much from the rain as paper. To the upright stick was affixed an iron
point. The string was, as usual, of hemp, except the lower end, which
was silk. Where the hempen string terminated, a key was fastened. With
this apparatus, on the appearance of a thunder-gust approaching he went
out into the commons, accompanied by his son, to whom alone he
communicated his intentions, well knowing the ridicule which, too
generally for the interest of science, awaits unsuccessful experiments
in philosophy. He placed himself under a shed, to avoid the rain; his
kite was raised, a thunder-cloud passed over it, no sign of electricity
appeared. He almost despaired of success, when suddenly he observed the
loose fibres of his string to move toward an erect position. He now
presented his knuckle to the key and received a strong spark. How
exquisite must his sensations have been at this moment! On this
experiment depended the fate of his theory. If he succeeded, his name
would rank high among those who had improved science; if he failed, he
must inevitably be subjected to the derision of mankind, or, what is
worse, their pity, as a well-meaning man, but a weak, silly projector.
The anxiety with which he looked for the result of his experiment may be
easily conceived. Doubts and despair had begun to prevail, when the fact
was ascertained, in so clear a manner that even the most incredulous
could no longer withhold their assent. Repeated sparks were drawn from
the key, a vial was charged, a shock given, and all the experiments made
which are usually performed with electricity.

"About a month before this period some ingenious Frenchman had completed
the discovery in the manner originally proposed by Dr. Franklin. The
letters which he sent to Mr. Collinson, it is said, were refused a place
in the _Transactions_ of the Royal Society of London. However this may
be, Collinson published them in a separate volume, under the title of
_New Experiments and Observations on Electricity, made at Philadelphia,
in America_. They were read with avidity, and soon translated into
different languages. A very incorrect French translation fell into the
hands of the celebrated Buffon, who, notwithstanding the disadvantages
under which the work labored, was much pleased with it, and repeated the
experiments with success. He prevailed on his friend, M. Dalibard, to
give his countrymen a more correct translation of the works of the
American electrician. This contributed much toward spreading a knowledge
of Franklin's principles in France. The King, Louis XV, hearing of these
experiments, expressed a wish to be a spectator of them. A course of
experiments was given at the seat of the Duc d'Ayen, at St. Germain, by
M. de Lor. The applause which the King bestowed upon Franklin excited in
Buffon, Dalibard, and De Lor an earnest desire of ascertaining the truth
of his theory of thunder-gusts. Buffon erected his apparatus on the
tower of Montbar, M. Dalibard at Marly-la-Ville, and De Lor at his house
in the Estrapade at Paris, some of the highest ground in that capital.
Dalibard's machine first showed signs of electricity. On May 16, 1752, a
thunder-cloud passed over it, in the absence of M. Dalibard, and a
number of sparks were drawn from it by Coiffier, joiner, with whom
Dalibard had left directions how to proceed, and by M. Paulet, the prior
of Marly-la-Ville.

"An account of this experiment was given to the Royal Academy of
Sciences, by M. Dalibard, in a memoir dated May 13, 1752. On May 18th,
M. de Lor proved equally as successful with the apparatus erected at his
own house. These philosophers soon excited those of other parts of
Europe to repeat the experiment; among whom none signalized themselves
more than Father Beccaria, of Turin, to whose observations science is
much indebted. Even the cold regions of Russia were penetrated by the
ardor for discovery. Professor Richmann bade fair to add much to the
stock of knowledge on this subject, when an unfortunate flash from his
conductor put a period to his existence.

"By these experiments Franklin's theory was established in the most
convincing manner.

"Besides these great principles Franklin's letters on electricity
contain a number of facts and hints which have contributed greatly
toward reducing this branch of knowledge to a science. His friend, Mr.
Kinnersley, communicated to him a discovery of the different kinds of
electricity excited by rubbing glass and sulphur. This was first
observed by M. du Faye, but it was for many years neglected. The
philosophers were disposed to account for the phenomena rather from a
difference in the quantity of electricity collected, and even Du Faye
himself seems to have at last adopted this doctrine. Franklin at first
entertained the same idea, but upon repeating the experiments he
perceived that Mr. Kinnersley was right, and that the _vitreous_ and
_resinous_ electricity of Du Faye were nothing more than the _positive_
and _negative_ states, which he had before observed, and that the glass
globe charged positively, or increased, the quantity of electricity on
the prime conductor, while the globe of sulphur diminished its natural
quantity, or charged negatively. These experiments and observations
opened a new field for investigation, upon which electricians entered
with avidity; and their labors have added much to the stock of our
knowledge.

"Franklin's letters have been translated into most of the European
languages, and into Latin. In proportion as they have become known, his
principles have been adopted."

In speaking of the first publication of his papers on electricity,
Franklin himself says: "Obliged as we were to Mr. Collinson for the
present of the tube, etc., I thought it right he should be informed of
our success in using it, and wrote him several letters containing
accounts of our experiments. He got them read in the Royal Society,
where they were at first not thought worth so much notice as to be
printed in their _Transactions_. One paper, which I wrote to Mr.
Kinnersley, on the sameness of lightning with electricity, I sent to Mr.
Mitchel, an acquaintance of mine, and one of the members also of that
society, who wrote me word that it had been read, but was laughed at by
the connoisseurs. The papers, however, being shown to Dr. Fothergill, he
thought them of too much value to be stifled, and advised the printing
of them. Mr. Collinson then gave them to Cave for publication in his
_Gentleman's Magazine_, but he chose to print them separately in a
pamphlet, and Dr. Fothergill wrote the preface. Cave, it seemed, judged
rightly for his profession, for by the additions that arrived afterward
they swelled to a quarto volume, which has had five editions and cost
him nothing for copy-money."

The following is an extract from the preface to the first edition of the
pamphlet published by Cave, as above mentioned:

"It may be necessary to acquaint the reader that the following
observations and experiments were not drawn up with the view to their
being made public, but were communicated at different times, and most of
them in letters, written on various topics, as matter only of private
amusement.

"But some persons to whom they were read, and who had themselves been
conversant in electrical disquisitions, were of opinion they contained
so many curious and interesting particulars relative to this affair,
that it would be doing a kind of injustice to the public to confine them
solely to the limits of a private acquaintance.

"The editor was therefore prevailed upon to commit such extracts of
letters and other detached pieces as were in his hands to the press,
without waiting for the ingenious author's permission so to do; and this
was done with the less hesitation, as it was apprehended the author's
engagements in other affairs would scarce afford him leisure to give
the public his reflections and experiments on the subject, finished with
that care and precision of which the treatise before us shows he is
alike studious and capable."

Dr. Priestley, in his _History of Electricity_, published in the year
1767, gives a full account of Franklin's experiments and discoveries.

"Nothing was ever written upon the subject of electricity," he says,
"which was more generally read and admired in all parts of Europe than
these letters. There is hardly any European language into which they
have not been translated; and, as if this were not sufficient to make
them properly known, a translation of them has lately been made into
Latin. It is not easy to say whether we are most pleased with the
simplicity and perspicuity with which these letters are written, the
modesty with which the author proposes every hypothesis of his own, or
the noble frankness with which he relates his mistakes, when they were
corrected by subsequent experiments.

"Though the English have not been backward in acknowledging the great
merit of this philosopher, he has had the singular good-fortune to be,
perhaps, even more celebrated abroad than at home; so that, to form a
just idea of the great and deserved reputation of Dr. Franklin, we must
read the foreign publications on the subject of electricity, in many of
which the terms Franklinism,' 'Franklinist,' and the 'Franklinian
System' occur in almost every page. In consequence of this, Dr.
Franklin's principles bid fair to be handed down to posterity as equally
expressive of the true principles of electricity, as the Newtonian
philosophy is of the system of nature in general."

The observations and theories of Franklin met with high favor in France,
where his experiments were repeated and the results verified to the
admiration of the scientific world. In the year 1753 his friend Peter
Collinson wrote to him from London: "The King of France strictly
commands the Abbé Mazéas to write a letter in the politest terms to the
Royal Society, to return the King's thanks and compliments, in an
express manner, to Mr. Franklin, of Pennsylvania, for his useful
discoveries in electricity, and the application of pointed rods to
prevent the terrible effect of thunder-storms." And the same Mr.
Collinson wrote as follows to the Reverend Jared Eliot, of Connecticut,
in a letter dated London, November 22, 1753: "Our friend Franklin will
be honored on St. Andrew's Day, the 30th instant, the anniversary of the
Royal Society, when the Right Honorable the Earl of Macclesfield will
make an oration on Mr. Franklin's new discoveries in electricity, and,
as a reward and encouragement, will bestow on him a gold medal." This
ceremony accordingly took place, and the medal was conferred.

"PHILADELPHIA, 28 Mch., 1747.
"_To Peter Collinson_:

"SIR--Your kind present of an electric tube, with directions for
using it, has put several of us on making electrical experiments, in
which we have observed some particular phenomena that we look upon
to be new. I shall therefore communicate them to you in my next,
though possibly they may not be new to you, as among the numbers
daily employed in those experiments on your side of the water, it is
probable some one or other has hit upon the same observations. For
my own part, I never was before engaged in any study that so totally
engrossed my attention and my time as this has lately done; for what
with making experiments when I can be alone, and repeating them to
my friends and acquaintance, who, from the novelty of the thing,
come continually in crowds to see them, I have, during some months
past, had little leisure for anything else.

I am, etc.,
"B. FRANKLIN."

"PHILADELPHIA, 11 July, 1747.
"_To Peter Collinson_:

"SIR--In my last I informed you that in pursuing our electrical
inquiries we had observed some particular phenomena which we looked
upon to be new, and of which I promised to give you some account,
though I apprehended they might not possibly be new to you, as so
many hands are daily employed in electrical experiments on your side
of the water, some or other of which would probably hit on the same
observations.

"The first thing is the wonderful effect of pointed bodies, both in
_drawing off_ and _throwing off_ the electrical fire. For example:

"Place an iron shot of three or four inches diameter on the mouth
of a clean, dry glass bottle. By a fine silken thread from the
ceiling, right over the mouth of the bottle, suspend a small cork
ball about the bigness of a marble, the thread of such a length as
that the cork ball may rest against the side of the shot. Electrify
the shot, and the ball will be repelled to the distance of four or
five inches, more or less, according to the quantity of electricity.
When in this state, if you present to the shot the point of a long,
slender, sharp bodkin, at six or eight inches distance, the
repellency is instantly destroyed, and the cork flies to the shot. A
blunt body must be brought within an inch and draw a spark to
produce the same effect. To prove that the electrical fire is drawn
off by the point, if you take the blade of the bodkin out of the
wooden handle and fix it in a stick of sealing-wax, and then present
it at the distance aforesaid, or if you bring it very near, no such
effect follows; but sliding one finger along the wax till you touch
the blade, the ball flies to the shot immediately. If you present
the point in the dark you will see, sometimes at a foot distance and
more, a light gather upon it, like that of a firefly or glow-worm;
the less sharp the point, the nearer you must bring it to observe
the light; and at whatever distance you see the light you may draw
off the electrical fire and destroy the repellency. If a cork ball
so suspended be repelled by the tube, and a point be presented quick
to it, though at a considerable distance, it is surprising to see
how suddenly it flies back to the tube. Points of wood will do near
as well as those of iron, provided the wood is not dry, for
perfectly dry wood will no more conduct electricity than
sealing-wax.

"To show that points will _throw off_ as well as _draw off_ the
electrical fire, lay a long sharp needle upon the shot, and you
cannot electrize the shot so as to make it repel the cork ball. Or
fix a needle to the end of a suspended gun-barrel or iron rod so as
to point beyond it like a little bayonet, and while it remains there
the gun-barrel or rod cannot, by applying the tube to the other end,
be electrized so as to give a spark, the fire continually running
out silently at the point. In the dark you may see it make the same
appearance as it does in the case before mentioned.

"The repellency between the cork ball and the shot is likewise
destroyed, 1st, by sifting fine sand on it--this does it gradually;
2dly, by breathing on it; 3dly, by making a smoke about it from
burning wood; 4thly, by candle-light, even though the candle is at a
foot distance--these do it suddenly. The light of a bright coal from
a wood fire, and the light of a red-hot iron, do it likewise, but
not at so great a distance. Smoke from dry rosin dropped on hot iron
does not destroy the repellency, but is attracted by both shot and
cork ball, forming proportionable atmospheres round them, making
them look beautifully, somewhat like some of the figures in Burnet's
or Whiston's _Theory of the Earth_.

"N.B.--This experiment should be made in a closet where the air is
very still, or it will be apt to fail.

"The light of the sun thrown strongly upon both cork and shot by a
looking-glass, for a long time together, does not impair the
repellency in the least. This difference between firelight and
sunlight is another thing that seems new and extraordinary to us.

"We had for some time been of opinion that the electrical fire was
not created by friction, but collected, being really an element
diffused among and attracted by other matter, particularly by water
and metals. We had even discovered and demonstrated its afflux to
the electrical sphere, as well as its efflux, by means of little,
light windmill wheels made of stiff paper vanes fixed obliquely, and
turning freely on fine wire axes; also by little wheels of the same
matter, but formed like water-wheels. Of the disposition and
application of which wheels, and the various phenomena resulting, I
could, if I had time, fill you a sheet. The impossibility of
electrizing one's self, though standing on wax, by rubbing the tube,
and drawing the fire from it; and the manner of doing it by passing
it near a person or thing standing on the floor, etc., had also
occurred to us some months before. Mr. Watson's ingenious _Sequel_
came to hand; and these were some of the new things I intended to
have communicated to you. But now I need only mention some
particulars not hinted in that piece, with our reasonings thereupon;
though perhaps the latter might well enough be spared.

"1. A person standing on wax and rubbing the tube, and another
person on wax drawing the fire, they will both of them (provided
they do not stand so as to touch one another) appear to be
electrized to a person standing on the floor; that is, he will
perceive a spark on approaching each of them with his knuckle.

"2. But if the persons on wax touch one another during the exciting
of the tube, neither of them will appear to be electrized.

"3. If they touch one another after exciting the tube, and drawing
the fire as aforesaid, there will be a stronger spark between them
than was between either of them and the person on the floor.

"4. After such strong spark neither of them discover any
electricity.

"These appearances we attempt to account for thus: We suppose, as
aforesaid, that electrical fire is a common element, of which every
one of the three persons above mentioned has his equal share, before
any operation is begun with the tube. _A_, who stands on wax and
rubs the tube, collects the electrical fire from himself into the
glass; and, his communication with the common stock being cut off by
the wax, his body is not again immediately supplied. _B_ (who stands
on wax likewise), passing his knuckle along near the tube, receives
the fire which was collected by the glass from _A_; and his
communication with the common stock being likewise cut off, he
retains the additional quantity received. To _C_, standing on the
floor, both appear to be electrized; for he, having only the middle
quantity of electrical fire, receives a spark upon approaching _B_,
who has an over quantity; but gives one to _A_, who has an under
quantity. If _A_ and _B_ approach to touch each other, the spark is
stronger, because the difference between them is greater. After such
touch there is no spark between either of them and _C_, because the
electrical fire in all is reduced to the original equality. If they
touch while electrizing, the equality is never destroyed, the fire
only circulating. Hence have arisen some new terms among us. We say
_B_ (and bodies like circumstanced) is electrized _positively_; _A_,
_negatively_. Or rather, _B_ is electrized _plus_; _A_, _minus_. And
we daily in our experiments electrize bodies _plus_ or _minus_, as we
think proper. To electrize _plus_ or _minus_ no more needs to be
known than this: that the parts of the tube or sphere that are
rubbed do, in the instant of the friction, attract the electrical
fire, and therefore take it from the thing rubbing; the same parts
immediately, as the friction upon them ceases, are disposed to give
the fire they have received to any body that has less. Thus you may
circulate it as Mr. Watson has shown; you may also accumulate it or
subtract it, upon or from any body, as you connect that body with
the rubber or with the receiver, the communication with the common
stock being cut off. We think that ingenious gentleman was deceived
when he imagined (in his _Sequel_) that the electrical fire came
down the wire from the ceiling to the gun-barrel, thence to the
sphere, and so electrized the machine and the man turning the wheel,
etc. We suppose it was _driven off_, and not brought on through that
wire; and that the machine and man, etc., were electrized
_minus_--that is, had less electrical fire in them than things in
common.

"As the vessel is just upon sailing, I cannot give you so large an
account of American electricity as I intended; I shall only mention
a few particulars more. We find granulated lead better to fill the
vial with than water, being easily warmed, and keeping warm and dry
in damp air. We fire spirits with the wire of the vial. We light
candles, just blown out, by drawing a spark among the smoke between
the wire and snuffers. We represent lightning by passing the wire in
the dark over a China plate that has gilt flowers, or applying it to
gilt frames of looking-glasses, etc. We electrize a person twenty or
more times running, with a touch of the finger on the wire, thus: He
stands on wax. Give him the electrized bottle in his hand. Touch the
wire with your finger and then touch his hand or face; there are
sparks every time. We increase the force of the electrical kiss
vastly, thus: Let _A_ and _B_ stand on wax, or _A_ on wax and _B_ on
the floor; give one of them the electrized vial in hand; let the
other take hold of the wire; there will be a small spark; but when
their lips approach they will be struck and shocked. The same if
another gentleman and lady, _C_ and _D_, standing also on wax, and
joining hands with _A_ and _B_, salute or shake hands. We suspend by
fine silk thread a counterfeit spider made of a small piece of burnt
cork, with legs of linen thread, and a grain or two of lead stuck in
him to give him more weight. Upon the table, over which he hangs, we
stick a wire upright, as high as the vial and wire, four or five
inches from the spider; then we animate him by setting the
electrical vial at the same distance on the other side of him; he
will immediately fly to the wire of the vial, bend his legs in
touching it, then spring off and fly to the wire of the vial,
playing with his legs against both, in a very entertaining manner,
appearing perfectly alive to the persons unacquainted. He will
continue this motion an hour or more in dry weather. We electrify,
upon wax in the dark, a book that has a double line of gold round
upon the covers, and then apply a knuckle to the gilding; the fire
appears everywhere upon the gold like a flash of lightning; not upon
the leather, nor if you touch the leather instead of the gold. We
rub our tubes with buckskin and observe always to keep the same side
to the tube and never to sully the tube by handling; thus they work
readily and easily without the least fatigue, especially if kept in
tight pasteboard cases lined with flannel, and sitting close to the
tube. This I mention because the European papers on electricity
frequently speak of rubbing the tubes as a fatiguing exercise. Our
spheres are fixed on iron axes which pass through them. At one end
of the axes there is a small handle with which you turn the sphere
like a common grindstone. This we find very commodious, as the
machine takes up but little room, is portable, and may be enclosed
in a tight box when not in use. It is true the sphere does not turn
so swift as when the great wheel is used; but swiftness we think of
little importance, since a few turns will charge the vial, etc.,
sufficiently.

I am, etc.,
"B. FRANKLIN."

(Read before the Royal Society, December 21, 1752.)

"PHILADELPHIA, 19 October, 1752.
"_To Peter Collinson_:

SIR--As frequent mention is made in publick papers from Europe of
the success of the Philadelphia Experiment for drawing the electric
fire from clouds by means of pointed rods of iron erected on high
buildings, etc., it may be agreeable to the curious to be informed
that the same experiment has succeeded in Philadelphia, though made
in a different and more easy manner, which is as follows: Make a
small cross of two light strips of cedar, the arms so long as to
reach to the four corners of a large thin silk handkerchief when
extended; tie the corners of the handkerchief to the extremities of
the cross, so you have the body of a kite; which, being properly
accommodated with a tail, loop, and string, will rise in the air,
like those made of paper; but this being of silk is fitter to bear
the wet and wind of a thunder-gust without tearing. To the top of
the upright stick of the cross is to be fixed a very sharp-pointed
wire, rising a foot or more above the wood. To the end of the twine,
next the hand, is to be tied a silk ribbon; and where the silk and
twine join, a key may be fastened. This kite is to be raised when a
thunder-gust appears to be coming on, and the person who holds the
string must stand within a door or window, or under some cover, so
that the silk ribbon may not be wet; and care must be taken that the
twine does not touch the frame of the door or window. As soon as any
of the thunder-clouds come over the kite, the pointed wire will draw
the electric fire from them, and the kite, with all the twine, will
be electrified, and the loose filaments of the twine will stand out
every way, and be attracted by an approaching finger. And when the
rain has wetted the kite and twine, so that it can conduct the
electric fire freely, you will find it stream out plentifully from
the key on the approach of your knuckle. At this key the vial may be
charged; and from electric fire thus obtained spirits may be
kindled, and all the other electric experiments be performed which
are usually done by the help of a rubbed glass globe or tube, and
thereby the sameness of the electric matter with that of lightning
completely demonstrated.

"B. FRANKLIN."

VOLTAIRE DIRECTS EUROPEAN THOUGHT FROM GENEVA

A.D. 1755

JOHN MORLEY GEORGE W. KITCHIN

To set an exact date as marking the culmination of the vast
influence of Voltaire upon the world is not easy. He was the chief
leader, the most prominent and central figure, of that widespread
intellectual revolt which extended from France over Europe during
the middle of the eighteenth century. The spirit of doubt,
questioning all ancient institutions, challenging them to prove
their truth, arose everywhere, at times mocking, bitter, and
superficial, or again earnest, thoughtful, deep as the deepest
springs of human being. It has become almost a commonplace to say
that Voltaire and his chief successor, Rousseau, caused the French
Revolution.

François Marie Arouet, who himself assumed his literary name,
Voltaire, was born in 1694. He was recognized as among the foremost
writers of France at least as early as 1723, and Frederick the Great
of Prussia established a friendship with him which resulted in
Voltaire's living at the Prussian court as king's chamberlain for
nearly three years (1750-1753). It was largely due to Voltaire's
influence that the celebrated French _Encyclopædia_, the first
volume of which appeared in 1751, took its tone of scepticism, of
cold, scientific criticism. It preached heresy and revolution. The
publication was repeatedly stopped by the government, but was
encouraged by Madame Pompadour and others, and finally finished in
1765.

Meanwhile Voltaire, who had been repeatedly exiled from the French
court for the daring of his writings, settled near Geneva in 1755
and resided there during his active and fiery old age. The beginning
of this residence has, therefore, been selected as marking the acme
of his power. From his mountain château his writings poured like a
torrent over the surrounding countries. Wherever there was
oppression, his voice was raised in protest; wherever there was
falsity, his rapier wit assailed it. He held correspondence with and
influenced most of the crowned heads of Europe. He became the hero
of his countrymen. Christianity, and especially Catholicism, served
only too often as his subjects of assault, but he was never, as his
enemies called him, an atheist.

In 1778, an old man of eighty-three, he ventured to return to Paris
to see the production of his last tragedy, _Irene_. Tremendous was
the enthusiasm. Paris, grown more Voltairean than Voltaire himself,
went mad in its reception of its teacher. The excitement proved too
much for his feeble frame, and he died in the full tide of his
triumph.

JOHN MORLEY

When the right sense of historical proportion is more fully developed in
men's minds, the name of Voltaire will stand out like the names of the
great decisive movements in the European advance, like the Revival of
Learning or the Reformation. The existence, character, and career of
this extraordinary person constituted in themselves a new and prodigious
era. The peculiarities of his individual genius changed the mind and
spiritual conformation of France, and in a less degree of the whole of
the West, with as far-spreading and invincible an effect as if the work
had been wholly done, as it was actually aided, by the sweep of
deep-lying collective forces. A new type of belief, and of its shadow,
disbelief, was stamped by the impression of his character and work into
the intelligence and feeling of his own and the following times. We may
think of Voltairism in France somewhat as we think of Catholicism or the
Renaissance or Calvinism. It was one of the cardinal liberations of the
growing race, one of the emphatic manifestations of some portion of the
minds of men, which an immediately foregoing system and creed had either
ignored or outraged.

Voltairism may stand for the name of the Renaissance of the eighteenth
century, for that name takes in all the serious haltings and
shortcomings of this strange movement, as well as all its terrible fire,
swiftness, sincerity, and strength. The rays from Voltaire's burning and
far-shining spirit no sooner struck upon the genius of the time, seated
dark and dead like the black stone of Memnon's statue, than the clang of
the breaking chord was heard through Europe, and men awoke in new day
and more spacious air. The sentimentalist has proclaimed him a mere
mocker. To the critic of the schools, ever ready with compendious label,
he is the revolutionary destructive. To each alike of the countless
orthodox sects his name is the symbol for the prevailing of the gates of
hell. Erudition figures him as shallow and a trifler; culture condemns
him for pushing his hatred of spiritual falsehood much too seriously;
Christian charity feels constrained to unmask a demon from the depths of
the pit. The plain men of the earth, who are apt to measure the merits
of a philosopher by the strength of his sympathy with existing sources
of comfort, would generally approve the saying of Dr. Johnson, that he
would sooner sign a sentence for Rousseau's transportation than that of
any felon who had gone from the Old Bailey these many years, and that
the difference between him and Voltaire was so slight that "it would be
difficult to settle the proportion of iniquity between them." Those of
all schools and professions who have the temperament which mistakes
strong expression for strong judgment, and violent phrase for grounded
conviction, have been stimulated by antipathy against Voltaire to a
degree that in any of them with latent turns for humor must now and then
have even stirred a kind of reacting sympathy. The rank vocabulary of
malice and hate, that noisome fringe of the history of opinion, has
received many of its most fulminant terms from critics of Voltaire,
along with some from Voltaire himself, who unwisely did not always
refuse to follow an adversary's bad example.

Yet Voltaire was the very eye of eighteenth-century illumination. It was
he who conveyed to his generation in a multitude of forms the
consciousness at once of the power and the rights of human intelligence.
Another might well have said of him what he magnanimously said of his
famous contemporary, Montesquieu, that humanity had lost its
title-deeds, and he had recovered them. The fourscore volumes which he
wrote are the monument, as they were in some sort the instrument, of a
new renaissance. They are the fruit and representation of a spirit of
encyclopædic curiosity and productiveness. Hardly a page of all these
countless leaves is common form. Hardly a sentence is there which did
not come forth alive from Voltaire's own mind or which was said because
someone else had said it before. His works as much as those of any man
that ever lived and thought are truly his own. It is not given, we all
know, even to the most original and daring of leaders, to be without
precursors, and Voltaire's march was prepared for him before he was
born, as it is for all mortals. Yet he impressed on all he said, on good
words and bad alike, a marked autochthonic quality, as of the
self-raised spontaneous products of some miraculous soil, from which
prodigies and portents spring. Many of his ideas were in the air, and
did not belong to him peculiarly; but so strangely rapid and perfect was
his assimilation of them, so vigorous and minutely penetrative was the
quality of his understanding, so firm and independent his initiative,
that even these were instantly stamped with the express image of his
personality. In a word, Voltaire's work from first to last was alert
with unquenchable life. Some of it, much of it, has ceased to be alive
for us now in all that belongs to its deeper significance, yet we
recognize that none of it was ever the dreary still-birth of a mind of
hearsays. There is no mechanical transmission of untested bits of
current coin. In the realm of mere letters Voltaire is one of the little
band of great monarchs, and in style he remains of the supreme
potentates. But literary variety and perfection, however admirable, like
all purely literary qualities are a fragile and secondary good which the
world is very willing to let die, where it has not been truly begotten
and engendered of living forces.

Voltaire was a stupendous power, not only because his expression was
incomparably lucid, or even because his sight was exquisitely keen and
clear, but because he saw many new things after which the spirits of
others were unconsciously groping and dumbly yearning. Nor was this all.
Fontenelle was both brilliant and far-sighted, but he was cold, and one
of those who love ease and a safe hearth, and carefully shun the din,
turmoil, and danger of the great battle. Voltaire was ever in the front
and centre of the fight. His life was not a mere chapter in a history of
literature. He never counted truth a treasure to be discreetly hidden in
a napkin. He made it a perpetual war-cry and emblazoned it on a banner
that was many a time rent, but was never out of the field.

There are things enough to be said of Voltaire's moral size, and no
attempt is made in these pages to dissemble in how much he was
condemnable. It is at least certain that he hated tyranny, that he
refused to lay up his hatred privily in his heart, and insisted on
giving his abhorrence a voice, and tempering for his just rage a fine
sword, very fatal to those who laid burdens too hard to be borne upon
the conscience and life of men. Voltaire's contemporaries felt this.
They were stirred to the quick by the sight and sound and thorough
directness of those ringing blows.

If he was often a mocker in form, he was always serious in meaning and
laborious in matter. If he was unflinching against theology, he always
paid religion respect enough to treat it as the most important of all
subjects.

The old-fashioned nomenclature puts him down among sceptics, because
those who had the official right to affix these labels could think of no
more contemptuous name, and could not suppose the most audacious soul
capable of advancing even under the leadership of Satan himself beyond a
stray doubt or so. He had perhaps as little of the sceptic in his
constitution as Bossuet or Butler, and was much less capable of becoming
one than De Maistre or Paley. This was a prime secret of his power, for
the mere critic and propounder of unanswered doubts never leads more
than a handful of men after him. Voltaire boldly put the great question,
and he boldly answered it. He asked whether the sacred records were
historically true, the Christian doctrine divinely inspired and
spiritually exhaustive, and the Christian Church a holy and beneficent
organization. He answered these questions for himself and for others
beyond possibility of misconception. The records he declared saturated
with fable and absurdity, the doctrine imperfect at its best, and a dark
and tyrannical superstition at its worst, and the Church was the
arch-curse and infamy. Say what we will of these answers, they were free
from any taint of scepticism. Our lofty new idea of rational freedom as
freedom from conviction, and of emancipation of understanding as
emancipation from the duty of settling whether important propositions
are true or false, had not dawned on Voltaire.

He had just as little part or lot in the complaisant spirit of the man
of the world, who from the depths of his mediocrity and ease presumes to
promulgate the law of progress, and as dictator to fix its speed. Who
does not know this temper of the man of the world, that worst enemy of
the world? His inexhaustible patience of abuses that only torment
others; his apologetic word for beliefs that may perhaps not be so
precisely true as one might wish, and institutions that are not
altogether so useful as some might think possible; his cordiality toward
progress and improvement in a general way, and his coldness or antipathy
to each progressive proposal in particular; his pygmy hope that life
will one day become somewhat better, punily shivering by the side of his
gigantic conviction that it might well be infinitely worse. To Voltaire,
far different from this, an irrational prejudice was not the object of a
polite coldness, but a real evil to be combated and overthrown at every
hazard. Cruelty was not to him as a disagreeable dream of the
imagination, from thought of which he could save himself by arousing to
a sense of his own comfort, but a vivid flame burning into his thoughts
and destroying peace. Wrong-doing and injustice were not simple words on
his lips; they went as knives to the heart; he suffered with the victim,
and consumed with an active rage against the oppressor.

To Voltaire reason and humanity were but a single word, and love of
truth and passion for justice but one emotion. None of the famous men
who have fought, that they themselves might think freely and speak
truly, has ever seen more clearly that the fundamental aim of the
contest was that others might live happily. Who has not been touched by
that admirable word of his, of the three years in which he labored
without remission for justice to the widow and descendants of
Calas--"During that time not a smile escaped me without my reproaching
myself for it as for a crime"? Or by his sincere avowal that of all the
words of enthusiasm and admiration which were so prodigally bestowed
upon him on the occasion of his last famous visit to Paris in 1778, none
went to his heart like that of a woman of the people, who in reply to
one asking the name of him whom the crowd followed gave answer, "Do you
not know that he is the preserver of the Calas?"

The same kind of feeling, though manifested in ways of much less
unequivocal nobleness, was at the bottom of his many efforts to make
himself of consequence in important political business. We know how many
contemptuous sarcasms have been inspired by his anxiety at various times
to perform diplomatic feats of intervention between the French
government and Frederick II. In 1742, after his visit to the Prussian
King at Aix-la-Chapelle, he is supposed to have hinted to Cardinal
Fleury that to have written epic and drama does not disqualify a man for
serving his king and country on the busy fields of affairs. The
following year, after Fleury's death, when French fortunes in the war
of the Austrian succession were near their lowest, Voltaire's own idea
that he might be useful from his intimacy with Frederick seems to have
been shared by Amelot, the secretary of state, and at all events he
aspired to do some sort of active, if radically futile, diplomatic work.
In later times when the tide had turned, and Frederick's star was
clouded over with disaster, we again find Voltaire the eager
intermediary with Choiseul, pleasantly comparing himself to the mouse of
the fable, busily striving to free the lion from the meshes of the
hunter's net.

In short, on all sides, whatever men do and think was real and alive to
Voltaire. Whatever had the quality of interesting any imaginable
temperament had the quality of interesting him. There was no subject
which any set of men have ever cared about which, if he once had mention
of it, Voltaire did not care about likewise. And it was just because he
was so thoroughly alive himself that he filled the whole era with life.
The more closely one studies the various movements of that time, the
more clear it becomes that, if he was not the original centre and first
fountain of them all, at any rate he made many channels ready and gave
the sign. He was the initial principle of fermentation throughout that
vast commotion. We may deplore, if we think fit, as Erasmus deplored in
the case of Luther, that the great change was not allowed to work itself
out slowly, calmly, and without violence and disruption. These graceful
regrets are powerless, and on the whole they are very enervating. Let us
make our account with the actual, rather than seek excuses for
self-indulgence in pensive preference of something that might have been.
Practically in these great circles of affairs, what only might have been
is as though it could not be; and to know this may well suffice for us.
It is not in human power to choose the kind of men who rise from time to
time to the supreme control of momentous changes. The force which
decides this immensely important matter is as though it were chance. We
cannot decisively pronounce any circumstance whatever an accident, yet
history abounds with circumstances which in our present ignorance of the
causes of things are as if they were accidents.

It was one of the happy chances of circumstance that there arose in
France on the death of Louis XIV a man with all Voltaire's peculiar
gifts of intelligence, who added to them an incessant activity in their
use, and who besides this enjoyed such length of days as to make his
intellectual powers effective to the very fullest extent possible. This
combination of physical and mental conditions so amazingly favorable to
the spread of the Voltairean ideas was a circumstance independent of the
state of the surrounding atmosphere, and was what in the phraseology of
prescientific times might well have been called providential. If
Voltaire had seen all that he saw, and yet been indolent; or if he had
been as clear-sighted and as active as he was, and yet had only lived
fifty years, instead of eighty-four, Voltairism would never have struck
root. As it was, with his genius, his industry, his longevity, and the
conditions of the time being what they were, that far-spreading movement
of destruction was inevitable.

There are more kinds of Voltaireans than one, but no one who has marched
ever so short a way out of the great camp of old ideas is directly or
indirectly out of the debt and out of the hand of the first liberator,
however little willing he may be to recognize one or the other.
Attention has been called by every writer on Voltaire to the immense
number of the editions of his works, a number probably unparalleled in
the case of any author within the same limits of time. Besides being one
of the most voluminous book-writers, he is one of the cheapest. We can
buy one of Voltaire's books for a few halfpence, and the keepers of the
cheap stalls in the cheap quarters of London and Paris will tell you
that this is not from lack of demand, but the contrary. So clearly does
that light burn for many even now, which scientifically speaking ought
to be extinct, and for many indeed is long ago extinct and superseded.
The reasons for this vitality are that Voltaire was himself thoroughly
alive when he did his work, and that the movement which that work began
is still unexhausted.

How shall we attempt to characterize this movement? The historian of the
Christian church usually opens his narrative with an account of the
depravation of human nature and the corruption of society which preceded
the new religion. The Reformation in like manner is only to be
understood after we have perceived the enormous mass of superstition,
injustice, and wilful ignorance by which the theological idea had
become so incrusted as to be wholly incompetent to guide society,
because it was equally repugnant to the intellectual perceptions and the
moral sense, the knowledge and the feelings, of the best and most
active-minded persons of the time. The same sort of consideration
explains and vindicates the enormous power of Voltaire. France had
outgrown the system that had brought her through the Middle Ages. The
further development of her national life was fatally hindered by the
tight bonds of an old order, which clung with the hardy tenacity of a
thriving parasite, diverting from the roots all their sustenance, eating
into the tissue, and feeding on the juices of the living tree. The
picture has often been painted, and we need not try to paint it once
more in detail here. The whole power and ordering of the nation were
with the sworn and chartered foes of light, who had every interest that
a desire to cling to authority and wealth can give in keeping the
understanding subject.

The glories of the age of Louis XIV were the climax of a set of ideas
that instantly afterward lost alike their grace, their usefulness, and
the firmness of their hold on the intelligence of men. A dignified and
venerable hierarchy, an august and powerful monarch, a court of gay and
luxurious nobles, all lost their grace because the eyes of men were
suddenly caught and appalled by the awful phantom, which was yet so
real, of a perishing nation. Turn from Bossuet's orations to
Boisguillebert's _Détail de la France_; from the pulpit rhetorician's
courtly reminders that even majesty must die, to Vauban's pity for the
misery of the common people;[31] from Corneille and Racine to La
Bruyère's picture of "certain wild animals, male and female, scattered
over the fields, black, livid, all burned by the sun, bound to the earth
that they dig and work with unconquerable pertinacity; they have a sort
of articulate voice, and when they rise on their feet they show a human
face, and, in fact, are men." The contrast had existed for generations.
The material misery caused by the wars of the great Louis deepened the
dark side, and the lustre of genius consecrated to the glorification of
traditional authority and the order of the hour heightened the
brightness of the bright side, until the old contrast was suddenly seen
by a few startled eyes, and the new and deepest problem, destined to
strain our civilization to a degree that not many have even now
conceived, came slowly into pale outline.

There is no reason to think that Voltaire ever saw this gaunt and
tremendous spectacle. Rousseau was its first voice. Since him the
reorganization of the relations of men has never faded from the sight
either of statesmen or philosophers, with vision keen enough to admit to
their eyes even what they dreaded and execrated in their hearts.
Voltaire's task was different and preparatory. It was to make popular
the genius and authority of reason. The foundations of the social fabric
were in such a condition that the touch of reason was fatal to the whole
structure, which instantly began to crumble. Authority and use oppose a
steadfast and invincible resistance to reason, so long as the
institutions which they protect are of fair practicable service to a
society. But after the death of Louis XIV, not only the grace and pomp,
but also the social utility of spiritual and political absolutism,
passed obviously away. Spiritual absolutism was unable to maintain even
a decent semblance of unity and theological order. Political absolutism
by its material costliness, its augmenting tendency to repress the
application of individual energy and thought to public concerns, and its
pursuit of a policy in Europe which was futile and essentially
meaningless as to its ends, and disastrous and incapable in its choice
of means, was rapidly exhausting the resources of national well-being
and viciously severing the very tap-root of national life. To bring
reason into an atmosphere so charged was, as the old figure goes, to
admit air to the chamber of the mummy. And reason was exactly what
Voltaire brought; too narrow, if we will, too contentious, too derisive,
too unmitigatedly reasonable, but still reason. And who shall measure
the consequence of this difference in the history of two great nations:
that in France absolutism in church and state fell before the sinewy
genius of stark reason, while in England it fell before a respect for
social convenience, protesting against monopolies, benevolences,
ship-money? that in France speculation had penetrated over the whole
field of social inquiry, before a single step had been taken toward
application, while in England social principles were applied before
they received any kind of speculative vindication? that in France the
first effective enemy of the principles of despotism was Voltaire, poet,
philosopher, historian, critic; in England, a band of homely squires?

Voltaire, there can be little doubt, never designed a social revolution,
being in this the representative of the method of Hobbes. His single
object was to reinstate the understanding in its full rights, to
emancipate thought, to extend knowledge, to erect the standard of
critical common-sense. He either could not see, or else, as one
sometimes thinks, he closes his eyes and refuses for his part to see,
that it was impossible to revolutionize the spiritual basis of belief
without touching the social forms, which were inseparably connected with
the old basis by the strong bonds of time and a thousand fibres of
ancient association and common interest. Rousseau began where Voltaire
left off. He informs us that, in the days when his character was
forming, nothing which Voltaire wrote escaped him, and that the
_Philosophical Letters_ (that is, the Letters on the English), though
assuredly not the writer's best work, were what first attracted him to
study, and implanted a taste which never afterward became extinct. The
correspondence between Voltaire and the Prince of Prussia, afterward the
great Frederick, inspired Rousseau with a passionate desire to learn how
to compose with elegance, and to imitate the coloring of so fine an
author.[32] Thus Voltaire, who was eighteen years his elder, gave this
extraordinary genius his first productive impulse. But a sensibility of
temperament, to which perhaps there is no parallel in the list of
prominent men, impelled Rousseau to think, or rather to feel, about the
concrete wrongs and miseries of men and women, and not the abstract
rights of their intelligence. Hence the two great revolutionary schools,
the school which appealed to sentiment, and the school which appealed to
intelligence. The Voltairean principles of the strictest political
moderation and of literary common-sense, negative, merely emancipatory,
found their political outcome, as French historians early pointed out,
in the Constituent Assembly, which was the creation of the upper and
middle class, while the spirit of Rousseau, ardent, generous, passionate
for the relief of the suffering, overwhelmed by the crowding forms of
manhood chronically degraded and womanhood systematically polluted, came
to life and power in the Convention and the sections of the Commune of
Paris which overawed the Convention.

"It will not do," wrote D'Alembert to Voltaire as early as 1762, "to
speak too loudly against Jean Jacques or his book, for he is rather a
king in the Halles."[33] This must have been a new word in the ears of
the old man, who had grown up in the habit of thinking of public opinion
as the opinion, not of markets where the common people bought and sold,
but of the galleries of Versailles. Except for its theology, the age of
Louis XIV always remained the great age to Voltaire, the age of pomp and
literary glory, and it was too difficult a feat to cling on one side to
the Grand Monarch, and to stretch out a hand on the other to the _Social
Contract_. It was too difficult for the man who had been embraced by
Ninon de l'Enclos, who was the correspondent of the greatest sovereigns
in Europe, and the intimate of some of the greatest nobles in France, to
feel much sympathy with writings that made their author king of the
Halles. Frederick offered Rousseau shelter, and so did Voltaire; but
each of them disliked his work as warmly as the other. They did not
understand one who, if he wrote with an eloquence that touched all
hearts, repulsed friends and provoked enemies like a madman or a savage.
The very language of Rousseau was to Voltaire as an unknown tongue, for
it was the language of reason clothing the births of passionate
sensation. _Émile_ only wearied him, though there were perhaps fifty
pages of it which he would have had bound in morocco.[34] It is a stale
romance, he cries, while the _Social Contract_ is only remarkable for
some insults rudely thrown at kings by a citizen of Geneva, and for four
insipid pages against the Christian religion, which are simply
plagiarized from Bayle's centos.[35] Partly, no doubt, this extreme
irritation was due to the insults with which Jean Jacques had repulsed
his offers of shelter and assistance, had repudiated Voltaire's attempts
to defend him, and had held up Voltaire himself as a proper object for
the persecutions of Geneva. But there was a still deeper root of
discrepancy, which we have already pointed out. Rousseau's exaggerated
tone was an offence to Voltaire's more just and reasonable spirit; and
the feigned austerity of a man whose life and manners he knew assumed in
his eyes a disagreeable shade of hypocrisy.[36] Besides these things, he
was clearly apprehensive of the storms which Rousseau's extraordinary
hardihood had the very natural effect of raising in the circles of
authority, though it is true that the most acute observers of the time
thought that they noticed a very perceptible increase of Voltaire's own
hardihood as a consequence of the example which the other set him.

The rivalry between the schools of Rousseau and Voltaire represents the
deadlock to which social thought had come; a deadlock of which the
catastrophe of the Revolution was both expression and result. At the
time of Voltaire's death there was not a single institution in France
with force enough to be worth a month's purchase. The monarchy was
decrepit; the aristocracy was as feeble and impotent as it was arrogant;
the _bourgeoisie_ was not without aspiration, but it lacked courage and
it possessed no tradition; and the Church was demoralized, first by the
direct attack of Voltaire and the not less powerful indirect attack of
the _Encyclopædia_, and second by the memory of its own cruelty and
selfishness in the generation just closing. But Voltaire's theory, so
far as he ever put it into its most general form, was that the temporal
order was safe and firm, and that it would endure until criticism had
transformed thought and prepared the way for a _régime_ of enlightenment
and humanity. Rousseau, on the contrary, directed all the engines of
passion against the whole temporal fabric, and was so little careful of
freedom of thought, so little confident in the plenary efficacy of
rational persuasion, as to insist upon the extermination of atheists by
law. The position of each was at once irrefragable and impossible. It
was impossible to effect a stable reconstitution of the social order
until men had been accustomed to use their minds freely, and had
gradually thrown off the demoralizing burden of superstition. But then
the existing social order had become intolerable, and its forces were
practically extinct, and consequently such an attack as Rousseau's was
inevitable, and was at the same time and for the same reasons
irresistible. To overthrow the power of the Church only was to do
nothing in a society perishing from material decay and political
emasculation. Yet to regenerate such a society without the aid of moral
and spiritual forces, with whose activity the existence of a dominant
ecclesiastical power was absolutely incompatible, was one of the wildest
feats that ever passionate sophist attempted.

GEORGE W. KITCHIN

Two sayings which characterize the two speakers are recorded of this
time. The one is that of Louis XV, who with all his odious vices, his
laziness, and unkingly seclusion, was not devoid of intelligence. "All
this," he said, "will last as long as I shall," and his forecast was
justified: the "deluge" came long after he had gone to his account; and
the phrase stands against him as an expression of his base selfishness,
which saw the coming troubles without caring about them, because he
believed that they would not come in his day. The other saying is that
of Voltaire, who, in 1762, exclaimed in an ecstasy of hope and prophecy,
"Happy the young men, for they shall see many things." And yet those
youths were mostly gray-headed when the "many things" began, and not a
few of them lost those gray heads, instead of looking on as interested
spectators of a new order of things.

The writers of this time, whatever their faults, form the true
aristocracy of France: the rest of the nation, sinking lower and lower,
left their superiority all the more marked and uncontested. The series
of great writers of the age may be said to begin with Montesquieu,
though Voltaire had published his _OEdipus_ in 1718, and the _Lettres
Persanes_ did not appear till 1721. Montesquieu, a man of noble birth,
was brought up as a lawyer. We trace in him accordingly an aristocratic
and legal tone of mind, which naturally took pleasure in England and the
law-abiding conservatism of her constitution, as it appeared to him in
the middle of the eighteenth century. Like so many of his fellows,
Montesquieu chafed under the influence of a corrupt clergy, and declared
against them, with the philosophers. This was almost the only point he
had in common with Voltaire, whom he heartily disliked. We may say that
he represents the aristocratic and constitutional resistance to the
state of things in France, while Voltaire is champion of liberty of
thought and tolerance. Montesquieu resists the Jesuit influences of his
day on conservative grounds alone; Voltaire resists them by resting on
the enlightened despotism of his time, and appealing to it, rather than
to the laws or constitution of his country. Lastly, at a later day,
Rousseau, sworn foe to society, from which he had suffered much, the
sentimentalist, enemy of aristocracy and monarchy, instinctively
antagonistic to the legal temperament, speaks directly to the people,
even as Montesquieu had spoken to the educated and the well-to-do, and
Voltaire to kings; and they, stirred to the heart by his appeals,
elected him the prophet of their cause, believed in him, and at his
bidding subverted the whole fabric of society.

Montesquieu's great work, the _Esprit des Lois_, which followed his
_Considerations on the Causes of the Greatness and Fall of the Romans_
(1734), and appeared in 1748, forms an epoch in French prose style. He
and Voltaire are the two parents of modern French prose literature. The
_Esprit des Lois_ was far more greedily read in England than in France.
Society there had little taste for so solid a work; they vastly
preferred the lively sparkle of the _Persian Letters_; the book was
perhaps too clearly influenced by an admiration for the Constitution of
England, and by a love for liberty, face to face with the weak arbitrary
despotism which was dragging France to a catastrophe.

If Montesquieu is the advocate of political freedom, Voltaire is the
champion of tolerance and freedom of conscience; and that, in his day
and with his surroundings, meant that he was the deadly foe of the
established faith, as he saw it in its acts in France. When we regard
this apostle of toleration, and watch his pettinesses and vanity, note
him at kings' courts, see him glorifying Louis XIV, that great
antagonist of all tolerance, whether religious or political or social,
we are inclined to think that the most difficult of all toleration is
that of having to endure its champion and to try to do him justice.

Voltaire was no deep thinker: he had amazing cleverness, was very
susceptible of the influence of thought, and unrivalled in expression.
We shall expect to find him taking color from what was round him, nor
shall we be astonished if that color is dazzling and brilliant. Five
successive influences marked his earlier life. First, his education
under the Jesuits, which gave him an insight into their system;
secondly, his introduction to the irreligious and immoral society of the
fashionable _abbes_ of the day, which showed him another side of the
official religion of the time; thirdly, the beneficent friendship of the
Abbé de Caumartin, who set him thinking about great and ambitious
subjects, and led him to write the _Henriade_, and probably also to
begin projecting his _Siècle de Louis XIV_; fourthly, the enforced
leisure of the Bastille, whither he went a second time in 1726 for
having resented an insult put on him by a coarse nobleman, one of the
Rohans; lastly--thanks to the order for his exile--his sojourn in
England after release from the Bastille, and his friendship for the
chief writers and thinkers of this country. Hitherto he had been a
purely literary man; henceforth he was fired with an ambition to be a
philosopher and a liberator. Certainly France was unfortunate in the
education she gave this brilliant and wayward child of her genius.

There was hardly a Frenchman of eminence in this period who did not
either visit England or learn the English language, many doing both. And
one so bright and receptive as Voltaire could not fail to notice many
things. He could see how free thought was: he could make a contrast
between the respect paid to letters in London, and their degradation
under Louis XIV and later; he saw Newton and Locke in places of honor,
Prior and Gay acting as ambassadors, Addison as secretary of state; he
reached England in time to see the national funeral given to the remains
of Newton. Bolingbroke took him in hand; he was astonished to find a
learned and literary _noblesse_; Locke was his true teacher.

He went back to France another man, after three years' absence: above
all, he carried with him the then popular English way of thinking as to
the supernatural, and became a somewhat cold, common-sense deist,
opposed to the atheism of some and the dull bigotry of the established
creed in the hands of others. God was to him conscious creator of the
world, and only faintly, if at all, its ruler; he recognized the need of
a deity as a starting-point for his system, though he did not feel the
need of his care and presence in life; not God our Father, only God our
Creator.

He brought over with him a great ripening of humane feelings: this is
his noblest quality and parent of his best acts. When we see him as a
champion of oppressed Huguenots, combating wrong and ill-doing with all
the vehemence of his fiery soul, we find a common ground, which is lost
sight of as we contemplate his equally hot attacks on Christianity, or
his dwelling in kings' courts, or his panegyrics on great sovereigns who
had so fiercely crushed down that liberty of thought of which he was the
life-long defender.

In his _OEdipus_ he had assaulted priestcraft with not undeserved
severity; we must always remember what he saw around him. In his
_Henriade_ (1725), perhaps almost unintentionally, he had glorified
Henry IV at the expense of the Great Monarch. After his stay in England
we have his _Brutus_ (1730), an attack on kingcraft, and his _Zaïre_
(1732), a Parisian Othello, both based on Shakespeare. From this time
onward he plunges into a supple and dexterous, if sometimes rather
disingenuous, strife with a superior power. Throughout, the poet and man
of taste struggles against the philosophic freethinker: he loves the
surface impressions, perhaps the reflective illusions; "his sentiments
are worth more than his ideas." The _English Letters_ of 1735, written
some years before, and now issued with much hesitation, created a great
storm: they boldly attacked the royal power, the clergy, the faith; they
were burned by the hangman; and Voltaire had to go into voluntary exile
for a while. There his literary activity was unwearied: many of his
works were written, or at least sketched, during the next five years.
Strange problem of the human mind. While he here composed his _Mahomet_
and other serious works, he also wrote his scandalous _Pucelle_; as if
he could not rest without destroying all nobility of sentiment and faith
in heroism. While Jeanne d'Arc is the helpless victim of his shameless
attack, he is also busy with his _Siècle de Louis XIV_, a hero
apparently more to his taste than the great Maid of Orléans.

The influence of Voltaire on opinion grew slowly but steadily through
these years: no one more sedulously undermined the established faiths.
It was in these years that he enjoyed a passing favor at the French
court, whence his febrile energy, his roughnesses, his want of the true
gloss of courtiership, soon lost him the good-will of his old friend
Madame de Pompadour. He then tried Berlin, finding it equally untenable
ground; eventually he withdrew to Ferney in the territory of Geneva,
whence he kept up incessant war against all the injustices which touched
his heart. His defence of Calas, of Servin, of the luckless Lally, all
date from this time. In these days he animated the Encyclopædists with
his spirit, encouraging them in their gigantic undertaking, the
"Carroccio of the battle of the eighteenth century." It was a huge
dictionary of human knowledge, written in direct antagonism to all
belief in spiritual powers or religion. It sold incredibly, and the
effect of it on society was immense. This great edifice, "built half of
marble, half of mud," as Voltaire himself said, had as its chief
architects Diderot and D'Alembert. Nothing contributed more to undermine
the foundations on which all institutions, and not least royalty, were
built.

A little later than Voltaire came Rousseau, "the valet who did not
become a cardinal." His influences are also later, and touched society
far more widely. Voltaire had spoken to society; Rousseau spoke to the
heart of the people. He was above all things a sentimentalist, this son
of a Genevan clockmaker. Society treated him harshly; and he avenged
himself by making fierce war on society. The savage state is the
best--society being revolting in its falseness and shallow varnish: all
men are naturally equal and free; society is nothing but an artificial
contract, an arrangement by which, in the end, the strong domineer over
the weak; the state of nature is divine: there is a Garden of Eden for
those who will cast society behind them. Sciences and arts, civilization
and literature, Encyclopædists included, are hateful as corrupters of
mankind; all progress has been backward, if one may venture to say
so--downward, certainly. Rousseau embroidered these paradoxes with a
thousand sweet sentiments: he shut his eyes to history, to facts, to the
real savage, the very disagreeable "primitive man," as he may yet
sometimes be seen. "Follow nature" was his one great precept: then you
will scourge away the false and conventional, and life will grow pure
and simple; there will be no rank, no cunning law devised to keep men
from their rights, no struggle for life, no competition. All France
panted and groaned to emulate the "noble savage"--with what success, we
know.

These were the chief literary luminaries of this time: and they all
helped to pull down the fabric of the old society. That society,
however, little understood the tendency of things; to a large extent it
became the fashion to be philosophic, to be free-minded, to attack
religion: with pride in their rank, and cold scorn for their humbler
brethren, and high-bred contempt for their clergy, and ruinous vices
sometimes made amusing by their brightness and their vivacious vanity,
the French upper classes thought it great sport to pull merrily at the
old walls of their country's institutions, never dreaming that they
could be so ill-ordered as to fall down and crush them in their ruin.

FOOTNOTES:

[31] Vauban and Boisguillebert are both to be found in _Les Economiste
Financiers du XVIIIième Siècle_, published by Guillaumin, 1851.

[32] _Confessions_, pt. i. liv. v. Date of 1736.

[33] _OEuvres_, lxxv. 182.

[34] Corr. 1762. _OEuvres_, lxxv. 188.

[35] _OEuvres_, lxvii. 432.

[36] Condorcet, 170.

BRADDOCK'S DEFEAT

A.D. 1755

WINTHROP SARGENT GEORGE WASHINGTON

CAPTAIN DE CONTRECOEUR

The repeated wars between France and England in the seventeenth and
eighteenth centuries had involved also their colonies in America and
India. In America the Indians had been employed as allies upon both
sides, and thus encouraged in their hideous deeds of massacre and
torture. Hence there had grown an ever-increasing bitterness between
the French in Canada and the English colonists along the Atlantic
coasts, and this finally led to the momentous French and Indian war,
which, contrary to the course of the earlier contests, originated in
America and spread thence to Europe.

Its immediate cause was the disputed possession of the interior of
the continent, the Mississippi and Ohio valleys. These had been
first explored by the French, and when English pioneers began to
penetrate thither the French built a chain of forts to resist them.
An expedition of Virginians under the command of their youthful
leader, Major George Washington, had a sharp encounter with the
enemy in 1754; and then the English government determined to assert
its authority by an overwhelming force. No war was declared against
France, nor even against Canada; but a distinguished English
general, Braddock, was sent over with three thousand regular troops
to seize the French forts in the Ohio Valley, especially Fort
Duquesne, on the site of the modern city of Pittsburg.

Braddock's expedition thus started the war which ended in the
expulsion of France from the North American continent. It did more
than that: it sowed the seeds of lasting dissension between the
American colonial troops and the British regulars. The British
despised their uninformed allies, and the latter soon learned in
their turn to despise the regulars.

The English general liked the young Virginian major, Washington, and
invited him, as one who knew the ground, to accompany the projected
expedition and give advice--which Braddock never took. Its caution
seemed to him to savor too much of cowardice, and he persisted in
marching through the wilderness toward Fort Duquesne as though his
forces had been upon parade, with drums beating and colors flying.
The French were very near to being frightened into flight, but
determined on making one effort at resistance. Its results are here
told by the standard Pennsylvania historian, Sargent, and also in
briefer form by Washington himself in a letter to the Virginian
Governor, and by the French commander of Fort Duquesne in his
official report.

WINTHROP SARGENT

With a commendable discretion--the utmost, perhaps, that he was capable
of--Braddock had concluded his arrangements for passing what he regarded
as the only perilous place between his army and the fort, which he
designed to reach early on the 10th. Had the proposition, started and
abandoned by St. Clair, to push forward that very night a strong
detachment to invest it before morning, been actually made to him, it is
very probable he would have discountenanced it. As in all human
likelihood it would have been crowned with success, it is as well for
the general's reputation that the suggestion aborted.

What precautionary steps his education and capacity could suggest were
here taken by Braddock. Before three o'clock on the morning of the 9th
Gage was sent forth with a chosen band to secure both crossings of the
river, and to hold the farther shore of the second ford till the rest of
the army should come up. At four, St. Clair, with a working party,
followed to make the roads. At 6 A.M. the general set out, and, having
advantageously posted about four hundred men upon the adjacent heights,
made, with all the wagons and baggage, the first crossing of the
Monongahela. Marching thence in order of battle toward the second ford,
he received intelligence that Gage had occupied the shore, according to
orders, and that the route was clear. The only enemy he had seen was a
score of savages, who fled without awaiting his approach. By eleven
o'clock the army reached the second ford; but it was not until after one
that the declivities of the banks were made ready for the artillery and
wagons, when the whole array, by a little before two o'clock, was safely
passed over. Not doubting that from some point on the stream the enemy's
scouts were observing his operations, Braddock was resolved to strongly
impress them with the numbers and condition of his forces; and
accordingly the troops were ordered to appear as for a dress-parade. In
after-life Washington was accustomed to observe that he had never seen
elsewhere so beautiful a sight as was exhibited during this passage of
the Monongahela. Every man was attired in his best uniform; the
burnished arms shone bright as silver in the glistening rays of the
noonday sun, as, with colors waving proudly above their heads, and amid
inspiring bursts of martial music, the steady files, with disciplined
precision, and glittering in scarlet and gold, advanced to their
position. While the rear was yet on the other side, and the van was
falling into its ordained course, the bulk of the army was drawn up in
battle array on the western shore, hard by the spot where one Frazier, a
German blacksmith in the interest of the English, had lately had his
home. Two or three hundred yards above the spot where it now stood was
the mouth of Turtle Creek--the "Tulpewi Sipu" of the Lenape--which,
flowing in a southwestwardly course to the Monongahela, that here has a
northwestward direction, embraces, in an obtuse angle of about one
hundred twenty-five degrees, the very spot where the brunt of the battle
was to be borne.

The scene is familiar to tourists, being, as the crow flies, but eight
miles from Pittsburg, and scarce twelve by the course of the river. For
three-quarters of a mile below the entrance of the creek the Monongahela
was unusually shallow, forming a gentle rapid or "ripple," and easily
fordable at almost any point. Its common level is from three to four
hundred feet below that of the surrounding country; and along its upper
banks, at the second crossing, stretches a fertile bottom of a rich
pebbled mould, about a fourth of a mile in width and twenty feet above
low-water mark. At this time it was covered by a fair, open walnut-wood,
uncumbered with bush or undergrowth.

The ascent from the river, however, is rarely abrupt; but by a
succession of gentle alluvial slopes or bottoms the steep hillsides are
approached, as though the waters had gradually subsided from their
original glory to a narrow bed at the very bottom of the ancient
channel. At this particular place the rise of the first bottom does not
exceed an angle of three degrees. Above it again rises a second bottom
of the same width and about fifty feet higher than the first, and
gradually ascending until its farther edge rests upon the bold, rocky
face of the mountain line, climbing at once some two hundred feet to the
usual level of the region around. A firm clay, overlaid with mould,
forms the soil of the second bottom, which was heavily and more densely
timbered than the first; and the underwood began to appear more
plentifully where the ground was less exposed to the action of the
spring floods. In the bosom of the hill several springs unite their
sources to give birth to a petty rivulet that hurries down the steep to
be lost in the river. Its cradle lies in the bed of a broad ravine,
forty or fifty feet deep, that rises in the hill-side, and, crossing the
whole of the second bottom, debouches on the first, where the waters
whose current it so far guides, trickle oozily down through a swampy
bed. Great trees grew within and along this chasm, and the usual smaller
growth peculiar to such a situation; and a prodigious copse of wild
grape-vines, not yet entirely gone, shrouded its termination upon the
first bottom and shadowed the birth of the infant brook.

About two hundred yards from the line of hills, and three hundred south
of the ravine just described, commences another of a more singular
nature; with its steep sides, almost exactly perpendicular, it perfectly
resembles a ditch cut for purposes of defence. Rising near the middle of
the second bottom, it runs westwardly to the upper edge of the first,
with a depth at its head of four or five feet, increasing as it
descends, and a width of eight or ten. A century ago its channel was
overhung and completely concealed by a luxurious thicket of pea-vines
and trailers, of bramble-bushes and the Indian plum; its edges closely
fringed with the thin, tall wood-grass of summer. But even now, when the
forests are gone and the plough long since passed over the scene, the
ravine cannot be at all perceived until one is directly upon it; and
hence arose the chief disasters of the day. Parallel with and about one
hundred fifty yards north of this second gulley ran a third; a dry, open
hollow, and rather thinly wooded; but which afforded a happy protection
to the enemy from the English fire. Either of these ravines would have
sheltered an army; the second--the most important, though not the
largest--would of itself afford concealment to a thousand men.

There is little reason to doubt that as Braddock drew near, M. de
Contrecoeur was almost decided to abandon his position without
striking a blow, and, withdrawing his men, as did his successor, in
1758, leave to the English a bloodless victory. He certainly was
prepared to surrender on terms of honorable capitulation. A solitary
gun was mounted upon a carriage to enable the garrison to evacuate with
the honors of war; it being a point of nice feeling with a defeated
soldier that he should retire with drums beating a national march, his
own colors flying, and a cannon loaded, with a lighted match. This
deprives the proceeding of a compulsory air; and to procure this
gratification, Contrecoeur made his arrangements. The British army was
so overwhelming in strength, so well appointed and disciplined, that he
perhaps deemed any opposition to its advance would be not less fruitless
than the defence of the works. However this may be, he had as yet on
July 7th announced no definite conclusion, though possibly his views
were perceptible enough to his subordinates. On that day it was known
that the enemy, whose numbers were greatly magnified, were at the
head-waters of Turtle Creek. On the 8th, where his route was changed, M.
de Beaujeu, a captain in the regulars, proposed to the commander that he
might be permitted to go forth with a suitable band to prepare an
ambuscade for the English on the banks of the Monongahela, and to
dispute with them the passage of the second ford. If we may believe
tradition, it was with undisguised reluctance that Contrecoeur
complied with this request, and even then, it is said, refused to assign
troops for the enterprise, bidding him call for volunteers as for a
forlorn hope. To that summons the whole garrison responded.

If this tale be true, Contrecoeur recanted his determination, and
wisely preferred making him a regular detachment, conditioned on his
success in obtaining the union of the Indians, who, to the number of
nearly a thousand warriors, were gathered at the place. Accordingly, the
savages were at once called to a council. These people, consisting of
bands assembled from a dozen different nations, listened with
unsuppressed discontent to the overtures of the Frenchman. Seated under
the palisades that environed the fort, or standing in knots about the
speaker, were gathered a motley but a ferocious crew. Alienated from
their ancient friends, here were Delawares from the Susquehanna eager to
speed the fatal stroke, and Shawanoes from Grave Creek and the
Muskingum; scattered warriors of the Six Nations; Ojibwas, Pottawottomis
from the far Michigan; Abenakis and Caughnawagas from Canada; Ottawas
from Lake Superior, led on by the royal Pontiac; and Hurons from the
falls of Montreal and the mission of Lorette, whose barbarous leader
gloried in a name torn from the most famous pages of Christian story.

To these reluctant auditors Beaujeu stated his designs. "How, my
father," said they in reply, "are you so bent upon death that you would
also sacrifice us? With our eight hundred men do you ask us to attack
four thousand English? Truly, this is not the saying of a wise man. But
we will lay up what we have heard, and to-morrow you shall know our
thoughts." On the morning of July 9th the conference was repeated, and
the Indians announced their intention of refusing to join in the
expedition. At this moment a runner--probably one of those dislodged by
Gage in the early dawn--burst in upon the assembly and heralded the
advent of the foe. Well versed in the peculiar characteristics of the
savages, by whom he was much beloved, and full of tact and energy,
Beaujeu took ready advantage of the excitement which these tidings
occasioned. "I," said he, "am determined to go out against the enemy. I
am certain of victory. What! will you suffer your father to depart
alone?" Fired by his language and the reproach it conveyed, they at once
resolved by acclamation to follow him to the fray.

In a moment the scene was alive with frantic enthusiasm. Barrels of
bullets and flints and casks of powder were hastily rolled to the gates:
their heads were knocked out, and every warrior left to supply himself
at his own discretion. Then, painted for war and armed for the combat,
the party moved rapidly away, in numbers nearly nine hundred strong, of
whom six hundred thirty-seven were Indians, one hundred forty-six
Canadians, and seventy-two regular troops. Subordinate to Beaujeu were
MM. Dumas and De Ligneris, both captains in the regular army, four
lieutenants, six ensigns, and twenty cadets. Though his numbers were
thus not so greatly inferior to Braddock's, it is not likely that
Beaujeu calculated on doing more than giving the English a severe check
and perhaps delaying for a few days their advance. It is impossible that
he should have contemplated the complete victory that was before him.

On the evening of July 8th the ground had been carefully reconnoitred
and the proper place for the action selected. The intention was to
dispute as long as possible the passage of the second ford, and then to
fall back upon the ravines. But long ere they reached the scene the
swell of the military music, the crash of falling trees apprised them
that the foe had already crossed the river, and that his pioneers were
advanced into the woodlands. Quickening their pace into a run, they
managed to reach the broken ground just as the van of the English came
in sight. Braddock had turned from the first bottom to the second, and
mounting to its brow was about to pass around the head of the ravines to
avoid the little morass caused by the water-course before described. His
route did not lie parallel with the most dangerous defile, where the
banks are so steep and the cover so perfect, but passed its head at an
angle of about forty-five degrees; thus completely exposing his face and
flanks from a point on the second bottom, at a hundred yards distance,
to another within thirty, where he would turn the ravine. Of course the
farther he advanced the nearer he would approach to its brink, till the
whole should finally be left behind; thus opening a line of two hundred
yards long, at an average distance of sixty, to the enemy's fire. Had he
possessed the least knowledge of these defiles, he would undoubtedly
have secured them in season, since nothing would have been easier than
their occupation by Gage's advanced party. But not a man in his army had
ever dreamed of their existence.

The arrangement of the march from the river's bank had been made as
follows: The engineers and guides and six light-horsemen proceeded
immediately before the advanced detachment under Gage, and the
working-party under St. Clair, who had with them two brass six-pounders
and as many tumbrils or tool-carts. On either flank, parties to the
number of eight were thrown out to guard against surprises. At some
distance behind Gage followed the line, preceded by the light horse,
four squads of whom also acted as extreme flankers at either end of the
column. Next came the seamen, followed by a subaltern with twenty
grenadiers, a twelve-pounder and a company of grenadiers. Then the
vanguard succeeded, and the wagon and artillery train, which began and
ended with a twelve-pounder: and the rear-guard closed the whole.
Numerous flanking-parties, however, protected each other; and six
subalterns, each with twenty grenadiers, and ten sergeants, with ten
men each, were detached for this purpose.

The greater part of Gage's command was actually advanced beyond the spot
where the main battle was fought, and was just surmounting the second
bottom, when Mr. Gordon, one of the engineers who were in front marking
out the road, perceived the enemy bounding forward. Before them, with
long leaps, came Beaujeu, the gayly colored fringes of his hunting-shirt
and the silver gorget on his bosom at once bespeaking the chief.
Comprehending in a glance the position he had attained, he suddenly
halted and waved his hat above his head. At this preconcerted signal the
savages dispersed to the right and left, throwing themselves flat upon
the ground, and gliding behind rocks or trees or into the ravines. Had
the earth yawned beneath their feet and reclosed above their heads, they
could not have more instantaneously vanished. The French--some of whom,
according to Garneau, were mounted--held the centre of the semicircular
disposition so instantly assumed; and a tremendous fire was at once
opened on the English. For a moment Gage's troops paused aghast at the
furious yells and strangeness of the onset. Rallying immediately, he
returned their fire, and halted a moment till St. Clair's working-party
came up; when he bade his men advance at once upon the centre of the
concentric line. As he drew near he was again greeted with a staggering
discharge, and again his ranks were shaken. Then in return, they opened
a fire of grape and musketry so tremendous as to sweep down every
unsheltered foe who was upon his feet, and to utterly fright the savages
from their propriety. Beaujeu and a dozen more fell dead upon the spot,
and the Indians already began to fly, their courage being unable to
endure the unwonted tumult of such a portentous detonation.

But reanimated by the clamorous exhortations of Dumas and De Ligneris,
and observing that the regulars and militia still preserved a firm
front, they returned once more to their posts and resumed the combat.
For a time the issue seemed doubtful, and the loud cries of "_Vive le
Roi!_" of the French were met by the charging cheers of the English. But
precision of aim soon began to prevail over mere mechanical discipline.
In vain the Forty-fourth continued their fire; in vain their officers,
with waving swords, led them to the charge; hidden beneath great trees
or concealed below the level of the earth, the muzzles of their pieces
resting on the brink of the ravine, and shooting with a secure and
steady aim, the majority of the enemy rested secure and invisible to
their gallant foemen.

In the mean time Braddock, whose extreme rear had not yet left the
river's bank, hearing the uproar in advance, ordered Burton to press
forward with the vanguard, and the rest of the line to halt; thus
leaving Halket with four hundred men to protect the baggage while eight
hundred engaged the enemy. But just as Burton, under a galling fire, was
forming his troops upon the ground, Gage's party gave way and
precipitately endeavored to fall into his rear; confusing men who were
confused before. The manoeuvre was unsuccessfully executed, and the
two regiments became inextricably commingled. Vainly Braddock strove to
separate the soldiers, huddling together like frightened sheep. Vainly
the regimental colors were advanced on opposite directions as
rallying-points.

"_Ut conspicuum in proelio
Haberent signum quod sequerentur milites._"

The officers sought to collect their men together and lead them on in
platoons. Nothing could avail. On every hand the officers, distinguished
by their horses and their uniforms, were the constant mark of hostile
rifles; and it was soon as impossible to find men to give orders as it
was to have them obeyed. In a narrow road twelve feet wide, shut up on
either side and overpent by the primeval forest, were crowded together
the panic-stricken wretches, hastily loading and reloading, and blindly
discharging their guns in the air, as though they suspected their
mysterious murderers were sheltered in the boughs above their heads;
while all around, removed from sight, but making day hideous with their
war-whoops and savage cries, lay ensconced a host insatiate for blood.

Foaming with rage and indignation, Braddock flew from rank to rank, with
his own hands endeavoring to force his men into position. Four horses
were shot under him, but mounting a fifth he still strained every nerve
to retrieve the ebbing fortunes of the day. His subordinates gallantly
seconded his endeavors, throwing themselves from the saddle and
advancing by platoons, in the idle hope that their men would follow; but
only to rush upon their fate. The regular soldiery, deprived of their
immediate commanders and terrified at the incessant fall of their
comrades, could not be brought to the charge, while the provincials,
better skilled, sought in vain to cover themselves and to meet the foe
upon equal terms; for to the urgent entreaties of Washington and Sir
Peter Halket, that the men might be permitted to leave the ranks and
shelter themselves, the general turned a deaf ear. Wherever he saw a man
skulking behind a tree, he flew at once to the spot and, with curses on
his cowardice and blows with the flat of his sword, drove him back into
the open road.

Wherever the distracted artillerymen saw a smoke arise, thither did they
direct their aim; and many of the flankers who had succeeded in
obtaining the only position where they could be of any service, were
thus shot down. Athwart the brow of the hill lay a large log, five feet
in diameter, which Captain Waggoner, of the Virginia Levies, resolved to
take possession of. With shouldered firelocks he marched a party of
eighty men to the spot, losing but three on the way; and at once
throwing themselves behind it, the remainder opened a hot fire upon the
enemy. But no sooner were the flash and the report of their pieces
perceived by the mob behind, than a general discharge was poured upon
the little band, by which fifty were slain outright and the rest
constrained to fly.

By this time the afternoon was well advanced and the whole English line
surrounded. The ammunition began to fail and the artillery to flag; the
baggage was warmly attacked; and a runner was despatched to the fort
with the tidings that by set of sun not an Englishman would be left
alive upon the ground. Still, gathering counsel from despair, Braddock
disdained to yield; still, strong in this point only of their
discipline, his soldiers died by his side, palsied with fear, yet
without one thought of craven flight. At last, when every aide but
Washington was struck down; when the lives of the vast majority of the
officers had been sacrificed with a reckless intrepidity, a sublime
self-devotion, that surpasses the power of language to express; when
scarce a third part of the whole army remained unscathed, and these
incapable of aught save remaining to die or till the word to retire was
given--at last, Braddock abandoned all hope of victory, and, with a mien
undaunted as in his proudest hour, ordered the drums to sound a retreat.
The instant their faces were turned, the poor regulars lost every trace
of the sustaining power of custom; and the retreat became a headlong
flight. "Despite of all the efforts of the officers to the contrary,
they ran," says Washington, "as sheep pursued by dogs, and it was
impossible to rally them."

Beneath a large tree standing between the heads of the northernmost
ravines, and while in the act of giving an order, Braddock received a
mortal wound; the ball passing through his right arm into the lungs.
Falling from his horse, he lay helpless on the ground, surrounded by the
dead, abandoned by the living. Not one of his transatlantic soldiery
"who had served with the Duke" could be prevailed upon to stay his
headlong flight and aid to bear his general from the field. Orme thought
to tempt them with a purse containing sixty guineas; but in such a
moment even gold could not prevail upon a vulgar soul, and they rushed
unheeding on. Disgusted at such pusillanimity, and his heart big with
despair, Braddock refused to be removed, and bade the faithful friends
who lingered by his side to provide for their own safety. He declared
his resolution of leaving his own body on the field; the scene that had
witnessed his dishonor he desired should bury his shame. With manly
affection, Orme disregarded his injunctions; and Captain Stewart, of
Virginia, the commander of the light-horse which were attached to the
general's person, with another American officer, hastening to Orme's
relief, his body was placed first in a tumbrel, and afterward upon a
fresh horse, and thus borne away. Stewart seems to have cherished a
sense of duty or of friendship toward his chief that did not permit him
to desert him for a moment while life remained.

It was about five o'clock in the afternoon when the English abandoned
the field. Pursued to the water's edge by about fifty savages the
regular troops cast from them guns, accoutrements, and even clothing,
that they might run the faster. Many were overtaken and tomahawked here;
but where they had once crossed the river, they were not followed. Soon
turning from the chase, the glutted warriors made haste to their
unhallowed and unparalleled harvest of scalps and plunder. The
provincials, better acquainted with Indian warfare, were less
disconcerted; and though their losses were as heavy, their behavior was
more composed. In full possession of his courage and military instincts,
Braddock still essayed to procure an orderly and soldier-like retreat;
but the demoralization of the army now rendered this impossible. With
infinite difficulty, a hundred men, after running about half a mile,
were persuaded to stop at a favorable spot where Braddock proposed to
remain until Dunbar should arrive, to whose camp Washington was sent
with suitable orders. It will thus be seen how far was his indomitable
soul from succumbing in the discharge of his duties, beneath the
unexpected burthen that had been laid upon him. By his directions Burton
posted sentries here, and endeavored to form a nucleus around which to
gather the shattered remains of the troops, and where the wounded might
be provided for.

But all was idle. In an hour's time almost every soldier had stolen
away, leaving their officers deserted. These, making the best of their
way off, were joined beyond the other ford by Gage, who had rallied some
eighty men; and this was all that remained of that gallant army which
scarce six hours before was by friend and foe alike deemed invincible.
With little interruption the march was continued through that night and
the ensuing day, till at 10 P.M. on July 10th they came to Gist's
plantation; where early on the 11th some wagons and hospital stores
arrived from Dunbar for their relief. Despite the intensity of his
agonies, Braddock still persisted in the exercise of his authority and
the fulfilment of his duties. From Gist's he detailed a party to return
toward the Monongahela with a supply of provisions to be left on the
road for the benefit of stragglers yet behind, and Dunbar was commanded
to send to him the only two remaining old companies of the Forty-fourth
and Forty-eighth, with more wagons to bring off the wounded; and on
Friday, July 11th, he arrived at Dunbar's camp. Through this and all the
preceding day men half famished, without arms and bewildered with
terror, had been joining Dunbar; his camp was in the utmost confusion,
and his soldiers were deserting without ceremony.

Braddock's strength was now fast ebbing away. Informed of the
disorganized condition of the remaining troops, he abandoned all hope of
a prosperous termination to the expedition. He saw that not only death,
but utter defeat, was inevitable. But conscious of the odium the latter
event would excite, he nobly resolved that the sole responsibility of
the measure should rest with himself, and consulted with no one upon the
steps he pursued. He merely issued his orders, and insisted that they
were obeyed. Thus, after destroying the stores to prevent their falling
into the hands of the enemy--of whose pursuit he did not doubt--the
march was to be resumed on Saturday, July 12th, toward Will's Creek.
Ill-judged as these orders were, they met with but too ready
acquiescence at the hands of Dunbar, whose advice was neither asked nor
tendered on the occasion. Thus the great mass of those stores which had
been so painfully brought thither were destroyed. Of the artillery but
two six-pounders were preserved; the cohorns were broken or buried, and
the shells bursted. One hundred fifty wagons were burned; the
powder-casks were staved in, and their contents, to the amount of fifty
thousand pounds, cast into a spring; and the provisions were scattered
abroad upon the ground or thrown into the water. Nothing was saved
beyond the actual necessities for a flying march; and when a party of
the enemy some time afterward visited the scene, they completed the work
of destruction. For this service--the only instance of alacrity that he
displayed in the campaign--Dunbar must not be forgiven. It is not
perfectly clear that Braddock intelligently ever gave the orders; but in
any case they were not fit for a British officer to give or to obey.
Dunbar's duty was to have maintained here his position, or at the least
not to have contemplated falling back beyond Will's Creek. That he had
not horses to remove his stores was, however, his after-excuse.

It was not until Sunday, July 13th, that all this was finished; and the
army with its dying general proceeded to the Great Meadows, where the
close was to transpire:

"Last scene of all,
That ends this strange, eventful history."

Ever since the retreat commenced Braddock had preserved a steadfast
silence, unbroken save when he issued the necessary commands. That his
wound was mortal he knew; but he also knew that his fame had received a
not less fatal stab; that his military reputation, dearer than his own
life to a veteran or those of a thousand others, was gone forever. These
reflections embittered his dying hours; nor were there any means at hand
of diverting the current of his thoughts or ministering to the comfort
of his body; even the chaplain of the army was among the wounded. He
pronounced the warmest eulogiums upon the conduct of his officers--who,
indeed, had merited all he could say of them--and seems to have
entertained some compunctions at not having more scrupulously followed
the advice of Washington, or perhaps at the loss of power to provide for
that young soldier's interests as thoroughly as he would have done had
he returned victorious.

At all events, we find him singling out his Virginia aide as his
nuncupative legatee, bequeathing to him his favorite charger and his
body-servant Bishop, so well known in after-years as the faithful
attendant of the patriot chief. The only allusion he made to the fate of
the battle was to softly repeat once or twice to himself, "Who would
have thought it?" Turning to Orme, "We shall better know how to deal
with them another time," were his parting words. A few moments later and
he breathed his last. Thus at about eight on the night of Sunday, July
13th, honorably died a brave old soldier, who, if wanting in temper and
discretion, was certainly, according to the standard of the school in
which he had been educated, an accomplished officer; and whose courage
and honesty are not to be discussed. The uttermost penalty that humanity
could exact he paid for his errors; and if his misfortune brought death
and woe upon his country, it was through no shrinking on his part from
what he conceived to be his duty. He shared the lot of the humblest man
who fell by his side.

So terminated the bloody battle of the Monongahela; a scene of carnage
which has been truly described as unexampled in the annals of modern
warfare. Of the 1460 souls, officers and privates, who went into the
combat, 456 were slain outright and 421 were wounded; making a total of
877 men. Of 89 commissioned officers, 63 were killed or wounded; not a
solitary field-officer escaping unhurt.

GEORGE WASHINGTON

"FORT CUMBERLAND, 18 July, 1755.
"_To Governor Dinwiddie_:

"HONBL. SIR--As I am favored with an opportunity, I should think myself
inexcusable was I to omit giving you some account of our late
Engagement with the French on the Monongahela, the 9th instant.

"We continued our march from Fort Cumberland to Frazier's (which is
within 7 miles of Duquesne) without meeting any extraordinary event,
having only a straggler or two picked up by the French Indians. When we
came to this place, we were attacked (very unexpectedly) by about three
hundred French and Indians. Our numbers consisted of about thirteen
hundred well-armed men, chiefly Regulars, who were immediately struck
with such an inconceivable panick that nothing but confusion and
disobedience of orders prevailed among them. The officers, in general,
behaved with incomparable bravery, for which they greatly suffered,
there being near sixty killed and wounded--a large proportion, out of
the number we had!

"The Virginia companies behaved like men and died like soldiers; for I
believe out of three companies that were on the ground that day scarce
thirty were left alive. Capt. Peyroney and all his officers, down to a
corporal, were killed; Captn. Polson had almost as hard a fate, for
only one of his escaped. In short, the dastardly behavior of the
Regular troops (so called)[37] exposed those who were inclined to do
their duty to almost certain death, and, at length, in despite of every
effort to the contrary, broke and ran as sheep before hounds, leaving
the artillery, ammunition, provisions, baggage, and, in short,
everything a prey to the enemy. And when we endeavored to rally them,
in hopes of regaining the ground and what we had left upon it, it was
with as little success as if we had attempted to have stopped the wild
bears of the mountains or rivulets with our feet; for they would break
by, in despite of every effort that could be made to prevent it.

"The General was wounded in the shoulder and breast, of which he died
three days after; his two aids-de-camp were both wounded, but are in a
fair way of recovery; Colo. Burton and Sr. John St. Clair are also
wounded and I hope will get over it; Sir Peter Halket, with many other
brave officers, were killed in the field. It is supposed that we had
three hundred or more killed; about that number we brought off wounded,
and it is conjectured (I believe with much truth) that two-thirds of
both received their shot from our own cowardly Regulars, who gathered
themselves into a body, contrary to orders, ten or twelve deep, would
then level, fire and shoot down the men before them.

"I tremble at the consequences that this defeat may have upon our back
settlers, who, I suppose, will all leave their habitations unless there
are proper measures taken for their security.

"Colo. Dunbar, who commands at present, intends, as soon as his men are
recruited at this place, to continue his march to Philadelphia for
winter quarters,[38] consequently there will be no men left here,
unless it is the shattered remains of the Virginia troops, who are
totally inadequate to the protection of the frontiers."

CAPTAIN DE CONTRECOEUR

Monsieur de Contrecoeur, captain of infantry commanding at Fort
Duquesne, having been informed that the English would march out from
Virginia to come to attack him, was warned a little time afterward that
they were on the road. He put spies through the country who would inform
him faithfully of their route. The 7th of this month (July) he was
warned that the army, composed of 3,000 men of the regular English
forces were only six leagues from his fort. The commander employed the
next day in making his arrangements, and on the 9th of the month he sent
Monsieur de Beaujeu against the enemy and gave him for second in command
Monsieurs Dumas and de Lignery, all three of them being captains, with
four lieutenants, six ensigns, 20 cadets, 100 soldiers, 100 Canadians,
and 600 savages, with orders to hide themselves in a favorable place
that had previously been reconnoitred. The detachment found itself in
the presence of the enemy at three leagues from the fort before being
able to gain its appointed post. Monsieur de Beaujeu seeing that his
ambuscade had failed, began a direct attack. He did this with so much
energy that the enemy, who awaited us in the best order in the world,
seemed astounded at the assault. Their artillery, however, promptly
commenced to fire and our forces were confused in their turn. The
savages also, frightened by the noise of the cannon rather than their
execution, commenced to lose ground. Monsieur de Beaujeu was killed, and
Monsieur Dumas rallied our forces. He ordered his officers to lead the
savages and spread out on both wings, so as to take the enemy in flank.
At the same time he, Monsieur de Lignery, and the other officers who
were at the head of the French attacked in front. This order was
executed so promptly that the enemy, who were already raising cries of
victory, were no longer able even to defend themselves. The combat
wavered from one side to the other and success was long doubtful, but at
length the enemy fled.

They struggled unavailingly to keep some order in their retreat. The
cries of the savages with which the woods echoed, carried fear into the
hearts of the foe. The rout was complete. The field of battle remained
in our possession, with six large cannons and a dozen smaller ones, four
bombs, eleven mortars, all their munitions of war and almost all their
baggage. Some deserters who have since come to us tell us that we fought
against two thousand men, the rest of the army being four leagues
farther back. These same deserters tell us that our enemies have retired
to Virginia. The spies that we have sent out report that the thousand
men who had no part in the battle, also took fright and abandoned their
arms and provisions along the road. On this news we sent out a
detachment which destroyed or burned all that remained by the roadside.
The enemies have lost more than a thousand men on the field of battle;
they have lost a great part of their artillery and provisions, also
their general, named Monsieur Braddock, and almost all their officers.
We had three officers killed and two wounded, two cadets wounded. This
remarkable success, which scarcely seemed possible in view of the
inequality of the forces, is the fruit of the experience of Monsieur
Dumas and of the activity and valor of the officers that he had under
his orders.

FOOTNOTES:

[37] The regulars laid the responsibility of defeat on the provincials,
alleging "that they were harassed by duties unequal to their numbers,
and dispirited through want of provisions; that time was not allowed
them to dress their food; that their water (the only liquor, too, they
had) was both scarce and of a bad quality; in fine, that the provincials
had disheartened them by repeated suggestions of their fears of a defeat
should they be attacked by Indians, in which case the European method of
fighting would be entirely unavailing."--_Review of the Military
Operations in North America from 1753 to 1756._ The _Gentleman's
Magazine_ asserted these same forces--Irish, Scotch, and English--ran
away "shamefully" at Prestonpans. The news of Braddock's defeat "struck
a general damp on the spirits of the soldiers" in Shirley's and
Pepperell's regiments, and many deserted.

"I must leave a proper number in each county to protect it from the
combinations of the Negro slaves, who have been very audacious on the
defeat on the Ohio. These poor creatures imagine the French will give
them their freedom."--DINWIDDIE to Earl of Halifax, 23 July, 1755.

[38] "Fearful of an unpursuing foe, all the ammunition, and so much of
the provisions were destroyed for accelerating their flight, that Dunbar
was actually obliged to send for thirty horse-loads of the latter before
he reached Fort Cumberland, where he arrived a very few days after, with
the shattered remains of the English troops."--_Review of the Military
Operations in North America._ Dinwiddie wished Dunbar to remain and make
a new attempt on Duquesne; but a council of officers unanimously decided
the scheme was impracticable, and on the next day (August 2d) began his
march toward Philadelphia.

EXILE OF THE ACADIAN NEUTRALS

A.D. 1755

WILLIAM H. WITHROW[39]

The deportation and dispersion of the French Neutrals from their
Acadian homes at Grandpré, on the peninsula that projects into Minas
Basin, Nova Scotia, was one of the most pitiful incidents in the
French and Indian war, known as the American phase of the Seven
Years' War. The region is familiar to Americans, through the epic of
the poet Longfellow, as the Land of Evangeline. The district around
Minas Basin was settled in the early years of the seventeenth
century by immigrants from La Rochelle, Saintonge, and Poitou.
During the wars between France and England the Acadians, as a Nova
Scotian historian relates, "were strongly patriotic, and took up
arms in the cause of their native land. Intensely devoted to the
Roman Catholic Church, and considering these wars as in the nature
of crusades, they fought valiantly and well. But when Nova Scotia
was finally ceded to Great Britain (in 1713) their position became
very awkward and painful. Many of them refused to take the oath of
allegiance, and for others a modified formula was framed. Emissaries
of the French power at Louisburg and Quebec circulated among them
and maintained their loyalty to France at a fever heat, while their
priests pursued the same policy and kept up the hostility to the
conquerors.

The British provincial government was located at Annapolis, and
though its laws were mild and clement, it could not command respect
on account of its physical weakness. Under these circumstances
hundreds of Acadians joined the French armies during every war
between the two powers, and proved dangerous foemen on account of
their knowledge of the region. British settlers were unwilling to
locate among these people on account of their racial hostility, and
the fairest lands of the province were thus held by an alien and
hostile population.

The expulsion and exile of the French Neutrals from their homes in
Acadia--the region now included in the Canadian provinces of Nova Scotia
and New Brunswick--are one of the saddest episodes in history. The
occasion for their removal and dispersion was the alleged charge that
they secretly took sides with their French compatriots against the
English in every struggle on this continent between the two nations,
each seeking supreme dominion in the New World, and were thus a constant
menace to the English colonists on the seaboard. The trouble at this
period was complicated by disputed boundary lines, the whole interior of
the continent being claimed by France, while the English were shut in
between the mountain ranges of the Alleghanies and the sea. But the
English colonies would not be hemmed in either by nature or by France.
Their hardy sons sought adventure and gain in the Far West, while not a
few for this purpose pushed their way to the St. Lawrence and the Lakes
by the water-ways and woodland valleys of the continent. The French,
resenting this intrusion, began to erect a series of forts to mark the
boundaries of their possessions and conserve the inland fur trade.

Already, in the Gulf of St. Lawrence, the first scene in the opening
drama had been enacted at Louisburg. This stronghold in Cape Breton,
which guarded the marine highway to New France, had surrendered in 1745
to the forces of England and her colonial levies on the Atlantic. French
pride was hurt at this disaster and the loss of the important naval
station in the gulf. To recover the lost prestige, Count de la
Galissonière was sent as governor to Canada. This nobleman's extravagant
assumptions of the extent of the territorial possessions of New France,
however, offended the English colonists and roused the jealousy of many
of the Indian tribes. Nor was this feeling allayed when France, by the
Peace of Aix-la-Chapelle, recovered Louisburg, and when her boundary
commissioners claimed all the country north of the Bay of Fundy as not
having been ceded to England by the Treaty of Utrecht (1713), the
inevitable result followed; hostilities between the two nations were
precipitated in the valley of the Ohio by the persistent encroachment of
the English.

English successes in other parts of the continent in some measure atoned
for Braddock's defeat. Beauséjour fell before an expeditionary force
sent out from Massachusetts, while Dieskau was routed and made a
prisoner near Lake George by Colonel (afterward Sir William) Johnson, in
command of the colonial militia and a band of Mohawk warriors.

The command of the expedition against Beauséjour, in the Acadian
isthmus, to which the French still laid claim, had been given to Colonel
Monckton, who, in the spring of 1755, sailed from Boston with forty-one
vessels and two thousand men. Ill-manned by a few hundred refugees and a
small body of soldiers it soon capitulated and was renamed Fort
Cumberland. The Acadian peasants, on the beautiful shores of the Bay of
Fundy, Canadian historians tell us, "were a simple, virtuous, and
prosperous community," though other writers give them less favorable
character, speaking of them as turbulent, aggressive, and meddlesome.
With remarkable industry they had reclaimed from the sea by dikes many
thousand of fertile acres, which produced abundant crops of grain and
orchard fruits; and on the sea meadows at one time grazed as many as
sixty thousand head of cattle. The simple wants of the peasants were
supplied by domestic manufacture or by importations from Louisburg. So
great was their attachment to the government and institutions of their
fatherland that during the aggressions of the English after the conquest
of the region a great part of the population--some ten thousand in
number, it is said, though the figures are disputed--abandoned their
homes and migrated to that portion of Acadia still claimed by the
French, while others removed to Cape Breton or to Canada. About seven
thousand still remained in the peninsula of Nova Scotia, but they
claimed a political neutrality, resolutely refusing to take the oath of
allegiance to the alien conquerors. They were accused of intriguing with
their countrymen at Louisburg, with resisting the English authority, and
with inciting, and even leading, the Indians to ravage the English
settlements.

The cruel Micmacs needed little instigation. They swooped down on the
little town of Dartmouth, opposite Halifax, and within gunshot of its
forts, and reaped a rich harvest of scalps and booty. The English
prisoners they sometimes sold at Louisburg for arms and ammunition. The
Governor asserted that pure compassion was the motive of this traffic,
in order to rescue the captives from massacre. He demanded, however, an
excessive ransom for their liberation. The Indians were sometimes,
indeed generally, it was asserted, led in these murderous raids by
French commanders. These violations of neutrality, however, were chiefly
the work of a few turbulent spirits. The mass of the Acadian peasants
seem to have been a peaceful and inoffensive people, although they
naturally sympathized with their countrymen, and rejoiced at the
victory of Du Quesne, and sorrowed at the defeat of Lake George. They
were, nevertheless, declared rebels and outlaws, and a council at
Halifax, confounding the innocent with the guilty, decreed the expulsion
of the entire French population.

[Illustration: British officer reads the decree of exile of the Acadian
neutrals in the village church.

Painting by Frank Dicksee, A.R.A.]

The decision was promptly given effect. Ships soon appeared before the
principal settlement in the Bay of Fundy. All the male inhabitants over
ten years of age were summoned to hear the King's command. At Grandpré
four hundred assembled in the village church, when the British officer
read from the altar the decree of their exile. Resistance was
impossible; armed soldiers guarded the door, and the men were
imprisoned. They were marched at the bayonet's point, amid the wailings
of their relatives, on board the transports. The women and children were
shipped in other vessels. Families were scattered; husbands and wives
separated--many never to meet again. Hundreds of comfortable homesteads
and well-filled barns were ruthlessly given to the flames. A number,
variously estimated at from three to seven thousand, were dispersed
along the Atlantic seaboard from Maine to Georgia. Twelve hundred were
carried to South Carolina. A few planted a New Acadia among their
countrymen in Louisiana. Some sought to return to their blackened
hearths, coasting in open boats along the shore. These were relentlessly
intercepted when possible, and sent back into hopeless exile. An
imperishable interest has been imparted to this sad story by
Longfellow's beautiful poem _Evangeline_, which describes the sorrows
and sufferings of some of the inhabitants of the little village of
Grandpré.

FOOTNOTES:

[39] By permission of the author.

CLIVE ESTABLISHES BRITISH SUPREMACY IN INDIA

THE BLACK HOLE OF CALCUTTA: BATTLE OF PLASSEY

A.D. 1756

SIR ALEXANDER J. ARBUTHNOT

Robert Clive is recognized as the man to whom, above all others,
England owes the establishment of her empire in India. Born in 1725
in Shropshire, he was raised to the Irish peerage in 1760 as Baron
Clive of Plassey. The son of a poor country squire, at eighteen he
entered the service of the East India Company at Madras.

For over a century the company had competed with its Dutch rival in
India, and Clive went to his post at a time when French rivalry with
the English was becoming formidable. In 1744 war broke out between
the English and French, and Clive saw his first military service. In
the second war with the French (1751-1754), he bore the leading
part, capturing Arcot (1751), and successfully defending it against
a vastly superior force of natives, who were aided by the French. By
these successes he won a brilliant reputation. His later career
proved him to be as efficient in civil as in military affairs, and
he stands in English history distinguished among great
administrators, although he has been no less the object of censure
than of praise by his country's historians. A parliamentary inquiry
into his official conduct resulted (1773) in his practical
vindication. Whatever the truth in the case may be, Clive must ever
hold his place among the "builders of Greater Britain."

In 1753 Clive returned to England, and two years later went back to
India as governor of Fort St. David, in the Madras presidency. Of
his proceedings in this government and his further successful
military enterprises, which went so far to win India for England,
Arbuthnot, late member of the Council of India, gives an
authoritative account, based on the fullest information available at
the close of the nineteenth century.

Clive returned to the Madras Presidency at a critical moment. War with
France was imminent, and broke out in the course of a few months. The
very day that Clive assumed the government of Fort St. David, Calcutta
was captured by the Nawab[40] of Bengal, and the tragedy of the Black
Hole took place. The acquisition of Calcutta by the East India Company
was somewhat later than that of Madras. It dates from 1686, when the
representatives of the company, driven by the Mogul authorities from
Hugli, where they had established a factory, moved under the leadership
of Job Charnock some twenty-six miles down the river to Satanati, now
one of the northern suburbs of Calcutta. Ten years afterward they built
the original Fort William, and in 1700 they purchased the villages of
Satanti, Kalikata, and Govindpur from the son of the Emperor.

In 1707 the East India Company declared Calcutta a separate presidency.
Here, surrounded by the richest districts in India, amid a teeming
population, on the banks of a river which was the chief highway of
Eastern commerce, the servants of the company drove a thriving trade,
threatened only, but never actually assailed, by the raids of the
Mahrattas, the memory of which is still kept alive by the famous
Mahratta ditch. They were in the same relation to the Nawab of Bengal as
the servants of the company at Madras were to the Nawab of the Carnatic.
In April, 1756, Aliverdi Khan, who was a just and strong ruler, died,
and was succeeded by his grandson, Suraj ud Daulah, a youth under twenty
years of age, whose training had been of the worst description. One of
the whims of this youth was hatred toward the English, and he had not
been two months on the throne when he found a pretext for indulging this
sentiment in the fact that the English, in anticipation of difficulties
with the French, were strengthening the fortifications of Fort William.
On June 4th he seized the English factory at Kasimbazar, and on the 15th
attacked Calcutta. The women and children in the fort were removed on
board ship on the 18th, and on the same day the Governor, Mr. Drake, and
the military commandant, Captain Minchin, deserted their posts, and to
their lasting disgrace betook themselves to the ships. Mr. Holwell, a
member of the council, assumed command in the fort, but on the 25th the
place was taken.

All the Englishmen in the fort, one hundred forty-six persons, were
thrust at the point of a sword into a small room, the prison of the
garrison, commonly known as the Black Hole, only twenty feet square. The
Nawab had promised to spare their lives, but had gone to sleep after a
debauch. No expostulations on the part of the prisoners, not even
bribes, would induce the guards to awake the Nawab and obtain his leave
to liberate the prisoners, until the morning, when, having slept off his
debauch, he allowed the door to be opened. By that time, out of one
hundred forty-six prisoners, one hundred twenty-three had miserably
perished. The survivors, among whom was the acting Governor, Holwell,
were brought before the tyrant, insulted and reproached by him, and
detained in custody in wretched sheds and fed upon grain and water. An
Englishwoman who was one of the survivors, was placed in the Nawab's
harem. The details of this terrible tragedy and of the sufferings which
the survivors subsequently underwent, are given in a letter from Mr.
Holwell, from which it appears that his eventual release was brought
about by the intercession of Aliverdi Khan's widow, who had in vain
endeavored to dissuade the Nawab from attacking Calcutta, and had
predicted that his doing so would be his ruin.

Intelligence of the outrage did not reach Madras until August 16th, when
it was at once decided to send a force under Clive to Calcutta to avenge
it. Clive was appointed commander-in-chief, with full military and
political control. He took with him 900 English soldiers and 1200 Sepoys
and some artillery. Owing, however, to the obstinacy of Admiral Watson,
and to jealousy of Clive on the part of Colonel Aldercron, who had
recently arrived at Madras in command of the Thirty-ninth foot, a delay
of two months took place before the expedition sailed. Watson declined
to undertake it at all unless the government of the Bengal settlement,
which the Madras council proposed to assume pending orders from home,
was intrusted to the survivors of the Bengal Council, the leaders of
which had so shamefully deserted their posts; while Aldercron, on being
informed that Clive was to exercise the military command, actually went
so far as to disembark the greater part of his regiment, together with
guns and stores which had already been put on board ship, allowing only
two hundred fifty men to remain, who were to serve as marines under
Watson.

The delay was unfortunate; for before the squadron sailed the northeast
monsoon had set in, and in consequence none of the ships reached the
Hugli until the middle of December, and even then two of the largest
ships were missing; the Marlborough, with most of the artillery, and
the Cumberland, with Admiral Pocock and two hundred fifty English
soldiers, having failed to make their way against the monsoon. Clive's
orders were to recapture Calcutta, to attack the Nawab at his capital,
Murshidabad, and, in the event of war between England and France being
declared, to capture the French settlement of Chandernagor
(Chandranagar). When the expedition reached the Hugli, Clive wished the
men under his command to be taken on in the ships as far as Budge Budge
(Bajbaj)--a fortified place about ten miles from Calcutta, which it was
necessary to capture; but Watson, with his habitual perversity, insisted
upon the troops being landed at Mayapur, some miles farther down, thus
obliging them to make a most fatiguing night march through a swampy
country covered with jungle. The result was that they reached Budge
Budge in an exhausted condition, and being surprised by the Nawab's
troops shortly after their arrival, had a very narrow escape from
destruction, which was averted only by Clive's presence of mind and
readiness of resource.

Clive says, in a letter to Pigot, reporting this affair a few days
afterward: "You must know our march from Mayapur to the northward of
Budge Budge was much against my inclinations. I applied to the admiral
for boats to land us at the place we arrived at after sixteen hours'
march by land. The men suffered hardships not easily to be described; it
was four in the afternoon when we decamped from Mayapur, and we did not
arrive off Budge Budge until past eight the next morning. At nine the
Grenadier company and all the Sepoys were despatched to the fort, where
I heard Captain Coote was landed with the King's troops. At ten,
Manickchand, the Governor of Calcutta, attacked us with between two and
three thousand horse and foot, and was worsted. Manickchand himself
received a shot in his turban. Our two field pieces were of little or no
service to us, having neither tubes nor port-fires, and heavy carriages
were sent with them from Fort St. David. Indeed, we still labor under
every disadvantage in the world for want of the Marlborough. It seems
the enemy were encamped within two miles of us, and we ignorant of the
matter. So much for the intelligence of the country."

There can be no doubt that Clive sustained a surprise that might have
been prevented had the ordinary precautions been used; but in the
circumstances there is much allowance to be made. Clive himself was ill,
and had suffered much from the fatiguing march which he and his men had
gone through, owing to Watson's wrong-headed obstinacy. But
notwithstanding illness and fatigue, and the unexpected appearance of a
hostile force, Clive on this, as on other occasions, never for a moment
lost his nerve. He at once rallied his men, who, awakened out of their
sleep by being fired upon, were at first thrown into confusion, and then
with scarcely a pause made dispositions which retrieved the situation,
although not without heavy loss to the English.

When Watson and Clive entered the river, they found at Falta some of the
fugitives from Calcutta, and the scanty remains of a small force which,
on the receipt of intelligence of the seizure of Kasimbazar, but before
the news of the Black Hole tragedy had arrived, the Madras authorities
had sent to Bengal under Major Kilpatrick. Clive, after beating off
Manickchand's army, was met by Major Kilpatrick, who had been sent to
his aid with reënforcements. In the mean time Watson had bombarded Budge
from his ships, and had effected a breach in the ramparts of the fort.
Clive had arranged to assault the fort the next day, when a drunken
sailor, discovering the breach, entered it alone, and firing his pistol
among a small group of the defenders who were sitting near, shouted out,
"The fort is mine," accompanying the exclamation by three loud cheers.
He was at once attacked, but defended himself valiantly, and, some of
the English soldiers and Sepoys coming up, the garrison abandoned the
fort, which was taken possession of by Captain Eyre Coote, who had come
up from Madras with a detachment of the Thirty-ninth foot. The squadron,
with the troops, then moved on to Calcutta, which surrendered on January
2d, Manickchand having evacuated the place and returned with his army to
the head-quarters of the Nawab at Murshidabad. Then occurred another of
Watson's arbitrary and ill-judged proceedings. Notwithstanding the
orders of the Madras government, investing Clive with military and
political control in Bengal, Watson appointed Coote, whose rank was that
of captain, to be governor of Fort William. Clive declined to permit
this arrangement, claiming the command as the senior officer, and
threatened to place Coote under arrest if he disobeyed his orders.
Thereupon Watson threatened to fire upon the fort unless Clive gave it
up. The matter ended in a compromise, Clive surrendering the fort to
Watson on condition that it was afterward handed over to the
representatives of the company. In this, and in other disputes with
Watson, Clive appears to have kept his temper, while acting with
firmness. Writing to Mr. Pigot, Clive describes this affair in the
following words:

"I cannot help regretting that I ever undertook this expedition. The
mortifications I have received from Mr. Watson[41] and the gentlemen of
the squadron in point of prerogative are such that nothing but the good
of the service could induce me to submit to them. The morning the enemy
quitted Calcutta, a party of our Sepoys entered the fort at the same
time with a detachment from the ships, and were ignominiously thrust
out. Upon coming near the fort myself, I was informed that there were
orders that none of the company's officers or troops should have
entrance. This, I own, enraged me to such a degree that I was resolved
to enter if possible, which I did, though not in the manner maliciously
reported, by forcing the sentries; for they suffered me to pass very
patiently upon being informed who I was. At my entrance Captain Coote
presented me with a commission from Admiral Watson, appointing him
governor of Fort William which I knew not a syllable of before; and it
seems this dirty underhand contrivance was carried on in the most secret
manner, under a pretence that I intended the same thing, which I declare
never entered my thoughts. The affair was compromised by the admiral
consenting that I should be governor and that the company's troops
should remain in the fort. The next day the admiral delivered up the
fort to the company's representatives in the King's name."

Watson, it would seem, could not bring himself to recognize the fact
that Clive was not only an officer of the East India Company, but had
been granted a royal commission. In this he showed himself both stupid
and headstrong. Notwithstanding this petty jealousy of the company's
service, a jealousy in which he was by no means singular, he was an
honorable man, desirous, according to his lights, to serve his King and
country; and in the important transactions which afterward took place,
his cooperation with Clive appears to have been fairly cordial.

It was otherwise with the council at Calcutta, who greatly resented the
independent powers which had been conferred upon Clive by the Madras
authorities. At that early period those presidential jealousies which
have so often interfered with the efficient administration of Indian
affairs, and even now are not entirely extinguished, appear to have
existed in full force. The select committee at Calcutta, as the
Governor's council was then designated, called upon Clive to surrender
the powers with which he had been invested, and to place himself under
them. His reply was a decided refusal. "I do not," he wrote, "intend to
make use of my power for acting separately from you, without you reduce
me to the necessity of so doing; but as far as concerns the means of
executing these powers, you will excuse me, gentlemen, if I refuse to
give them up. I cannot do it without forfeiting the trust reposed in me
by the select committee of Fort St. George. It does not become me, as an
individual, to give my opinion whether the conduct of the gentlemen of
Fort St. George has been faulty or not. That point must be determined by
our superiors."

The attitude of the Calcutta committee was described by Clive in a
letter to his friend Pigot in the following terms: "I am sorry to say
that the loss of private property and the means of recovering it seem to
be the only objects which take up the thoughts of the Bengal gentlemen.
Believe me, they are bad subjects and rotten at heart, and will stick at
nothing to prejudice you and the gentlemen of the committee. Indeed, how
should they do otherwise when they have not spared one another? I shall
only add, their conduct at Calcutta finds no excuse even among
themselves, and that the riches of Peru and Mexico should not induce me
to dwell among them."

Immediately after the recapture of Calcutta, Clive, in conjunction with
Watson, moved up the river to Hugli, and captured that place without
difficulty, securing booty which was estimated at fifteen thousand
pounds, and destroying some large and valuable granaries. They had also
planned an expedition to Dacca, the capital of Eastern Bengal, when they
learned that the Nawab was again marching upon Calcutta with a large
force. A battle ensued on February 5th, in which Clive, with 1350
Europeans, 800 Sepoys, and 7 field-guns, beat the Nawab's force of
40,000 men, including 18,000 cavalry, 40 guns, and 50 elephants. The
greater part of the battle was fought in a dense fog, and Clive's men,
losing their way, came under the fire of their own guns and of those in
Fort William. At one time the position of the troops was very critical.
The English loss was heavy, amounting to 57 killed and 117 wounded, of
whom 39 and 82 respectively were Europeans, and it included Clive's
aide-de-camp and secretary, who were killed by his side. But the battle,
although attended by this heavy loss to the English, was even more
disastrous to the Nawab's troops, whose casualties amounted to 1300,
among whom were 2 noblemen of high rank and 22 of lesser note.

Clive's account of this engagement is contained in the following letter,
addressed by him, a few weeks after it was fought, to the Duke of
Newcastle. It has been for many years deposited among the manuscripts in
the British Museum, whence, by the kindness of Dr. Richard Garnett, a
copy has been furnished to the writer of this memoir. It is believed
that the letter has not been published before.

"_From Lieutenant-colonel Robert Clive to Thomas Pelham Holles, Duke
Of Newcastle, First Lord Of the Treasury_:

"May it please your Grace: The countenance your Grace was pleased to
shew me when I left England encourages me to address you on the
subject of the East India Company.

"No doubt your Grace hath been acquainted with the capture of the
Town of Calcutta and Fort William by the Moors, the principal
settlement in the Kingdom of Bengall and of the utmost consequence
to the E. India Company. The loss of private property only is
computed at more than 2 millions sterling.

"When this unfortunate news arrived at Madrass, the President and
Council aplyed to Vice-Admiral Watson for assistance in recovering
the rights and possessions of the Province of Bengal, and for the
same purpose ordered a large body of land forces to embark under my
command; and I have the pleasure to inform your Grace this
expedition by sea and land has been crown'd with all the success
that could be wished.

"The Town of Calcutta and Fort William was soon retaken, with
several other Forts belonging to the Enemy. This news brought down
the Nabob, or Prince of the Country, himselfe at the head of 20,000
horse and 30,000 foot, 25 pieces of cannon, with a great number of
elephants--our little army, consisting of 700 Europeans and 1200
blacks, arm'd and disciplined after the English manner, lay encamped
about 5 miles from the Town of Calcutta. On the 4th of February the
Nabob's Army appear'd in sight, and past our camp at the distance of
1-1/2 miles, and encamp'd on the back of the town. Several parties
of their horse past within 400 yards of our advanc'd battery, but as
wee entertain'd great hopes of a peace from the Nabob's promises,
wee did not fire upon them.

"On the 5th, agreeable to the Nabob's desire, I despatch'd two
gentlemen to wait upon him, in hopes everything might be settled
without drawing the sword, but the haughtiness and disrespect with
which he treated them convinced me nothing could be expected by mild
measures. This determin'd me to attack his camp in the night time,
for which purpose I aply'd to Admiral Watson for 500 sailors to draw
our cannon, which he readily sent me, and at 3 o'clock in the
morning our little army, consisting of 600 Europeans, 500 blacks, 7
field-pieces and the sailors above mentioned, set out for the
attack.

"A little before daybreak wee entred the camp, and received a very
brisk fire. This did not stop the progress of our troops, which
march'd thro' the enemie's camp upwards of 4 miles in length. Wee
were more than 2 hours passing, and what escaped the van was
destroy'd by the rear. Wee were obliged to keep a constant fire of
artillery and musketry the whole time. A body of 300 of the enemy's
horse made a gallant charge, but were received with so much coolness
by the military that few escaped. Several other brisk charges were
made on our rear, but to no purpose, and wee returned safe to camp,
having killed by the best accounts 1300 men and between 5 and 600
horse, with 4 elephants, the loss on our side 200 men killed and
wounded. This blow had its effect, for the next day the army
decamp'd and the Nabob sent me a letter offering terms of
accommodation; and I have the pleasure of acquainting your Grace a
firm peace is concluded, greatly to the honour and advantage of the
Company, and the Nabob has entered into an alliance offensive and
defensive with them, and is returned to his capital at Muxadavad.

"As I have already been honour'd with your Grace's protection and
favour, I flatter my selfe with the continuance of it, and that, if
your Grace thinks me deserving, your Grace will recommend me to the
Court of Directors.--I am, with the greatest respect, your Grace's
most devoted humble servant,

"ROBERT CLIVE.

"CAMP NEAR CALCUTTA,
"_23d Febry. 1757_."

The terms of the treaty were exceedingly favorable to the company. All
the privileges formerly granted to the English were renewed, all trade
covered by English passes was freed, all property of the company or of
its servants or tenants which had been taken by the Nawab's officers to
servants was to be restored; the English were to fortify Calcutta, and
to coin money as they might deem proper. The Nawab, on February 11th,
began his return march to his capital, previously commissioning
Omichand, in whose garden the late battle had been fought, to propose a
treaty of alliance, offensive and defensive, with the English. This
treaty was accepted and signed by Clive and Watson, not without some
hesitation on the part of the latter, who, the day after the fight in
the outskirts of Calcutta, advised Clive to renew his attack. Clive,
however, dreaded a combination between the French and the Nawab, and
regarded the French settlement at Chandernagor as a serious danger to
Calcutta. He had learned, when at Hugli, that war had been again
declared between England and France, and before leaving Madras he had
been instructed by the government there that, in the event of a war with
France again breaking out in Europe, he was to capture Chandernagor.

After the capture of Chandernagor, Clive's distrust of the Nawab was
intensified, not only by the information supplied by Mr. Watts of his
intrigues with the French, but by his refusal to allow the passage of a
few Sepoys and of supplies of ammunition and stores to the English
factory at Kasimbazar. Meanwhile Clive received from Watts information
of a plot which had been formed by some of the leading personages at the
Nawab's court to dethrone him. These persons were Raja Dulab Ram, the
finance minister; Mir Jafar, the commander-in-chief of the army; and Yar
Latif Khan, a man not of the first rank, who would seem to have started
the conspiracy, stipulating that, if it succeeded, he should be made
nawab. There is some ground, however, for supposing that the original
suggestion emanated from Jaggat Seth, a wealthy banker, who had received
personal insults from the Nawab. Another person of considerable weight
who was also implicated in the plot was Omichand, the wealthy Hindu in
whose garden the Nawab's camp had been pitched on that foggy night in
February when Clive marched through it. On that occasion he sustained a
somewhat heavy loss, but inflicted a much heavier loss upon the troops
of the Nawab, and thereby frightened the latter into treating for peace.
At an early stage of the proceedings Clive received overtures from Mir
Jafar, the commander-in-chief, who offered to aid the English against
the Nawab on condition that he should succeed him. The events which
followed included what in some respects were the most brilliant, and
were certainly the most questionable, incidents in Clive's career. While
his military reputation, already established by the defence of Arcot,
the victory at Kaveripak, and the operations before Trichinopoli, rose
higher than ever, and while he developed a capacity for civil and
political administration of the highest order, the fame of his exploits
was tarnished by a breach of faith which it is impossible to justify,
and by the acceptance of large sums of money from the native prince whom
he placed upon the throne of Bengal after the deposition of Suraj ud
Daulah.

The treaty provided for an offensive and defensive alliance with Mir
Jafar; for a prohibition against any resettlement of the French in
Bengal, and for the transfer of their factories to the English company;
for compensation for English losses at Calcutta, viz., to the company,
£1,000,000; to the European inhabitants, £500,000; to the native
inhabitants, £200,000; to the Armenians, £70,000; for the cession of all
land within the Mahratta ditch and 600 yards beyond it; for the cession
to the company of the Zemidari of the country to the south of Calcutta
as far as Kalpi, subject to the payment of the customary rent; for the
payment by the Nawab of all English troops sent to his assistance, and
for a prohibition against the erection of any new forts below Hugli.
Under a supplementary treaty Mir Jafar was to pay £500,000 to the army
and navy and £120,000 to the members of council.

Mir Jafar's signature to the treaty was received on June 12th, and
Clive's force at once advanced. On that day all the troops quartered at
Calcutta, together with one hundred fifty sailors from the fleet,
crossed over to Chandernagor, where they joined the remainder of the
force already quartered at the latter place. The Europeans, including
the artillery, were sent up the river in two hundred boats, the Sepoys
marching by land. On June 13th Clive despatched to the Nawab a letter
which was practically a declaration of war. It arraigned the Nawab for
his breach of treaty, and informed him that Clive had determined, with
the approbation of all who were charged with the company's affairs, to
proceed immediately to Kasimbazar, and to submit the dispute with the
Nawab to the arbitration of Mir Jafar, Raja Dulab Ram, Jaggat Seth, and
"others of your highness' great men." "If these," he wrote, "decide that
I have deviated from the treaty, then I swear to give up all further
claims upon your highness; but if it should appear that your highness
has broken faith, then I shall demand satisfaction for all the losses
sustained by the English, and all the charges of the army and navy." The
letter ended with an intimation that as the rains were at hand, and it
would take many days to receive an answer, the writer would "wait upon
the Nawab at his capital to receive satisfaction." The attitude which
Clive adopted was bold and defiant, but, for all that, Clive was by no
means free from anxiety. It was not at all certain that Mir Jafar would
adhere to his agreement. He was to have joined Clive at Katwa with a
friendly force, but instead of doing so he merely sent Clive a letter
promising to join him on the field of battle. On the 14th Clive's force
reached Kalna, where it was joined by Watts, who had escaped from
Murshidabad on the previous day. On the 17th they captured Katwa, with
its fortress, after a slight resistance, and found the place well
stocked with grain. On the 19th, while they halted at Katwa, the monsoon
rains set in, and the troops, who were lodged in tents, had to take
shelter in huts and small houses. On the same day Clive, whose anxiety
continued to be very great, addressed the following letter to the
committee at Calcutta:

"I feel the greatest anxiety at the little intelligence I receive from
Mir Jafar, and if he is not treacherous, his _sang froid_ or want of
strength will, I fear, overset the expedition. I am trying a last effort
by means of a Brahmin to prevail upon him to march out and join us. I
have appointed Plassey as the place of rendezvous, and have told him at
the same time that unless he gives this or some other sufficient proof
of the sincerity of his intentions I will not cross the river. This, I
hope, will meet with your approbation. I shall act with such caution as
not to risk the loss of our forces; and whilst we have them, we may
always have it in our power to bring about a revolution, though the
present should not succeed. They say there is a considerable quantity of
grain in and about the place. If we collect eight or ten thousand
maunds" (eight or ten hundred thousand pounds), "we may maintain our
situation during the rains, which will greatly distress the Nawab, and
either reduce him to terms which may be depended upon, or give us time
to bring in the Birbhum Raja, the Mahrattas, or Ghazi ud din. I desire
you will give your sentiments freely how you think I should act if Mir
Jafar can give us no assistance."

The situation was certainly a very alarming one. Clive had only 3200 men
to oppose what proved to be an army of 50,000. He had no cavalry, and
only a few guns, while the enemy had a large artillery force. In the
circumstances, it is perhaps hardly to be wondered at that Clive should
desire to share the responsibility. This he did, for what proved to be
the first and last time in his life, by holding a council of war, to
which he propounded the following question: "Whether, in our present
situation, without assistance, and on our own bottom, it would be
prudent to attack the Nawab, or whether we should wait till joined by
some country power." Of the sixteen members of the council, nine,
including Clive, voted for delay, and seven, including Eyre Coote, were
for an immediate attack. But Clive did not adhere to his original vote.
After the council had risen, he withdrew to a clump of trees, and having
passed an hour in thinking over all the arguments for and against delay,
he determined to move forward at once. Meeting Eyre Coote on his way
back to camp, he told him he had changed his mind, and intended to march
the next morning. Accordingly, in the early morning of June 22d, the
force marched down the bank of the Bhagirathi, and crossed the river the
same afternoon without meeting with any opposition. There still remained
fifteen miles to be traversed in order to reach Plassey. Clive's force,
after struggling through mud and water in a continued torrent of rain,
did not arrive at the village until one o'clock on the morning of the
23d. Clive had heard from Mir Jafar that the Nawab's army would halt at
Mankarah, a place some miles short of Plassey; but the Nawab had changed
his plans, and reached Plassey twelve hours before Clive. Thus, on his
arrival, Clive found that the enemy were close at hand. He spent the
remainder of the night making his dispositions, while his troops
bivouacked in an extensive mango-grove on ground already soaked by the
rain, which was still falling. The mango-grove was 800 yards in length
and 300 in breadth, and was surrounded by a bank and a ditch. About
fifty yards beyond it stood a hunting-box belonging to the Nawab of
Oude. Of this Clive at once took possession. The grove was little more
than a mile from the Nawab's encampment. The force under Clive, as
stated, did no exceed 3200 men, of whom 900 were English, 200 were
Eurasians, and 2100 native Sepoys. There was a small artillery train,
composed of eight six-pounders and two small howitzers. The Nawab's
army, so far as numerical strength was concerned, was enormously
superior to Clive's force. It consisted of 35,000 infantry--for the most
part imperfectly trained and undisciplined--and 15,000 cavalry well
mounted and well armed. He had 53 pieces of artillery, most of them of
heavy calibre, and with them 40 or 50 Frenchmen commanded by M. St.
Frais, who had been a member of the French council at Chandernagor. His
army occupied a strongly intrenched position. His right rested on the
river, while his left stretched out into the open plain.

The following is a brief description of the battle, taken from Clive's
journal of military proceedings:

"At daybreak we discovered the Nawab's army at the distance of about
three miles in full march towards us, upon which the whole were ordered
under arms, being in two battalions. The Europeans were told off in four
grand divisions, the artillery distributed between them, and the Sepoys
on the right and left of the whole.

"Our situation was very advantageous, being in a grove surrounded by
high mud-banks. Our right and front were entirely covered by those
mud-banks, our left by Placis' house and the river, our rear by the
grove and a large village. The enemy approached apace, covered a fine
extensive plain in front of us as far as the eye could discern from
right to left, and consisted, as we have since learned, of 15,000 horse
and 35,000 foot, with more than 40 pieces of cannon, from thirty-two to
nine pounders. They began to cannonade from this heavy artillery, which,
though well pointed, could do little execution, our people being lodged
under the banks. We could not hope to succeed in an attempt on their
cannon, as they were planted almost round, and at a considerable
distance both from us and each other. We therefore remained quiet in
front, in hopes of a successful attack on their camp at night. At 300
yards from the bank under which we were posted was a pool of water with
high banks all round it, and was apparently a post of strength. This the
enemy presently took possession of, and would have galled us much from
thence but for our advantageous position, with some cannon managed by 50
Frenchmen. This heavy artillery continued to play very briskly on the
grove.

"As their army, exclusive of a few advanced parties, were drawn up at
too great a distance for our short sixes to reach them, one field-piece
with a howitzer was advanced 200 yards in front, and we could see that
they played with great success amongst those that were of the first
rank, by which the whole army was dispirited and thrown into confusion.

"A large body of their horse starting out on our right, and as by that
movement we supposed they intended an attempt on the advanced
field-piece and howitzer, they were both ordered back.

"About eleven o'clock a very heavy shower of rain came on, and we
imagined the horse would now, if ever, have attacked in hopes of
breaking us, as they might have thought we could not then make use of
our firelocks; but their ignorance or the brisk firing of our artillery
prevented them from attempting it.

"At noon, a report being made that a party of horse had attacked and
taken our boats, the pickets were ordered, but, the account proving
false, they were countermanded.

"The enemy's fire now began to slacken, and soon after entirely ceased.
In this situation we remained until two o'clock, when, perceiving that
most of the enemy were returned to their camp, it was thought a proper
opportunity to seize one of the eminences from which the enemy had much
annoyed us in the morning. Accordingly, the Grenadiers, of the 1st
Battalion, with two field-pieces and a body of Sepoys, supported by four
platoons and two field-pieces from the 2d Battalion, were ordered to
take possession of it, which accordingly they did.

"This encouraged us to take possession of another advanced post within
300 yards of the entrance to the enemy's camp.

"All these motions brought the enemy out a second time, but in
attempting to bring out their cannon they were so galled by our
artillery that they could not effect it, notwithstanding they made
several attempts. Their horse and foot, however, advanced much nearer
than in the morning, and by their motions made as if they intended to
charge; two or three large bodies being within 150 yards. In this
situation they stood a considerable time a very brisk and severe
cannonade, which killed them upwards of 400 men, among whom were four or
five principal officers. This loss put the enemy into great confusion,
and encouraged us to attack the entrance into their camp and an adjacent
eminence at the same time. This we effected with little or no loss,
although the former was defended by the 50 French and a very large body
of black infantry, and the latter by a large body of horse and foot
intermixt together. During the heat of the action the remainder of the
forces were two or three times ordered to join us, and that order as
often countermanded on account of the movement of a large body of horse
towards the grove, whom we had often fired upon to keep at a proper
distance. Those afterwards proved to be our friends, commanded by Mir
Jafar. The entrance to the camp being gained, a general rout ensued, and
the whole army continued the pursuit for upwards of six miles, which,
for want of horse, answered no other purpose than that of taking all
their artillery, consisting of forty pieces of cannon, and all their
baggage."

Such is the account which Clive gave of the battle in a journal written
by him very shortly after, if not on the day after, it was fought. It
cannot be said that it furnishes a very clear or full narrative of the
events of the day. It does not mention the death of Mir Mudin, the
Nawab's only faithful general, which appears to have occurred shortly
after eleven o'clock, and was really the crisis of the battle. It
contains no statement of the loss sustained, which, however, was very
slight. Orme gives some particulars, but as regards the Europeans in a
very imperfect form. He states: "This important victory was gained with
little loss: only sixteen Sepoys were killed and thirty-six wounded. And
of the Europeans about twenty were killed and wounded, of which number
six of the killed and ten of the wounded were of the artillery, as were
likewise the two officers who were wounded during the different
operations of the day." The numbers of killed and wounded are given
somewhat more in detail by Malleson, although his totals agree with
those given by Orme. By Malleson's account, seven Europeans were killed
and sixteen wounded. According to both these writers, the total number
of killed and wounded in Clive's force was seventy-two. The loss on the
Nawab's side appears to have been between five and six hundred.

Considering the great disparity of numbers, the loss to Clive's force
was ridiculously small. Indeed, as Sir Alfred Lyall justly observes in
his interesting review of _The Rise and Expansion of the British
Dominion in India_, the so-called battle of Plassey was a rout rather
than a battle. As a military achievement it cannot be compared with the
defence of Arcot, or with the fight at Kaveripak, or with some other
actions in which Clive was engaged. At the same time its results were
far-reaching and of the greatest political importance. Indeed, it is
universally regarded by historians as the starting-point of British
dominion in India.

Had Plassey been lost, the establishment of British rule in India would
in all probability never have taken place; and although Plassey was
followed in a very few years by other contests far more severe, such as
Adams' fights at Gheria and at Andhanala, and Sir Hector Munro's victory
over the Mogul's and the Nawab Vazir's troops at Buxar, the political
importance of Plassey, which placed the ruler of the richest provinces
in India in subjection to the English company, can hardly be
overestimated. Nor, although the victory was so easily won, was it less
remarkable than Clive's other military achievements for the strategy
which he displayed or for the unfailing nerve and coolness with which
he encountered the enormous odds against him. Clive had not anticipated
that the Nawab would be able to array against him so large a force. When
day broke on that June morning, and revealed to his astonished gaze the
50,000 horse and foot and the large artillery force, to which he had to
oppose his 3200 infantry, his eight light field-pieces and no cavalry,
it must have needed an amount of nerve which is rarely possessed even by
the bravest men to make his dispositions for the approaching battle. But
on this, as on other occasions, Clive's nerve never failed. Indeed, the
greater the danger, the more clear was his judgment and the more keen
his courage.

The position which Clive took up in the mango-grove, protected as it was
by the trees and by the mud-bank surrounding it, which rendered the
heavy artillery of the enemy practically innocuous, and the skill with
which his few field-pieces were directed, were important elements in
securing the victory. Indeed, the most remarkable feature in the battle
is that while the artillery force of the enemy was enormously superior
in the weight of metal and in the number of guns to that of Clive, the
contest was mainly an artillery contest, and was practically decided by
that arm. The death of the Nawab's only faithful general, Mir Mudin, who
was mortally wounded by a cannon-shot, was, as we have said, the crisis
of the battle. It so disheartened the Nawab that from that moment he
gave himself up in despair, and became only too ready to listen to the
insidious advice of the leaders who had betrayed him, that he should
quit the field and leave it to them to continue the battle. Important as
Plassey was, and well as it was fought by Clive and his small force, it
is not a battle that can be held to redound to the credit of British
arms. Looking to the enormous disparity of numbers, and making every
allowance for the superior courage and training of the victorious force,
it can hardly be supposed that the result could have been what it was
had it not been for the treachery of the Nawab's principal generals.

On the evening after the battle, Clive's force halted at Daudpur, six
miles beyond Plassey. There on the next day he was joined by Mir Jafar,
the latter not altogether at ease as to the reception he might meet with
after his somewhat ambiguous attitude both before and during the
engagement; but Clive at once reassured him, and saluted him as the
Nawab of Bengal, Behar and Orissa, advising him to proceed at once to
Murshidabad, to secure the person of Suraj ud Daulah and prevent the
place being plundered.

Suraj ud Daulah had fled from the battle-field some time before the
issue was finally decided, and had arrived that same night at
Murshidabad. On the following night Mir Jafar reached that place. The
whole of that day Suraj ud Daulah had passed in a state of the greatest
perplexity as to the course he should pursue, whether he should submit
to the English or should make a stand in the city. Some of his principal
officers advised the former, some the latter, course. He had decided to
resist, and had ordered his troops to be massed for this purpose, when
he heard of the arrival of Mir Jafar. Then he resolved upon flight, and
accompanied by his favorite wife and a single eunuch, he left his palace
in disguise, and entering a boat which had been engaged for the purpose,
reached Rajmahal, ninety miles distant, on the evening of the fourth
day. There the rowers were obliged to halt for a rest, and taking refuge
in a deserted garden, the Nawab was seen by a fakir whose ears he had
caused to be cut off thirteen months before and was handed over to Mir
Jafar's brother, who resided at Rajmahal. He was at once captured, sent
back to Murshidabad, and handed over to Mir Jafar on July 2d. He pleaded
earnestly for his life, offering to give up everything else, and Mir
Jafar, probably remembering the kindness he had received from the
grandfather of his prisoner, was at first disposed to spare him, but
afterward consulted with his higher officials, some of whom advocated a
policy of clemency, while others, including Mir Jafar's son, Miran, a
truculent youth, not unlike Suraj ud Daulah in disposition, urged that
the only security against a fresh revolution lay in the death of the
prisoner. The latter accordingly was made over to Miran, by whose orders
he was brutally murdered in the course of the night.

FOOTNOTES:

[40] Nabob.

[41] It should be remembered that at that time it was the fashion in
private letters and in society to describe naval and military officers
as if they were civilians, and not by their naval or military rank.

SEVEN YEARS' WAR

BATTLE OF TORGAU

A.D. 1756-1763

WOLFGANG MENZEL FREDERICK THE GREAT

In the Seven Years' War Prussia stood practically alone against the
united strength of all Europe; and it was the success of her King,
Frederick, in withstanding the assaults of the vast and determined
coalition that won him from the unanimous voice of military critics
the title of the "Great." The tremendous conflict, the most gigantic
in Europe, between the Thirty Years' War and the French Revolution,
was the natural outcome of that earlier contest in which Frederick
had seized Silesia. If this strong and able monarch was the type of
the new spirit of doubt and endless questioning which had begun to
permeate Europe, his chief antagonist, Maria Theresa, was no less
emblematic of all that was noblest in the older, conservative
Catholicism which Frederick defied. Maria Theresa never forgot her
loss of Silesia. It was said of her that she could not see a
Silesian without weeping, and with steady patience she set herself
to draw all Europe into an alliance against Frederick.

Her rival's caustic tongue helped her purpose. He gave personal
offence not only to Elizabeth, the ruler of Russia, but to Madame
Pompadour, the real sovereign of France under Louis XV. Both of
these ladies urged their countries against the insulter. The three
leading powers of continental Europe having thus leagued against
Prussia, the lesser states soon joined them. Only England stood
outside the coalition. Her war with France originating in the
colonies and on the ocean, led her into an alliance with Prussia.
But England was safe on her island, and few of her troops fought
upon the Continent. She sent Frederick some money help; part of the
time she kept the French troops from his frontier; that was all.

The succession of Frederick's remarkable battles are too numerous to
detail. In one campaign he crushed the French at Rossbach, and
overthrew the Austrians at Leuthen. Then he defeated the Russians at
Zorndorf. Torgau was his last great triumph, and therefore his own
account of that contest is here presented in connection with the
concise narrative of the entire war by the standard German
historian, Menzel. Frederick was a vigorous writer as well as a
great fighter, and it is only fair to caution the reader against
accepting too fully the perhaps unconscious egotism of the monarch's
personal view. Some critics consider General Zieten the real winner
of this battle.

WOLFGANG MENZEL

In the autumn of 1756, Frederick, unexpectedly and without previously
declaring war, invaded Saxony, of which he speedily took possession, and
shut up the little Saxon army, thus taken unawares on the Elbe at Pirna.
A corps of Austrians, who were also equally unprepared to take the
field, hastened, under the command of Browne, to their relief, but were,
on October 1st, defeated at Lowositz, and the fourteen thousand Saxons
under Rutowsky at Pirna were in consequence compelled to lay down their
arms, the want to which they were reduced by the failure of their
supplies having already driven them to the necessity of eating
hair-powder mixed with gunpowder. Augustus III and Bruhl fled with such
precipitation that the secret archives were found by Frederick at
Dresden.

The Electress vainly strove to defend them by placing herself in front
of the chest; she was forcibly removed by the Prussian grenadiers, and
Frederick justified the suddenness of his attack upon Saxony by the
publication of the plans of his enemies. He remained during the whole of
the winter in Saxony, furnishing his troops from the resources of the
country. It was here that his chamberlain, Glasow, attempted to take him
off by poison, but, meeting by chance one of the piercing glances of the
King, tremblingly let fall the cup and confessed his criminal design,
the inducement for which has ever remained a mystery, to the astonished
King.

The allies, surprised and enraged at the suddenness of the attack, took
the field, in the spring of 1757, at the head of an enormous force. Half
a million men were levied, Austria and France furnishing each about one
hundred fifty thousand, Russia one hundred thousand, Sweden twenty
thousand, the German empire sixty thousand. These masses were, however,
not immediately assembled on the same spot, were, moreover, badly
commanded and far inferior in discipline to the seventy thousand
Prussians brought against them by Frederick. The war was also highly
unpopular, and created great discontent among the Protestant party in
the empire.

On the departure of Charles of Wuertemberg for the Imperial army, his
soldiery mutinied, and, notwithstanding their reduction to obedience,
the general feeling among the Imperial troops was so much opposed to the
war that most of the troops deserted and a number of the Protestant
soldiery went over to Frederick. The Prussian King was put out of the
ban of the empire by the Diet, and the Prussian ambassador at Ratisbon
kicked the bearer of the decree out of the door.

Frederick was again the first to make the attack, and invaded Bohemia
(1757). The Austrian army under Charles of Lorraine lay before Prague.
The King, resolved at all hazards to gain the day, led his troops across
the marshy ground under a terrible and destructive fire from the enemy.
His gallant general, Schwerin, remonstrated with him. "Are you afraid?"
was the reply. Schwerin, who had already served under Charles XII in
Turkey and had grown gray in the field, stung by this taunt, quitted his
saddle, snatched the colors, and shouted, "All who are not cowards
follow me!" He was at that moment struck by several cartridge-balls and
fell to the ground enveloped in the colors. The Prussians rushed past
him to the attack.

The Austrians were totally routed; Browne fell, but the city was
defended with such obstinacy that Daun, one of Maria Theresa's
favorites, was meanwhile able to levy a fresh body of troops. Frederick
consequently raised the siege of Prague and came upon Daun at Kolin,
where he had taken up a strong position. Here again were the Prussians
led into the thickest of the enemy's fire, Frederick shouting to them,
on their being a third time repulsed with fearful loss, "Would ye live
forever?" Every effort failed, and Benkendorf's charge at the head of
four Saxon regiments, glowing with revenge and brandy, decided the fate
of the day. The Prussians were completely routed. Frederick lost his
splendid guard and the whole of his luggage. Seated on the verge of a
fountain and tracing figures in the sand, he reflected upon the means of
realluring fickle Fortune to his standard.

A fresh misfortune befell him not many weeks later. England had declared
in his favor, but the incompetent English commander, nicknamed, on
account of his immense size, the Duke of Cumberland, allowed himself to
be beaten by the French at Hastenbeck and signed the shameful Treaty of
Closter Seven, by which he agreed to disband his troops.[42] This
treaty was confirmed by the British monarch. The Prussian general
Lewald, who had merely twenty thousand men under his command, was, at
the same time, defeated at Gross-Zagerndorf by an overwhelming Russian
force under Apraxin. Four thousand men were all that Frederick was able
to bring against the Swedes. They were, nevertheless, able to keep the
field, owing to the disinclination to the war evinced by their
opponents.

Autumn fell, and Frederick's fortune seemed fading with the leaves of
summer. He had, however, merely sought to gain time in order to recruit
his diminished army, and Daun having, with his usual tardiness,
neglected to pursue him, he suddenly took the field against the
Imperialists under the Duke of Saxe-Hildburghausen and the French under
Soubise. The two armies met on November 5, 1757, on the broad plain
around Leipsic, near the village of Rossbach, not far from the scene of
the famous encounters of earlier times. The enemy, three times superior
in number to the Prussians, lay in a half-circle with a view of
surrounding the little Prussian camp, and, certain of victory, had
encumbered themselves with a numerous train of women, wigmakers,
barbers, and modistes from Paris. The French camp was one scene of
confusion and gayety.

On a sudden Frederick sent General Seydlitz with his cavalry among them,
and an instant dispersion took place, the troops flying in every
direction without attempting to defend themselves, some Swiss, who
refused to yield, alone excepted. The Germans on both sides showed their
delight at the discomfiture of the French. An Austrian coming to the
rescue of a Frenchman who had just been captured by a Prussian, "Brother
German," exclaimed the latter, "let me have this French rascal!" "Take
him and keep him!" replied the Austrian, riding off. The scene more
resembled a chase than a battle. The Imperial army (_Reichsarmee_) was
thence nicknamed the "Runaway" (_Reissaus_) army. Ten thousand French
were taken prisoners. The loss on the side of the Prussians amounted to
merely one hundred sixty men. The booty chiefly consisted in objects of
gallantry belonging rather to a boudoir than to a camp. The French army
perfectly resembled its mistress, the Marquise de Pompadour.

The Austrians had meanwhile gained great advantages to the rear of the
Prussian army, had beaten the King's favorite, General Winterfeld, at
Moys in Silesia, had taken the important fortress at Schweidnitz and the
metropolis, Breslau, whose commandant, the Duke of Bevern--a collateral
branch of the house of Brunswick--had fallen into their hands while on a
reconnoitring expedition. Frederick, immediately after the battle of
Rossbach, hastened into Silesia, and, on his march thither, fell in with
a body of two thousand young Silesians, who had been captured in
Schweidnitz, but, on the news of the victory gained at Rossbach, had
found means to regain their liberty, and had set off to his rencounter.

The King, inspired by this reënforcement, hurried onward, and, at
Leuthen, near Breslau, gained one of the most brilliant victories over
the Austrians during this war. Making a false attack upon the right
wing, he suddenly turned upon the left. "Here are the Wurtembergers,"
said he, "they will be the first to make way for us!" He trusted to the
inclination of these troops, who were zealous Protestants, in his favor.
They instantly gave way and Daun's line of battle was destroyed. During
the night he threw two battalions of grenadiers into Lissa, and,
accompanied by some of his staff, entered the castle, where, meeting
with a number of Austrian generals and officers, he civilly saluted them
and asked, "Can one get a lodging here, too?" The Austrians might have
seized the whole party, but were so thunderstruck that they yielded
their swords, the King treating them with extreme civility.

Charles of Lorraine, weary of his unvarying ill-luck, resigned the
command and was nominated stadtholder of the Netherlands, where he
gained great popularity. At Leuthen twenty-one thousand Austrians fell
into Frederick's hands; in Breslau, which shortly afterward capitulated,
he took seventeen thousand more, so that his prisoners exceeded his army
in number.

Fresh storms rose on the horizon and threatened to overwhelm the gallant
King, who, unshaken by the approaching peril, firmly stood his ground.
The Austrians gained an excellent general in the Livonian, Gideon
Laudon, whom Frederick had refused to take into his service on account
of his extreme ugliness, and who now exerted his utmost endeavors to
avenge the insult. The great Russian army, which had until now remained
an idle spectator of the war, also set itself in motion. Frederick
advanced in the spring of 1758 against Laudon, invaded Moravia, and
besieged Olmuetz, but without success; Laudon ceaselessly harassed his
troops and seized a convoy of three hundred wagons. The King was finally
compelled to retreat, the Russians, under Fermor, crossing the Oder,
murdering and burning on their route, converting Kuestrin, which refused
to yield, into a heap of rubbish, and threatening Berlin. They were met
by the enraged King at Zorndorf.

Although numerically but half as strong as the Russians, he succeeded in
beating them, but with the loss of eleven thousand of his men, the
Russians standing like walls. The battle was carried on with the
greatest fury on both sides; no quarter was given, and men were seen,
when mortally wounded, to seize each other with their teeth as they
rolled fighting on the ground. Some of the captured Cossacks were
presented by Frederick to some of his friends with the remark, "See with
what vagabonds I am reduced to fight!" He had scarcely recovered from
this bloody victory when he was again compelled to take the field
against the Austrians, who, under Daun and Laudon, had invaded Lusatia.
He for some time watched them without hazarding an engagement, under an
idea that they were themselves too cautious and timid to venture an
attack. He was, however, mistaken. The Austrians surprised his camp at
Hochkirch during the night of October 14th. The Prussians--the hussar
troop of the faithful Zieten, whose warnings had been neglected by the
King, alone excepted--slept, and were only roused by the roaring of
their own artillery, which Laudon had already seized and turned upon
their camp.

The excellent discipline of the Prussian soldiery, nevertheless, enabled
them, half naked as they were, and notwithstanding the darkness of the
night, to place themselves under arms, and the King, although with
immense loss, to make an orderly retreat. He lost nine thousand men,
many of his bravest officers, and upward of a hundred pieces of
artillery. The principal object of the Austrians, that of taking the
King prisoner or of annihilating his army at a blow, was, however,
frustrated. Frederick eluded the pursuit of the enemy and went straight
into Silesia, whence he drove the Austrian general, Harsch, who was
besieging Neisse, across the mountains into Bohemia. The approach of
winter put a stop to hostilities on both sides.

During this year Frederick received powerful aid from Ferdinand, Duke of
Brunswick, brother to Charles, the reigning Duke, who replaced
Cumberland in the command of the Hanoverians and Hessians, with great
ability covered the right flank of the Prussians, manoeuvred the
French, under their wretched general, Richelieu, who enriched himself
with the plunder of Halberstadt, across the Rhine, and defeated
Clermont, Richelieu's successor, at Crefeld. His nephew, the Crown
Prince Ferdinand, served under him with distinction.

Toward the conclusion of the campaign an army under Broglio again pushed
forward and succeeded in defeating the Prince von Ysenburg, who was to
have covered Hesse with seven thousand men at Sangerhausen; another body
of troops under Soubise also beat Count Oberg, on the Lutterberg. The
troops on both sides then withdrew into winter quarters. The French had,
during this campaign, also penetrated as far as East Friesland, whence
they were driven by the peasantry until Wurmser of Alsace made terms
with them and maintained the severest discipline among his troops.

The campaign of 1759 was opened with great caution by the allies. The
French reënforced the army opposed to the Duke of Brunswick, and
attacked him on two sides, Broglio from the Main, Contades from the
Lower Rhine. The Duke was pushed back upon Bergen, but nevertheless
gained a glorious victory over the united French leaders at Minden. His
nephew, the Crown Prince Ferdinand, also defeated another French army
under Brissac, on the same day, at Herford. The Imperial army, commanded
by its newly nominated leader, Charles of Wurtemberg, advanced, but was
attacked by the Crown Prince, while its commander was amusing himself at
a ball at Fulda, and ignominiously put to flight.

Frederick, although secure against danger from this quarter, was
threatened with still greater peril by the attempted junction of the
Russians and Austrians, who had at length discovered that the
advantages gained by Frederick had been mainly owing to the want of
unity in his opponents. The Russians under Soltikoff, accordingly,
approached the Oder. Frederick, at that time fully occupied with keeping
the main body of the Austrians under Daun at bay in Bohemia, had been
unable to hinder Laudon from advancing with twenty thousand men for the
purpose of forming a junction with the Russians. In this extremity he
commissioned the youthful general, Wedel, to use every exertion to
prevent the further advance of the Russians. Wedel was, however,
overwhelmed by the Russians near the village of Kay, and the junction
with Laudon took place.

Frederick now hastened in person to the scene of danger, leaving his
brother, Henry, to make head against Daun. On the banks of the Oder at
Kunersdorf, not far from Frankfort, the King attempted to obstruct the
passage of the enemy, in the hope of annihilating him by a bold
manoeuvre, which, however, failed, and he suffered the most terrible
defeat that took place on either side during this war (August 12, 1759).
He ordered his troops to storm a sand-mountain, bristling with
batteries, from the bottom of the valley of the Oder; they obeyed, but
were unable to advance through the deep sand, and were annihilated by
the enemy's fire. A ball struck the King, whose life was saved by the
circumstance of its coming in contact with an _étui_ in his waistcoat
pocket. He was obliged to be carried almost by force off the field when
all was lost. The poet Kleist, after storming three batteries and
crushing his right hand, took his sword in his left hand and fell while
attempting to carry a fourth.

Soltikoff, fortunately for the King, ceased his pursuit. The conduct of
the Russian generals was, throughout this war, often marked by
inconsistency. They sometimes left the natural ferocity of their
soldiery utterly unrestrained; at others, enforced strict discipline,
hesitated in their movements, or spared their opponent. The key to this
conduct was their dubious position with the Russian court. The Empress,
Elizabeth, continually instigated by her minister, Bestuzheff, against
Prussia, was in her dotage, was subject to daily fits of drunkenness,
and gave signs of approaching dissolution. Her nephew, Peter, the son of
her sister, Anna, and of Charles Frederick, Prince of Holstein-Gottorp,
the heir to the throne of Russia, was a profound admirer of the great
Prussian monarch, took him for his model, secretly corresponded with
him, became his spy at the Russian court, and made no secret of his
intention to enter into alliance with him on the death of the Empress.
The generals, fearful of rendering themselves obnoxious to the future
emperor, consequently showed great remissness in obeying Bestuzheff's
commands.

Frederick, however, although unharassed by the Russians, was still
doomed to suffer fresh mishaps. His brother, Henry, had, with great
prudence, cut off the magazines and convoys to Daun's rear, and had
consequently hampered his movements. The King was, notwithstanding,
discontented, and, unnecessarily fearing lest Daun might still succeed
in effecting a junction with Soltikoff and Laudon, recalled his brother,
and by so doing occasioned the very movement it was his object to
prevent. Daun advanced; and General Finck, whom Frederick had despatched
against him at the head of ten thousand men, fell into his hands. Shut
up in Maxen, and too weak to force its way through the enemy, the whole
corps was taken prisoner. Dresden also fell; Schmettau, the Prussian
commandant, had, up to this period, bravely held out, notwithstanding
the smallness of the garrison, but, dispirited by the constant
ill-success, he at length resolved at all events to save the military
chest, which contained three million dollars, and capitulated on a
promise of free egress. By this act he incurred the heavy displeasure of
his sovereign, who dismissed both him and Prince Henry.

Fortune, however, once more favored Frederick; Soltikoff separated his
troops from those of Austria and retraced his steps. The Russians always
consumed more than the other troops, and destroyed their means of
subsistence by their predatory habits. Austria vainly offered gold;
Soltikoff persisted in his intention and merely replied, "My men cannot
eat gold." Frederick was now enabled, by eluding the vigilance of the
Austrians, to throw himself upon Dresden, for the purpose of regaining a
position indispensable to him on account of its proximity to Bohemia,
Silesia, the Mere, and Saxony. His project, however, failed,
notwithstanding the terrible bombardment of the city, and he vented his
wrath at this discomfiture on the gallant regiment of Bernburg, which he
punished for its want of success by stripping it of every token of
military glory.

The constant want of ready money for the purpose of recruiting his army,
terribly thinned by the incessant warfare, compelled him to circulate a
false currency, the English subsidies no longer covering the expenses of
the war, and his own territory being occupied by the enemy. Saxony
consequently suffered, and was, owing to this necessity, completely
drained, the town council at Leipsic being, for instance, shut up in the
depth of winter without bedding, light, or firing, until it had voted a
contribution of eight tons of gold; the finest forests were cut down and
sold, etc.

Berlin meanwhile fell into the hands of the Russians, who, on this
occasion, behaved with humanity. General Todleben even ordered his men
to fire upon the allied troop, consisting of fifteen thousand Austrians,
under Lacy and Brentano, for attempting to infringe the terms of
capitulation by plundering the city. The Saxons destroyed the château of
Charlottenburg and the superb collection of antiques contained in it, an
irreparable loss to art, in revenge for the destruction of the palaces
of Bruhl by Frederick. No other treasures of art were carried away or
destroyed either by Frederick in Dresden or by his opponents in Berlin.
This campaign offered but a single pleasing feature: the unexpected
relief of Kolberg, who was hard pushed by the Russians in Pomerania, by
the Prussian hussars under General Werner.

Misfortune continued to pursue the King throughout the campaign of 1760.
Fouquet, one of his favorites, was, with eight thousand men, surprised
and taken prisoner by Laudon in the Giant Mountains near Landshut; the
mountain country was cruelly laid waste. The important fortress of Glatz
fell, and Breslau was besieged. This city was defended by General
Tauenzien, a man of great intrepidity. The celebrated Lessing was at
that time his secretary. With merely three thousand Prussians he
undertook the defence of the extensive city, within whose walls were
nineteen thousand Austrian prisoners.

He maintained himself until relieved by Frederick. The King hastened to
defend Silesia, for which Soltikoff's procrastination allowed him ample
opportunity. Daun had, it is true, succeeded in forming a junction with
Laudon at Liegnitz, but their camps were separate, and the two generals
were on bad terms. Frederick advanced close in their vicinity. An
attempt made by Laudon, during the night of August 15th, to repeat the
disaster of Hochkirch, was frustrated by the secret advance of the King
to his rencounter, and a brilliant victory was gained by the Prussians
over their most dangerous antagonist. The sound of the artillery being
carried by the wind in a contrary direction, the news of the action and
of its disastrous termination reached Daun simultaneously; at all
events, he put this circumstance forward as an excuse, on being, not
groundlessly, suspected of having betrayed Laudon from a motive of
jealousy. He retreated into Saxony. The regiment of Bernburg had greatly
distinguished itself in this engagement, and on its termination an old
subaltern officer stepped forward and demanded from the King the
restoration of its military badges, to which Frederick gratefully
acceded.

Scarcely, however, were Breslau relieved and Silesia delivered from
Laudon's wild hordes than his rear was again threatened by Daun, who had
fallen back upon the united Imperial army in Saxony and threatened to
form a junction with the Russians then stationed in his vicinity in the
Mere. Frederick, conscious of his utter inability to make head against
this overwhelming force, determined, at all risks, to bring Daun and the
Imperial army to a decisive engagement before their junction with the
Russians, and, accordingly, attacked them at Torgau. Before the
commencement of the action he earnestly addressed his officers and
solemnly prepared for death. Daun, naturally as anxious to evade an
engagement as Frederick was to hazard one, had, as at Collin, taken up
an extremely strong position, and received the Prussians with a
well-sustained fire.

A terrible havoc ensued; the battle raged with various fortune during
the whole of the day, and, notwithstanding the most heroic attempts, the
position was still uncarried at fall of night. The confusion had become
so general that Prussian fought with Prussian, whole regiments had
disbanded, and the King was wounded when Zieten, the gallant hussar
general, who had during the night cut his way through the Austrians, who
were in an equal state of disorder and had taken the heights, rushed
into his presence. Zieten had often excited the King's ridicule by his
practice of brandishing his sabre over his head in sign of the cross,
as an invocation for the aid of Heaven before making battle; but now,
deeply moved, he embraced his deliverer, whose work was seen at break of
day. The Austrians were in full retreat. This bloody action, by which
the Prussian monarchy was saved, took place on November 3, 1760.

George II, King of England, expired during this year. His grandson,
George III, the son of Frederick, Prince of Wales, who had preceded his
father to the tomb, at first declared in favor of Prussia, and fresh
subsidies were voted to her monarch by the English Parliament, which at
the same time expressed "its deep admiration of his unshaken fortitude
and of the inexhaustible resources of his genius." Female influence,
however, erelong placed Lord Bute in Pitt's stead at the helm of state,
and the subsidies so urgently demanded by Prussia were withdrawn.

The Duke of Brunswick was, meanwhile, again victorious at Billinghausen
over the French, and covered the King on that side. On the other hand,
the junction of the Austrians with the Russians was effected in 1761;
the allied army amounted in all to one hundred thirty thousand men, and
Frederick's army, solely consisting of fifty thousand, would in all
probability have again been annihilated had he not secured himself
behind the fortress of Schweidnitz, in the strong position at
Bunzelwitz. Butterlin, the Russian general, was moreover little inclined
to come to an engagement on account of the illness of the Empress and
the favor with which Frederick was beheld by the successor to the
throne. It was in vain that Laudon exerted all the powers of eloquence;
the Russians remained in a state of inactivity and finally withdrew.

Laudon avenged himself by unexpectedly taking Schweidnitz under the eyes
of the King by a clever _coup-de-main_, and had not a heroic Prussian
artilleryman set fire to a powder-magazine, observing as he did so, "All
of ye shall not get into the town!" and blown himself with an immense
number of Austrians into the air, he would have made himself master of
this important stronghold almost without losing a man. Frederick
retreated upon Breslau.

The Empress Elizabeth expired in the ensuing year, 1762, and was
succeeded by Peter III, who instantly ranged himself on the side of
Prussia. Six months afterward he was assassinated, and his widow seized
the reins of government under the title of Catharine II. Frederick was
on the eve of giving battle to the Austrians at Reichenbach in Silesia,
and the Russians under Czernichef were under his command, when the news
arrived of the death of his friend and of the inimical disposition of
the new Empress, who sent Czernichef instant orders to abandon the
Prussian banner. Such was, however, Frederick's influence over the
Russian general that he preferred hazarding his head rather than abandon
the King at this critical conjuncture, and, deferring the publication of
the Empress' orders for three days, remained quietly within the camp.
Frederick meanwhile was not idle, and gained a complete victory over the
Austrians (July 21, 1762).

The attempt made by a Silesian nobleman, Baron Warkotsch, together with
a priest named Schmidt, secretly to carry off the King from his quarters
at Strehlen, failed. In the autumn Frederick besieged and took
Schweidnitz. The two most celebrated French engineers put their new
theories into practice on this occasion: Lefévre, for the Prussians
against the fortress; Griboval, for the Austrians engaged in its
defence. Frederick's good-fortune was shared by Prince Henry, who
defeated the Imperial troops at Freiburg in Saxony, and by Ferdinand of
Brunswick, who gained several petty advantages over the French,
defeating Soubise at Wilhelmsthal and the Saxons on the Lutterbach. The
spiritless war on this side was finally terminated during the course of
this year (1762) by a peace between England and France.

Goltz had at the same time instigated the Tartars in Southern Russia to
revolt, and was on the point of creating a diversion with fifty thousand
of them in Frederick's favor. Frederick, with a view of striking the
empire with terror, also despatched General Kleist into Franconia, with
a flying corps, which no sooner made its appearance in Nuremberg and
Bamberg than the whole of the South was seized with a general panic,
Charles, Duke of Wurtemberg, for instance, preparing for instant flight
from Stuttgard. Sturzebecher, a bold cornet of the Prussian hussars,
accompanied by a trumpeter and by five-and-twenty men, advanced as far
as Rothenburg on the Tauber, where, forcing his way through the city
gate, he demanded a contribution of eighty thousand dollars from the
town council. The citizens of this town, which had once so heroically
opposed the whole of Tilly's forces, were chased by a handful of hussars
into the Bockshorn, and were actually compelled to pay a fine of forty
thousand florins, with which the cornet scoffingly withdrew, carrying
off with him two of the town councillors as hostages. So deeply had the
citizens of the free towns of the empire at that time degenerated.

Frederick's opponents at length perceived the folly of carrying on war
without the remotest prospect of success. The necessary funds were,
moreover, wanting. France was weary of sacrificing herself for Austria.
Catharine of Russia, who had views upon Poland and Turkey, foresaw that
the aid of Prussia would be required in order to keep Austria in check,
and both cleverly and quickly entered into an understanding with her
late opponent. Austria was, consequently, also compelled to succumb. The
rest of the allied powers had no voice in the matter.

Peace was concluded at Hubertsburg, one of the royal Saxon residences,
February 15, 1763. Frederick retained possession of the whole of his
dominions. The machinations of his enemies had not only been completely
frustrated, but Prussia had issued from the Seven Years' War with
redoubled strength and glory; she had confirmed her power by her
victories, had rendered herself feared and respected, and had raised
herself from her station as one of the principal potentates of Germany
on a par with the great powers of Europe.

FREDERICK THE GREAT

The Russians entered Berlin the same day. It was agreed the citizens
should, by tax, raise the sum of two millions, which should be paid in
lieu of pillage. Generals Lacy and Czernichef were nevertheless tempted
to burn a part of the city; and something fatal might have happened had
it not been for the remonstrances of M. Verelst, the Dutch ambassador.
This worthy republican spoke to them of the rights of nations, and
depicted their fervidity in colors so fearful as to excite flame. Their
fury and vengeance turned on the royal palaces of Charlottenburg and
Schoenhausen, which were pillaged by the Cossacks and Saxons.

The rumor of the march of the King [Frederick] gained credit.
Information was received by Lacy and Czernichef that he intended to cut
off their retreat. This hastened their departure, and they retired on
October 12th. The Russians repassed the Oder at Frankfort and Schwedt;
and on the 15th Soltikoff marched toward Landsberg on the Warthe. Lacy
pillaged whatever he could find on his route, and in three days regained
Torgau. The Prince of Wurtemberg and Hulsen, embarrassed as to how to
act, had turned toward Coswig, and cantoned there for want of knowing
where to go.

At Gross-Morau the King heard these different accounts. As there were no
more Russians to combat, he was at liberty to direct all his efforts
against Saxony; therefore, instead of taking the route to Koepenick, he
took that of Lueben. Marshal Daun, however, had followed the King into
Lusatia. He then approached Torgau, and, as it was known that he had
left Laudon at Loewenberg, General Goltz had orders to return into
Silesia, to oppose the attempts of the Austrians with his utmost
abilities. On the 22d the army of the King arrived at Jessen. The troops
of the Prince de Deuxponts extended wholly along the left shore of the
Elbe. He and the greatest part of his forces were at Prata, opposite
Wittenberg; this fortress he evacuated as soon as the van of the
Prussians appeared near the town.

The sudden changes that had happened during this campaign required new
measures to be taken and other dispositions to be made. The Prussians
had not a single magazine in all Saxony. The army of the King existed
from day to day; he drew some little flour from Spandau, but this began
to fail; add to this, the enemy occupied all Saxony. Daun had arrived at
Torgau, the troops of the circles held the course of the Elbe, and the
Duke of Wurtemberg occupied the environs of Dessau. To free himself from
so many enemies, the King ordered Hulsen and the Prince of Wurtemberg to
march to Magdeburg, there to pass the Elbe, and escort the boats loaded
with flour which were to come to Dessau, where the King resolved to pass
the Elbe with the right of his army, and afterward join Hulsen.

In the principality of Halberstadt the Prince of Wurtemberg had a
rencounter with a detachment of the Duke, his brother, which was
entirely destroyed. The Duke returned with all speed through Merseburg
and Leipsic to Naumburg. The right of the King passed the Elbe on the
26th, and joined Hulsen and the Prince near Dessau. On this movement
the Prince de Deuxponts abandoned the banks of the Elbe, and retired
through Duben to Leipsic. He had left Ried in the rear, in a forest
between Oranienbaum and Kemberg, where this officer had taken post, with
little judgment; having garnished the woods with his hussars, and posted
his pandoors in the plain.

The van of the Prussians attacked Ried; his scattered troops were beaten
in detail and his corps almost destroyed. Of thirty-six hundred men he
could only assemble one thousand seven hundred, at Pretsch, to which
place he was driven after the action.

When the army of the King had obtained Kemberg, Zieten, who with the
left had stopped the enemy at Wittenberg, passed the Elbe and joined the
main army. Marshal Daun had, however, come up with Lacy at Torgau. As
certain information was received that his vanguard had taken the road to
Eulenburg, he could be supposed to have no other intention than that of
joining the army of the circles. On this the army marched to Duben, to
oppose a junction so prejudicial to the interests of the King.

Here arriving, a battalion of Croats was found, who were all either
taken or put to the sword. At this place the King formed a magazine: it
seemed the most convenient post because it is a peninsula and nearly
surrounded by the Mulde. Some redoubts were constructed; and ten
battalions under Sydow were left for its defence.

The army of the King thence marched to Eulenburg. The Austrian troops
that had encamped in that vicinity retired, through Mochrena to Torgau,
with so much precipitate haste that they abandoned a part of their
tents. The army encamped with the right at Thalwitz and the left at
Eulenburg. Hulsen was obliged to pass the Mulde with some battalions. He
took a position between Belzen and Gostevra, opposite the Prince de
Deuxponts, whose army was at Taucha. Under the present circumstances the
first thing necessary was to drive the troops of the circles to a
distance, as well because they were on the rear of the Prussians as to
prevent their union with the Austrians. This cost but little trouble;
Hulsen gave them the alarm, and they decamped the same night, passed the
Pleisse, and then the Elster, and retreated to Zeitz. Major Quintus,
with his free battalion, vigorously charged their rear-guard; from which
he took four hundred prisoners. After so happily terminating this
expedition, the Prussians recovered possession of Leipsic, and Hulsen
rejoined the army.

Every event hitherto (November) had turned to the advantage of the King.
The irruption of the Russians and the taking of Berlin, which might
appear to induce consequences so great, ended in a manner less
afflicting than could have been expected. Contributions and money only
were lost. The enemy was driven from the frontiers of Brandenburg.
Wittenberg and Leipsic were recovered; and the troops of the circle were
repulsed to a distance too considerable for it to be feared they should
join the Imperialists with promptitude; but all was not yet done, and
the projects that remained were the most difficult part of the whole.

The Russians kept at Landsberg on the Wartha and there might remain
peaceful spectators of what should pass in Saxony. The King, however,
was informed that other reasons engaged them not to march to too great a
distance; for their design was, should the Austrians obtain any
advantages over the army of the King, or should Marshal Daun maintain
Torgau, to reënter the electorate of Brandenburg, and, conjointly with
the Austrians, to take up their quarters on the banks of the Elbe. The
consequence of such a project would have been fatally desperate to
Prussia. By this position they would cut off the army, not only from
Silesia and Pomerania, but from Berlin itself--that nursing mother which
supplied clothing, arms, baggage, and every necessary for the men. Add
to which the troops would have no quarters to take except beyond the
Mulde, between the Pleisse, the Saale, the Elster, and the Unstrut. This
would have been a space too narrow to supply the army with subsistence
through the winter. And whence should magazines for the spring,
uniforms, and recruits be obtained?

The army thus pressed, and thrown back upon the allies, would have
starved them by starving itself.

Without any profound military knowledge every rational man would
comprehend that, had the King remained quiet during autumn, and formed
no new attempts, he would but have delivered himself, tied hand and
foot, into the power of the enemy. Let us still further add that the
provisions that had been deposited at Duben scarcely would supply the
troops for the space of a month; that the frost, which began to be felt,
would soon impede the navigation of the Elbe; consequently the boats
could no longer bring provisions from Magdeburg; and, in fine, that the
very last distress must have succeeded had not good measures been taken
to remove the enemy, and gain ground on which the army might encamp and
subsist.

After having maturely examined and weighed all these reasons, it was
determined to commit the fortune of Prussia to the issue of a battle, if
no other means by manoeuvring could be found of driving Marshal Daun
from his post at Torgau. It will be proper to observe that the fears
with which he might be inspired could only relate to two objects: the
first, that of gaining Dresden before him, in which there was but a
feeble garrison; and the second, of approaching the Elbe and disturbing
him concerning subsistence, which was brought from Dresden by the river.
It must be confessed that this last manoeuvre could not give him much
uneasiness, because he was entirely master of the right shore of the
Elbe, and might bring the provisions he wanted by land when they could
no more be transported by water.

The greatest difficulty in executing this plan was that two things
nearly contradictory were to be reconciled: the march of the army to the
Elbe, and the security of the magazine. Not to forget all rule, the army
of the King, in advancing, ought not to depart too far from the line of
defence by which it covered its subsistence; and the motion it was to
make upon the Elbe threw it entirely to the right and uncovered its
rear. It was still endeavored to reconcile this enterprise on the enemy
with the security of the magazine. The King proposed to incline to
Schilda, that he might prove the countenance of Daun, and attack him at
Torgau should he obstinately persist in remaining there. As it was but
one march to Schilda, should the marshal retire on this motion, there
was no fear that he should attempt Duben, and, if he remained at Torgau,
by attacking him on the morrow, it seemed apparent that he would have so
many occupations he would have no time to form projects against the
magazine.

Everything conspiring to confirm the King in his resolution, he, on
November 2d, marched the army to Schilda. During the whole route he
continued with the vanguard of the hussars, that he might observe to
which side the advanced posts of the enemy retired as they were repulsed
by the troops of the King. This did not long remain a subject of doubt.
The detachments all withdrew to Torgau, except Brentano, who was
attacked at Belgern, and taken in such a direction that he could only
escape toward Strebla. Kleist took eight hundred prisoners. The army of
the King encamped from Schilda through Probsthain to Langen-Reichenbach,
and Marshal Daun remained firm and motionless at Torgau. There no longer
was any doubt that he had received positive orders from his court to
maintain his post at any price.

The following dispositions were made for the attack on the morrow. The
right of the Imperialists was supported behind the ponds of Groswich;
their centre covered the hill of Sueptitz; the left terminated beyond
Zinna, extending toward the ponds of Torgau. Exclusive of this, Ried
observed the Prussian army from beside the forest of Torgau. Lacy, with
a reserve of twenty thousand men, covered the causeway and the ponds
that lie at the extremity of the place where the Imperialists had
supported their left. Still the ground on which the enemy stood wanted
depth, and the lines had not an interval of above three hundred paces.
This was a very favorable circumstance for the Prussians; because, by
attacking the centre in front and rear, the foe would be placed between
two fires, and could not avoid being beaten.

To produce this effect the King divided his army into two bodies. The
one destined to approach from the Elbe, after having passed the forest
of Torgau, was to attack the enemy in the rear, from the hill of
Sueptitz; while the other, following the route of Eulenburg to Torgau,
was to fix a battery on the eminence of Groswich, and at the same time
attack the village of Sueptitz. These two corps, acting in concert, must
necessarily divide the centre of the Austrians; after which it would be
easy to drive the remnant toward the Elbe, where the ground was one
continued gentle declivity, excellently advantageous to the Prussians,
and must have procured them a complete victory.

The King began his march at the dawn of day, on the 3d, and was followed
by thirty battalions and fifty squadrons of his left. The troops crossed
the forest of Torgau in three columns. The route of the first line of
infantry led through Mochrena, Wildenhayn, Groswich, and Neiden; the
route of the second through Pechhutte, Jaegerteich, and Bruckendorf, to
Elsnich. The cavalry that composed the third column passed the wood of
Wildenhayn, to march to Vogelsang. Zieten at the same time led the right
of the army, consisting of thirty battalions and seventy squadrons, and
filed off on the road that goes from Eulenburg to Torgau. The corps
headed by the King met with General Ried, posted at the skirts of the
forest of Torgau, with two regiments of hussars, as many dragoons, and
three battalions of pandoors. Some volleys of artillery were fired, and
he fell back on the right of the Imperialists.

Near Wildenhayn there is a small plain in the forest, where ten
battalions of grenadiers were seen, well posted, who affected to dispute
the passage of the Prussians. They made some discharges of artillery on
the column of the King, which were answered by the Prussians. A line of
infantry was formed to charge, but they reclined toward their army. The
hussars brought word at the same time that the regiment of St. Ignon was
in the wood, between the two columns of infantry, and that it had even
dismounted. It was incontinently attacked; and, as these dragoons found
no outlet for escape, the whole regiment was destroyed. These grenadiers
and this regiment were mutually to depart on an expedition against
Dobeln, and the commanding officer, St. Ignon, who was taken, bitterly
complained that Ried had not informed him of the approach of the
Russians. This trifling affair only cost the troops a few moments; they
pursued their road, and the heads of the columns arrived, at one
o'clock, on the farther side of the forest, in the small plain of
Neiden.

Here were seen some dragoons of Bathiani, and four battalions, who
coming from the village of Elsnich made some discharges of artillery at
a venture and fired with their small arms. This no doubt was a motion of
surprise, occasioned perhaps by having seen some Prussian hussars. They
retired upon a height behind the defile of Neiden. In this place is a
large marsh, which begins at Groswich and goes to the Elbe, and over
which there is no other passage but two narrow causeways. Had this corps
taken advantage of its ground there certainly would have been no battle.
However determined the King might be to attack the Imperialists, such an
attack would have become impossible: he must have renounced his project,
and returned full speed to regain Eulenburg.

But it happened far otherwise; these battalions hastened to rejoin the
army, to which they were invited by a heavy cannonade which they heard
from the side of Zieten. The King supposed, as was very probable, that
the troops of Zieten already were in action with the enemy. This induced
him to pass the defile of Neiden with his hussars and infantry; for the
cavalry which ought to have proceeded was not yet come up. The King
glided into a little wood, and personally reconnoitred the position of
the enemy. He judged there was no ground on which it was proper to form,
in presence of the Austrians, but by passing this small wood, which
would in some measure conceal his troops, and whence a considerable
ravine might be gained, to protect the soldiers, while they formed, from
the enemy's artillery. This ravine was not indeed above eight hundred
paces from the Austrian army; but the remainder of the ground, which
from Sueptitz descended like a glacis to the Elbe, was such that, had
the army here been formed, one-half must have been cut off before it
could approach the enemy.

Marshal Daun scarcely could credit the report that the Prussians were
marching to the attack; nor was it till after reiterated information
that he ordered his second line to face about and that the greatest part
of the artillery of the first line was brought to the second. Whatever
precaution the King might take to cover the march of his troops, the
enemy, who had four hundred pieces of artillery in battery, could not
fail to kill many of his men. Eight hundred soldiers fell, and thirty
cannon were destroyed, with their horses, train, and gunners, before the
columns arrived at the place where they were to be put in order of
battle. The King formed his infantry in three lines, each of ten
battalions, and began the attack. Had his cavalry been present, he would
have thrown two regiments of dragoons into a bottom, that was on the
right of his infantry, to cover its flank; but the Prince of Holstein,
whose phlegm was invincible, did not come up till an hour after the
action had begun. According to the regulations that had been agreed on,
the attacks were to be made at the same time, and the result ought to
have been that either the King or Zieten should penetrate through the
centre of the enemy at Sueptitz. But General Zieten, instead of
attacking, amused himself for a considerable time with a body of
pandoors, whom he encountered in the forest of Torgau. He next
cannonaded the corps of Lacy, who as we have said was posted behind the
ponds of Torgau. In a word, the orders were not executed; the King
attacked singly, without being seconded by Zieten, and without his
cavalry being present. This still did not prevent him from pursuing his
purpose. The first line of the King left the ravine and boldly marched
to the enemy; but the prodigious fire of the Imperial artillery, and the
descent of the ground, were too disadvantageous. Most of the Prussian
generals, commanders of battalions, and soldiers, were killed or
wounded. The line fell back, and returned in some disorder. By this the
Austrian carbineers profited, pursued, and did not retreat till they had
received some discharges from the second line. This line also
approached, was disturbed, and, after a more bloody and obstinate combat
than the preceding, was in like manner repulsed. Buelow, who led it to
the attack, was taken.

At length the much-expected Prince of Holstein and his cavalry arrived.
The third line of the Prussians was already in action; the regiment of
Prince Henry, attacking the enemy, was in turn charged by the Austrian
cavalry, and supported by the hussars of Hund, Reitzenstein, and
Prittwitz, against all the efforts of the enemy to break its ranks. The
dreadful fire of the artillery of the Austrians had too hastily consumed
the ammunition. They had left their reserve of cannon on the other side
of the Elbe, and their close lines did not admit of ammunition-wagons to
pass and make proper distribution to the batteries.

The King profited by the moment when their fire slackened, and ordered
the dragoons of Bayreuth to attack their infantry. They were led on with
so much valor and impetuosity by Buelow that, in less than three
minutes, they took prisoners the regiments of the Emperor, Neuperg,
Geisruck, and Imperial-Bayreuth. The cuirassiers of Spaen and Frederick
at the same time made an assault on that part of the enemy's infantry
which was most to the right of the Prussians, put it to the rout, and
brought back many prisoners. The Prince of Holstein was placed to cover
the left flank of the infantry, which his right wing joined, and his
left inclined toward the Elbe. The enemy soon presented himself before
the Prince, with eighty squadrons; the right toward the Elbe, the left
toward Zinna. O'Donnel commanded the Imperial cavalry. Had he resolutely
attacked the Prince, the battle must have been lost without resource,
but he was respectful of a ditch of a foot and a half wide, which those
who skirmished were forbidden to pass. The enemy believed it to be
considerable, because the Prussians made a pretence of fearing to cross
it; and the Imperialists remained, in the presence of the Prince,
inactive.

The dragoons of Bayreuth had just cleared the height of Sueptitz. The
King sent thither the regiment of Maurice, which had not engaged, and a
brave and worthy officer, Lestwitz, brought up a corps of a thousand
men, which he had formed from the different regiments that had been
repulsed in previous attacks. With these troops the Prussians seized on
the eminence of Sueptitz, and there fixed themselves, with all the
cannon they could hastily collect. Zieten at length, having arrived at
his place of destination, attacked on his side. It began to be dark, and
to prevent Prussians from combating Prussians, the infantry of Sueptitz
beat the march. They were presently joined by Zieten; and scarcely had
the Prussians begun to form with order on the ground before Lacy came
up, with his corps, to dislodge the King's forces. He came too late: he
was twice repulsed. Offended at his ill-reception, at half-past nine he
retired toward Torgau. The Prussians and Imperialists were so near each
other, among the vineyards of Sueptitz, that many officers and soldiers,
on both parts, wandering in the dark, were made prisoners after the
battle was over and all was tranquil. The King himself, as he was
repairing to the village of Neiden, as well to expedite orders relative
to the victory as to send intelligence of it through Brandenburg and
Silesia, heard the sound of a carriage near the army. The word was
demanded, and the reply was "Austrian." The escort of the King fell on
and took two field-pieces and a battalion of pandoors, that had lost
themselves in the night. A hundred paces farther he came up with a
troop of horse; that again gave the word "Austrian carbineers." The
King's escort attacked and dispersed them in the forest. Those who were
taken related that they had lost their road with Ried in the wood, and
that they had imagined the Imperialists remained masters of the field.

The whole forest that had been crossed by the Prussians before the
battle, and beside which the King was then riding, was full of large
fires. What these might mean no one could divine, and some hussars were
sent to gain information. They returned, and related that soldiers sat
round the fires, some in blue uniforms and others in white. As
intelligence more exact was necessary, officers were then sent, who
learned a very singular fact, of which I doubt whether any example in
history may be found: The soldiers were of both armies, and had sought
refuge in the woods, where they had passed an act of neutrality, to wait
till fortune had decided in favor of the Prussians or Imperialists; and
they had mutually agreed to follow the victorious party.

This battle cost the Prussians thirteen thousand men, three thousand of
whom were killed, and three thousand fell into the enemy's hands, during
the first attacks, while the Austrians were victorious; Buelow and Finck
were among these. The breast of the King was grazed by a ball, and the
margrave, Charles, received a contusion: several generals were wounded.
The battle was obstinately disputed by both armies; its fury cost the
Imperialists twenty thousand men, eight thousand of whom were taken,
with four generals. They lost twenty-seven pair of colors and fifty
cannon. Marshal Daun was wounded at the commencement of the battle.

When the enemy saw the first line of the Prussians give ground, with
hopes too frivolous, they despatched couriers to Vienna and Warsaw to
announce their victory; but the same night they abandoned the field of
battle, and crossed the Elbe at Torgau. On the morning of the following
day (the 4th), Torgau capitulated to General Hulsen. The Prince of
Wurtemberg was sent over the Elbe to pursue the foe, who fled in
disorder: he augmented the number of prisoners already made. The
Imperialists would have been totally defeated had not General Beck, who
was not in the engagement, covered their retreat by posting his corps
between Arzberg and Triestewitz, behind the Landgraben. It was wholly
in the power of Daun to have avoided a battle. Had he placed Lacy behind
the defile of Neiden, instead of the ponds of Torgau, which six
battalions would have been sufficient to defend, his camp would have
been impregnable, so great may the consequences be of the least
inadvertency in the difficult trade of war.

When the Russians were informed of the fate of the day of Torgau, they
retired to Thorn, where they crossed the Vistula. The army of the King,
on the 5th, advanced to Strebla, and on the 6th to Meissen. The
Imperialists had left Lacy on that side of the Elbe, that he might cover
the bottom of Plauen before their arrival. He attempted to dispute the
defile of Zehren with the vanguard; but, when he saw the cavalry in
motion to turn him by Lommatsch, he fled to Meissen, where he crossed
the Tripsche; but, in spite of the celerity of his march, his rear-guard
was attacked, and lost four hundred men. The pursuit was continued that
an attempt might be made, favored by the fears and disorder of the foe,
to pass the bottom of Plauen with him and seize on this important post.
But no diligence could accomplish this; the troops were two hours too
late; for, on arriving at Ukersdorf, another corps of the enemy was
discovered, that had already taken post at the Windberg, the right of
which extended to the Trompeter Schloesgen. This was the corps of
Haddick, who, with the Prince de Deuxponts, quitting Leipsic, had
marched to Zeitz, and afterward to Rosswein. No sooner were they
informed of the Imperial defeat at Torgau than they diligently advanced
to cover Dresden before the Prussians could come up.

FOOTNOTES:

[42] The Hanoverian nobility, who hoped thereby to protect their
property, were implicated in this affair. They were shortly afterward
well and deservedly punished, being laid under contribution by the
French.

CONQUEST OF CANADA

VICTORY OF WOLFE AT QUEBEC

A.D. 1759

A.G. BRADLEY

With the opening of the Seven Years' War the two races, French and
English, once more began to contend for the prize of empire in the
New World. For a while the advantage in the struggle was on the side
of France, though the preponderance of population was vastly on the
side of the English colonies. Louis XV, however, had one general in
Canada worthy of the gallant race from which he had sprung, and who
strenuously endeavored to uphold the fortunes of his country. This
was the Marquis de Montcalm, a cultured and far-seeing French
nobleman, whose ability and enthusiasm in the profession of arms had
procured for him the chief military command in Canada, and who was
now seeking to expel the English from the colonial possessions of
France on the Continent.

But, unfortunately for his country, Montcalm was ill-supported by
Old France, and his difficulties were increased by the
maladministration of affairs in the colony. Despite these drawbacks,
he was for some years the means of protracting the gallant struggle
in America and of bringing many disasters on the English arms.

Concentrating his forces in the neighborhood of Lake Champlain, he
attacked Fort William Henry, on Lake George, and with a body of
Indian auxiliaries from the Ottawa forced the English to capitulate.
The victory was marred by horrible Indian atrocities on the English
prisoners of war, which Montcalm was unable to prevent. During the
year 1757 Montcalm acted solely on the defensive, while the English,
having incompetent generals, accomplished little and failed in an
attempt to wrest Louisburg from the French. The following year,
however, William Pitt, "the Great English Commoner," was called to
the councils of his nation, and infused new vigor into the war which
had now been formally declared between the two countries. Pitt,
aiming at the extinction of French power in America, fitted out a
fleet of one hundred fifty sail, under Admiral Boscawen, with a land
force of some fourteen thousand men, under General Amherst and
Brigadier-General James Wolfe, and despatched both to Canada.

The first operation was the siege of Louisburg, which surrendered
with about five thousand prisoners, and in the capture of which
young Wolfe greatly distinguished himself. Later in the year the
French were compelled to abandon Fort Duquesne, in the Ohio Valley,
which the English now named Pittsburg, in honor of War Minister
Pitt; and Frontenac (Kingston), the marine arsenal of the French at
the foot of Lake Ontario, surrendered and was destroyed. The effect
of these losses was disheartening to the French, though before the
season's campaign closed Montcalm defeated the English, under
General Abercrombie, in an attack on the French post on Lake
Champlain, afterward named Ticonderoga. When the year 1759 opened,
the English were ready to resume operations with spirit and effect.
Amherst's army advanced upon Crown Point and Ticonderoga, from which
the French retired, and Sir William Johnson captured Niagara and
drove the French from the Lakes. Wolfe, now general of the forces of
the St. Lawrence, sailed in June with his army from Louisburg to
Quebec. The story of this eventful expedition and its result here
given is by the able pen of the historian A.G. Bradley.

When the flag of Britain supplanted the emblem of France on the
ramparts of Quebec the city was held by an English garrison under
General Murray, and in the spring of 1760 it narrowly escaped
recapture by De Levis, at the head of seven thousand men, who had
come from Montreal to attack it. The timely arrival of a British
fleet saved the now British stronghold, while Montreal was in turn
invested, and that post and all Canada surrendered to the British
Crown. Three years later the Peace of Paris confirmed the cession of
the country to Britain, and closed the dominion of France in Canada.

England rang with the triumphs of her ally, Frederick of Prussia, and,
by a perversion peculiarly British, the scoffing freethinker became the
"Protestant hero" in both church and taproom. Pitt was omnipotent in
Parliament; only a single insignificant member ever ventured to oppose
him. "Our unanimity is prodigious," wrote Walpole. "You would as soon
hear a 'No' from an old-maid as from the House of Commons." Newcastle
was supremely happy among jobbers and cringing place-hunters under the
full understanding that neither he nor his kind trespassed within the
sphere of foreign politics. The estimates had exceeded all former
limits, and reached for those days the enormous sum of twelve and a half
millions. The struggle with France was vigorously waged, too, upon the
ocean, warships, privateers, and merchantmen grappling to the death with
one another in many a distant sea, while the main fleets of the enemy
were for the most part blockaded in their ports by vigilant British
armaments. Everywhere were exhilaration and a superb feeling of
confidence, engendered by incipient successes and by the consciousness
that the nation was united in purpose and that the leaders of its
enterprises were not chosen because they were "rich in votes or were
related to a duke."

James Wolfe had certainly neither of these qualifications, and he it was
whom Pitt designed to act the leading part in the coming year, "a
greater part," he modestly wrote after receiving his appointment, "than
I wished or desired. The backwardness of some of the older officers has
in some measure forced the Government to come down so low. I shall do my
best and leave the rest to fortune, as perforce we must when there are
not the most commanding abilities."

Pitt's plan for the coming season in America was to strike two great
blows at Canada, and a lesser one, which, if successful, would involve
the conquest of that country. Wolfe, aided by a fleet, was to attack
Quebec; Amherst with another force was to push through by the Lake
Champlain route and unite with him if possible. A further expedition was
to be sent against Niagara under Prideaux; but for the present we are
concerned only with the first and by far the most memorable of the
three.

Wolfe at this time was colonel of the Sixty-seventh regiment. He was to
have local rank only of major-general while in America, since more
substantial elevation would, in the eyes of Newcastle and his friends,
have been almost an outrage on the British Constitution as by them
interpreted. Pitt and his young officers, however, were well content to
waive such trifles for the present, and concede so much of consolation
to the long list of rejected incapables, in return for such honor and
glory as might perchance be theirs.

The land force was to consist of twelve thousand men, a few of whom were
to sail from England, but the bulk were to be drawn from the American
and West Indian garrisons. The latter, however, were counter-ordered;
the former proved to be below the estimated strength, and the actual
number that gathered in Louisburg, the point of rendezvous, was only
about eight thousand five hundred. The command of the fleet was given to
Admiral Saunders, and this appointment demanded great discretion, as the
sailor in this instance had not only to be efficient on his own element,
but to be a man of tact, and one who at the same time would put
patriotism above professional jealousy, and could be trusted to work
heartily with the land forces.

It was late in February when Saunders' fleet, convoying Wolfe, his
stores, and a few troops, sailed from Spithead. The winds being adverse
and the seas running high, May had opened before the wild coast of Nova
Scotia was dimly seen through the whirling wreaths of fog. It was a late
season, and Louisburg harbor was still choked with ice, so that the
fleet had to make southward for Halifax at the cost of much of that time
which three years' experience had at length taught the British was so
precious in all North American enterprises. At Halifax Wolfe found the
troops from the American garrisons awaiting him. Among them was the
Forty-third regiment, with the gallant Major Knox, our invaluable
diarist, filled with joy at the prospect of active service after twenty
months' confinement in a backwoods fort, and ready with his sword as
happily for us he was with his pen. In a fortnight Louisburg was open,
and both fleet and transports were grinding amid the still drifting ice
in its harbor. Here again the army was landed, and its numbers completed
from the Louisburg garrison.

There was naturally much to be done with an army brought together from
so many various quarters. The force, too, proved, as I have said, far
short of the estimate, being considerably under nine thousand men; but,
on the other hand, these were all good troops and mostly veterans.
Though the benefits of Bath waters had been more than neutralized by
nearly three months of buffeting on the element he so loathed, Wolfe
spared himself no effort. He was not only a fighting, but to the highest
degree an organizing, general. Every sickly and unlikely man, small as
was his force, was weeded out. Every commissariat detail down to the
last gaiter-button was carefully scrutinized. Seldom had England sent
out a body of men so perfect in discipline, spirit, and material of war,
and assuredly none so well commanded since the days of Marlborough. It
was well it was so, seeing that they were destined to attack one of the
strongest posts in the world, defended by an army nearly twice as
numerous as themselves, and fighting, moreover, in defence of its home
and country and, as it fully believed, of its religion. The young
general was thoroughly alive to the numerical weakness of his force,
but that he rejoiced in its efficiency is evident from his letters, and
he was hard to please. "If valor can make amends for want of numbers,"
he wrote to Pitt, "we shall succeed."

Admiral Durell, with ten ships, had been sent forward early in May to
stop French supply- or war-ships from ascending the St. Lawrence when
navigation opened. It was June 1st when Wolfe and Saunders with the main
army followed him, owing to fog and ice and contrary winds, in somewhat
straggling fashion. The bands played the time-honored air of _The Girl I
Left Behind Me_, and the men cheered lustily as the ships cleared the
bar, while at the mess-tables, says Knox, there was only one toast among
the officers--"British colors on every French fort, post, and garrison
in America." With Saunders went twenty-two ships of the line--five
frigates and seventeen sloops-of-war, besides the transports. All went
smoothly till the 20th, when, the wind dropping, they were caught in the
cross-currents caused by the outpouring waters of the Saguenay, which,
draining a vast mountain wilderness to the northward, would be accounted
a mighty river if it were not for the still mightier one that absorbs
it. Here the ships ran some risk of fouling, but escaped any serious
damage, and in three days were at the Île aux Coudres, where the real
dangers of the navigation began. It must be remembered that such a
venture was unprecedented, and regarded hitherto as an impossibility for
large ships without local pilots. The very presence of the first made
the second possible, for some of the vessels approaching the shore ran
up French flags, whereupon numbers of the country people, in response to
an invitation, came on board, little guessing the visitors could be
their enemies.

Pilots were by this ruse secured, and their services impressed under
pain of death. Knox, who understood French, tells us that the poor
unwilling pilot who took his ship up the tortuous channel made use of
the most frightful imprecations, swearing that most of the fleet and the
whole army would find their graves in Canada. An old British tar, on the
other hand, master of a transport and possessed of an immense scorn for
foreigners, would not allow a French pilot to interfere, and insisted,
in the teeth of all remonstrance, on navigating his own ship. "D--n me,"
he roared, "I'll convince you that an Englishman shall go where a
Frenchman daren't show his nose," and he took it through in safety. "The
enemy," wrote Vaudreuil soon after this to his Government, "have passed
sixty ships-of-war where we dare not risk a vessel of a hundred tons by
night or day." The British navy has not been sufficiently remembered in
the story of Quebec.

Let us now turn for a moment to Montcalm and see what he has been doing
all this time to prepare for the attack. It was an accepted axiom in
Canada that no armament strong enough to seriously threaten Quebec could
navigate the St. Lawrence. In the face of expected invasion it was the
Lake George and Champlain route that mostly filled the public mind.
Bougainville, however, had returned from France early in May with the
startling news that a large expedition destined for Quebec was already
on the sea. A former opinion of this able officer's declared that three
or four thousand men could hold the city against all comers. There was
now four times that strength waiting for Wolfe, while his own, so far as
numbers went, we know already. Eighteen transport ships, carrying
supplies and some slight reënforcements, had slipped past the English
cruisers in the fogs, and brought some comfort to Montcalm. The question
now was how best to defend Quebec, as well as make good the two land
approaches at Ticonderoga and Lake Ontario respectively.

For the defence of the city, when every able-bodied militia-man had been
called out, nearly sixteen thousand troops of all arms would be
available. About the disposition of these and the plan of defence there
was much discussion. Montcalm himself was for a long time undecided. The
alternative plans do not concern us here; the one finally adopted is
alone to the point. Everyone knows that the ancient capital of Canada is
one of the most proudly placed among the cities of the earth. But it may
be well to remind those who have not seen it, that it occupies the point
of a lofty ridge, forming the apex of the angle made by the confluence
of the St. Charles River and the St. Lawrence. Westward from the city
this ridge falls so nearly sheer into the St. Lawrence for several miles
that, watched by a mere handful of men, it was impregnable. Moreover,
the river suddenly narrows to a breadth of three-quarters of a mile
opposite the town, whose batteries were regarded as being fatal to any
attempt of an enemy to run past them. On the other side of the town the
St. Charles River, coming in from the northwest immediately below its
walls, formed a secure protection.

Montcalm, however, decided to leave only a small garrison in the city
itself and go outside it for his main defence. Now, from the eastern
bank of the mouth of the St. Charles, just below the city, there extends
in an almost straight line along the northern shore of the St. Lawrence
a continuous ridge, the brink, in fact, of a plateau, at no point far
removed from the water's edge. Six miles away this abruptly terminates
in the gorge of the Montmorency River, which, rushing tumultuously
toward the St. Lawrence, makes that final plunge on to its shore level
which is one of the most beautiful objects in a landscape teeming with
natural and human interest. Along the crown of this six-mile ridge,
known in history as "the Beauport lines," Montcalm decided to make his
stand. So, throughout the long days of May and June the French devoted
themselves to rendering impregnable from the front a position singularly
strong in itself, while the Montmorency and its rugged valley protected
the only flank which was exposed to attack. Below him spread the river,
here over two miles in width from shore to shore, with the western point
of the island of Orleans overlapping his left flank. Above the woods of
this long, fertile island, then the garden of Canada, the French, upon
June 27th, first caught sight of the pennons flying from the topmasts of
the English battle-ships, and before evening they witnessed the strange
sight of red-coated infantry swarming over its well-tilled fields.

Wolfe had not much time that evening to consider the situation, which
might well have appalled a less stout heart than his, for the troops had
scarcely landed when a sudden summer storm burst upon the scene, churned
the river into angry waves, broke some of the smaller ships from their
moorings, casting them upon the rocks, and staving in many of the boats
and rafts. The people of Quebec, who for weeks had been urging upon the
Divinity in their peculiar way that they, his chosen people, were in
danger, would not have been Canadian Catholics of their generation had
they not been jubilant at this undoubted sign of divine intervention.
But Montcalm was the last man to presume on such favor by any lack of
energy. The very next night the British, having in the mean time pitched
their camp upon the Isle of Orleans, were thrown into no small alarm by
the descent of a fleet of fire-ships.

The only men awake were the guards and sentries at the point, and as the
matches were not applied to the drifting hulks till they were close at
hand, the sudden effect in the darkness of the night upon the soldiers'
nerves was more than they could stand, having beheld nothing like it in
their lives, and they rushed in much confusion on the sleeping camp,
causing still more there. For it was not alone the flames and the
explosives that were a cause of perturbation, but a hail of grape-shot
and bullets from the igniting guns poured hurtling through the trees.
The chief object of the fire-ships, however, was the fleet which lay in
the channel between the Isle of Orleans and the shore, and toward it
they came steadily drifting. Knox describes the pandemonium as awful,
and the sight as inconceivably superb of these large burning ships,
crammed with every imaginable explosive and soaked from their mast-heads
to their water-line in pitch and tar. It was no new thing, however, to
the gallant sailors, who treated the matter as a joke, grappling
fearlessly with the hissing, spitting demons, and towing them ashore.
"Damme, Jack," they shouted, "didst ever take h--ll in tow before?"

This exploit seems to have been a venture of Vaudreuil's, and its
failure, an extremely expensive one, cost that lively egotist and his
friends a severe pang. The next day Wolfe published his first manifesto
to the Canadian people. "We are sent by the English King," it ran, "to
conquer this province, but not to make war upon women and children, the
ministers of religion, or industrious peasants. We lament the sufferings
which our invasion may inflict upon you: but if you remain neutral, we
proffer you safety in person and property and freedom in religion. We
are masters of the river; no succor can reach you from France. General
Amherst, with a large army, assails your southern frontier. Your cause
is hopeless, your valor useless. Your nation have been guilty of great
cruelties to our unprotected settlers, but we seek not revenge. We offer
you the sweets of peace amid the horrors of war. England, in her
strength, will befriend you; France, in her weakness, leaves you to your
fate."

Wolfe could hardly have felt the confidence he here expressed. The
longer he looked upon the French position the less he must have liked
it, and the larger must Amherst and his eventual cooperation have loomed
in his mind as a necessary factor to success. But would Amherst get
through to Montreal and down the St. Lawrence in time to be of use
before the short season had fled? Those who were familiar with the
difficulties would certainly have discouraged the hope which Wolfe for a
time allowed himself to cherish; and Wolfe, though he admired his friend
and chief, did not regard celerity of movement as his strongest point.

About the first move, however, in the game Wolfe had to play there could
be no possible doubt, and that was the occupation of Point Lévis. This
was the high ground immediately facing Quebec, where the river,
narrowing to a width of twelve hundred yards, brought the city within
cannon-shot from the southern bank. It was the only place, in fact, from
which it could be reached. It is said Montcalm had been anxious to
occupy it, and intrench it with four thousand men, but was overruled on
the supposition that the upper town, about which official Quebec felt
most concern, would be outside its range of fire. If this was so, they
were soon to be undeceived.

The occupation of Point Lévis by Monckton's brigade, which Wolfe now
ordered on that service, need not detain us. They crossed from the camp
of Orleans to the village of Beaumont, which was seized with slight
resistance. Thence moving on along the high road to Point Lévis, they
found the church and village occupied by what Knox, who was there,
estimates at a thousand riflemen and Indians. The Grenadiers charging
the position in front, and the Highlanders and light infantry taking it
in the rear, it was stormed with a loss of thirty men, and Monckton then
occupied a position which, so far as artillery fire was concerned, had
Quebec at its mercy. The brigadier, who had fully expected to find
French guns there, at once began to intrench himself on this conspicuous
spot, while floating batteries now pushed out from Quebec and began
throwing shot and shell up at his working-parties, till Saunders sent a
frigate forward to put an end to what threatened to be a serious
annoyance.

The French had changed their minds about the danger of Monckton's guns,
though not a shot had yet been fired, and agitated loudly for a sortie
across the river. Montcalm thought poorly of the plan; but a
miscellaneous force of fifteen hundred Canadians, possessed of more
ardor than cohesion, insisted on attempting a night assault. They landed
some way up the river, but did not so much as reach the British
position. The difficulties of a combined midnight movement were
altogether too great for such irregulars, and they ended by firing upon
one another in the dark and stampeding for their boats, with a loss of
seventy killed and wounded.

Two brigades were now in midstream on the Isle of Orleans and one on
Point Lévis. Landing artillery and stores, intrenching both positions,
and mounting siege-guns at the last-named one consumed the first few
days of July. Wolfe's skill in erecting and firing batteries had been
abundantly demonstrated at Louisburg; and though his head quarters were
on the island, he went frequently to superintend the preparations for
the bombardment of Quebec. On July 12th a rocket leaped into the sky
from Wolfe's camp. It was the signal for the forty guns and mortars that
had been mounted on Point Lévis to open on the city that Vaudreuil and
his friends had fondly thought was out of range. The first few shots may
have encouraged the delusion, as they fell short; but the gunners
quickly got their distance, and then began that storm of shot and shell
which rained upon the doomed city, with scarce a respite, for upward of
eight weeks.

Houses, churches, and monasteries crashed and crumbled beneath the
pitiless discharge. The great cathedral, where the memories and the
trophies of a century's defiance of the accursed heretic had so thickly
gathered, was gradually reduced to a skeleton of charred walls. The
church of Notre Dame de la Victoire, erected in gratitude for the
delivery of the city from the last and only previous attack upon it
sixty years before, was one of the first buildings to suffer from the
far more serious punishment of this one. Wolfe, though already suffering
from more than his chronic ill-health, was ubiquitous and indefatigable;
now behind Monckton's guns at Point Lévis, now with Townshend's
batteries at Montmorency, now up the river, ranging with his glass
those miles of forbidding cliffs which he may already have begun to
think he should one day have to climb. Some of Saunders' ships were in
the Basin, between Orleans and Quebec, and frequently engaged with
Montcalm's floating batteries; while in the mean time the roar of
artillery from a dozen different quarters filled the simmering July
days, and lit the short summer nights with fiery shapes, and drew in
fitful floods the roving thunder-clouds that at this season of the year
in North America are apt to lurk behind the serenest sky.

Fighting at close quarters there was, too, in plenty, though of an
outpost and backwoods kind. Bois Herbert, with his painted Canadians and
Abernakis Indians, and Stark and young Rogers with their colonial
rangers--Greek against Greek--scalped each other with a hereditary
ferocity that English and French regulars knew nothing of. In bringing a
fleet up to Quebec, British sailors had already performed one feat
pronounced impossible by Canadian tradition. They now still further
upset their enemies' calculations by running the gauntlet of the
batteries of Quebec and placing the Sutherland, with several smaller
ships, at some distance up the river. This cost Montcalm six hundred
men, whom he had to send under Dumas to watch the squadron. But all this
brought the end no nearer. Time was exceeding precious, and July was
almost out. Necessary messages were continually passing under flags of
truce, and superfluous notes of defiance sometimes accompanied them.
"You may destroy the town," said De Ramezay to Wolfe, "but you will
never get inside it." "I will take Quebec," replied the fiery stripling,
"if I stay here till November."

Through the whole weary month of August little occurred that the
exigencies of our space would justify recording. Montcalm considered
himself safe, and he even allowed two thousand Canadians to leave for
the harvest. Wolfe had a thousand men of his small force sick or wounded
in hospital. Amherst, it was reported, had taken Ticonderoga, but there
was little likelihood of his getting through to their assistance.
Prideaux, in the Far West, as it then was, had captured Niagara. It was
a great success, but it in no way helped Wolfe. It must not be supposed,
however, that August had passed away in humdrum fashion. The guns had
roared with tireless throats, and the lower town was a heap of ruins.
Far away down both banks of the St. Lawrence the dogs of war had raged
through seigniories and hamlets. Between the upper and the nether
millstone of Wolfe's proclamations and Montcalm's vengeance, the
wretched peasantry were in a sore plight. Raided through and through by
the fierce _guerillas_ of North American warfare, swept bare of grain
and cattle for Wolfe's army, the fugitives from smoking farms and
hamlets were glad to seek refuge in the English lines, where the
soldiers generously shared with them their meagre rations. More than one
expedition had been sent up the river. Admiral Holmes, with over twenty
ships, was already above the town, and had driven the French vessels,
which had originally taken refuge there, to discharge their crews and
run up shallow tributaries.

Wolfe's intention now was to place every man that he could spare on
board the ships in the upper river, and his entire force was reduced by
death, wounds, and sickness to under seven thousand men. On September
3d, with slight annoyance from an ill-directed cannon fire, he removed
the whole force at Montmorency across the water to the camps of Orleans
or Point Lévis. On the following day all the troops at both these
stations which were not necessary for their protection were paraded; for
what purpose no one knew, least of all the French, who from their lofty
lines could mark every movement in the wide panorama below, and were
sorely puzzled and perturbed. Some great endeavor was in the wind,
beyond a doubt; but both Wolfe and his faithful ally, the admiral, did
their utmost to disguise its import. And for this very reason it would
be futile, even if necessary, to follow the fluctuating manoeuvres
that for the next few days kept the enemy in constant agitation: the
sudden rage of batteries here, the threatening demonstrations of
troop-laden boats there, the constant and bewildering movement of armed
ships at every point. It was well designed and industriously maintained,
for the sole purpose of harassing the French and covering Wolfe's real
intention.

On the night of September 4th the general was well enough to dine with
Monckton's officers at Point Lévis, but the next day he was again
prostrate with illness, to the great anxiety of his army. He implored
the doctor to "patch him up sufficiently for the work in hand; after
that nothing mattered." Chronic gravel and rheumatism, with a sharp low
fever, aggravated by a mental strain of the severest kind, all preying
on a sickly frame, were what the indomitable spirit there imprisoned had
to wrestle with. On the 6th, however, Wolfe struggled up, and during
that day and the next superintended the march of his picked column,
numbering some four thousand men, up the south bank of the river.
Fording, near waist-deep, the Etchemain River, they were received beyond
its mouth by the boats of the fleet, and, as each detachment arrived,
conveyed on board. The Forty-eighth, however, seven hundred strong, were
left, under Colonel Burton, near Point Lévis to await orders.

The fleet, with Wolfe and some thirty-six hundred men on board, now
moved up to Cap Rouge, behind which, at the first dip in the high
barrier of cliffs, was Bougainville with fifteen hundred men (soon
afterward increased), exclusive of three hundred serviceable light
cavalry. The cove here was intrenched, and the French commander was so
harried with feigned attacks that he and his people had no rest. At the
same time, so well was the universal activity maintained that Montcalm,
eight miles below, was led to expect a general attack at the mouth of
the Charles River, under the city. Throughout the 8th and 9th the
weather was dark and rainy and the wind from the east, an unfavorable
combination for a movement requiring the utmost precision. On the 10th
the troops from the crowded ships were landed to dry their clothes and
accoutrements. Wolfe and his brigadiers now finally surveyed that line
of cliffs which Montcalm had declared a hundred men could hold against
the whole British army. It was defended here and there by small posts.
Below one of these, a mile and a half above the city, the traces of a
zigzag path up the bush-covered precipice could be made out, though
Wolfe could not see that even this was barricaded. Here, at the now
famous Anse du Foulon, he decided to make his attempt.

The ships, however, kept drifting up and down between Cap Rouge and the
city, with a view to maintaining the suspense of the French. Each
morning Wolfe's general orders to the soldiers were to hold themselves
in readiness for immediate action, with as full directions for their
conduct as was compatible with the suppression of the spot at which
they were to fight. On the night of the 11th the troops were reëmbarked,
and instructions sent to Burton to post the Forty-eighth on the south
shore opposite the Anse du Foulon. On the following day Wolfe published
his last orders, and they contained a notable sentence: "A vigorous blow
struck by the army at this juncture may determine the fate of Canada."
Almost at the same moment his gallant opponent from his head-quarters at
Beauport was writing to Bourlamaque at Montreal that he gave the enemy a
month or less to stay, but that he himself had no rest night or day, and
had not had his boots or clothes off for a fortnight. Another Frenchman
was informing his friends that what they knew of that "impetuous, bold,
and intrepid warrior, Monsieur Wolfe," gave them reason to suppose he
would not leave them without another attack.

A suspicious calm brooded over the British squadron off Cap Rouge as
Bougainville watched it from the shore throughout the whole of the 12th.
The men were under orders to drop into their boats at nine, and were
doubtless busy looking to their arms and accoutrements. By a
preconcerted arrangement the day was spent after a very different
fashion in the Basin of Quebec. Constant artillery fire and the
continual movement of troops against various parts of the Beauport lines
engaged the whole attention of Montcalm, who had, in fact, little notion
what a number of men had gone up the river with Wolfe.

When night fell upon the ruined city and the flickering campfires of the
long French lines, the tumult grew louder and the anxiety greater. The
batteries of Point Lévis and the guns of Saunders' ships redoubled their
efforts. Amid the roar of the fierce artillery, served with an activity
not surpassed during the whole siege, Montcalm, booted and spurred, with
his black charger saddled at the door, awaited some night attack. The
horse would be wanted yet, but for a longer ride than his master
anticipated, and, as it so turned out, for his last one. Up the river at
Cap Rouge all was silence, a strange contrast to the din below. The
night was fine, but dark, and was some three hours old when a single
light gleamed of a sudden from the Sutherland's main-mast. It was the
signal for sixteen hundred men to drop quietly into their boats. A long
interval of silence and suspense then followed, till at two o'clock the
tide began to ebb, when a second lantern glimmered from Wolfe's ship.
The boats now pushed off and drifted quietly down in long procession
under the deep shadow of the high northern shore.

The ships followed at some distance with the remainder of the force
under Townshend, the Forty-eighth, it will be remembered, awaiting them
below. The distance to be traversed was six miles, and there were two
posts on the cliffs to be passed. French provision-boats had been in the
habit of stealing down in the night, and to this fact, coupled with the
darkness, it seems Wolfe trusted much. He was himself in one of the
leading boats, and the story of his reciting Gray's _Elegy_, in solemn
tones while he drifted down, as he hoped, to victory and, as he
believed, to death, rests on good authority.[43]

The tide was running fast, so that the rowers could ply their oars with
a minimum of disturbance. From both posts upon the cliff their presence
was noticed, and the challenge of a sentry rang out clear upon the
silent night. On each occasion a Highland officer, who spoke French
perfectly, replied that they were a provision convoy, to the
satisfaction of the challengers. But the risk was undeniable, and
illustrates the hazardous nature of the enterprise. Wolfe's friend,
Captain Howe, brother of the popular young nobleman who fell at
Ticonderoga, with a small body of picked soldiers, was to lead the
ascent, and as the boats touched the narrow beach of the Anse du Foulon
he and his volunteers leaped rapidly on shore. Some of the boats
accidentally overran the spot, but it made little difference, as the
narrow path was, in any case, found to be blocked, and the eager
soldiers were forced to throw themselves upon the rough face of the
cliff, which was here over two hundred feet high, but fortunately
sprinkled thick with stunted bushes. Swiftly and silently Howe and his
men scrambled up its steep face. No less eagerly the men behind, as boat
after boat discharged its load of red-coats under Wolfe's eye on the
narrow shore, followed in their precarious steps.

Day was just beginning to glimmer as the leading files leaped out onto
the summit and rushed upon the handful of astonished Frenchmen before
them, who fired a futile volley and fled. The shots and cries alarmed
other posts at some distance off, yet near enough to fire in the
direction of the landing-boats. It was too late, however; the path had
now been cleared of obstacles, and the British were swarming onto the
plateau. The first sixteen hundred men had been rapidly disembarked, and
the boats were already dashing back for Townshend's brigade, who were
approaching in the ships, and for the Forty-eighth, awaiting them on the
opposite shore.

The scattered French posts along the summit were easily dispersed, while
the main army at Beauport, some miles away, on the far side of the city,
were as yet unconscious of danger. Bougainville and his force back at
Cap Rouge were as far off and as yet no wiser. Quebec had just caught
the alarm, but its weak and heterogeneous garrison had no power for
combined mobility. By six o'clock Wolfe had his whole force of
forty-three hundred men drawn up on the plateau, with their backs to the
river and their faces to the north. Leaving the Royal Americans, five
hundred forty strong, to guard the landing-place, and with a force thus
reduced to under four thousand he now marched toward the city, bringing
his left round at the same time in such fashion as to face the western
walls, scarcely a mile distant.

As Wolfe drew up his line of battle on that historic ridge of table-land
known as the Plains of Abraham, his right rested on the cliff above the
river, while his left approached the then brushy slope which led down
toward the St. Charles Valley. He had outmanoeuvred Montcalm; it now
remained only to crush him. Of this Wolfe had not much doubt, though
such confidence may seem sufficiently audacious for the leader of four
thousand men, with twice that number in front of him and half as many in
his rear, both forces commanded by brave and skilful generals. But Wolfe
counted on quality, not on numbers, which Montcalm himself realized were
of doubtful efficacy at this crucial moment.

The French general, in the mean time, had been expecting an attack all
night at Beauport, and his troops had been lying on their arms. It was
about six o'clock when the astounding news was brought him that the
British were on the plateau behind the city. The Scotch Jacobite, the
Chevalier Johnstone, who has left us an account of the affair, was with
him at the time, and they leaped on their horses--he to give the alarm
toward Montmorency, the general to hasten westward by Vaudreuil's
quarters to the city. "This is a serious business," said Montcalm to
Johnstone as he dug his spurs into his horse's flanks. Vaudreuil, who in
his braggart, amateur fashion had been "crushing the English" with pen
and ink and verbal eloquence this last six weeks, now collapsed, and
Montcalm, who knew what a fight in the open with Wolfe meant, hastened
himself to hurry forward every man that could be spared.

Fifteen hundred militia were left to guard the Beauport lines, while the
bulk of the army poured in a steady stream along the road to Quebec,
over the bridge of the St. Charles, some up the slopes beyond, others
through the tortuous streets of the city, on to the Plains of Abraham.
Montcalm, by some at the time, and by many since, has been blamed for
precipitating the conflict, but surely not with justice! He had every
reason to count on Bougainville and his twenty-three hundred men, who
were no farther from Wolfe's rear than he himself was from the English
front. The British held the entire water. Wolfe once intrenched on the
plateau, the rest of his army, guns, and stores could be brought up at
will, and the city defences on that side were almost worthless. Lastly,
provisions with the French were woefully scarce; the lower country had
been swept absolutely bare. Montcalm depended on Montreal for every
mouthful of food, and Wolfe was now between him and his source of
supply.

By nine o'clock Montcalm had all his men in front of the western walls
of the city and was face to face with Wolfe, only half a mile separating
them. His old veterans of William Henry, Oswego, and Ticonderoga were
with him, the reduced regiments of Béarn, Royal Rousillon, Languedoc, La
Sarre, and La Guienne, some thirteen hundred strong, with seven hundred
colony regulars and a cloud of militia and Indians. Numbers of these
latter had been pushed forward as skirmishers into the thickets, woods,
and cornfields which fringed the battle-field, and had caused great
annoyance and some loss to the British, who were lying down in their
ranks, reserving their strength and their ammunition for a supreme
effort. Three pieces of cannon, too, had been brought to play on
them--no small trial to their steadiness; for, confident of victory, it
was not to Wolfe's interest to join issue till Montcalm had enough of
his men upon the ridge to give finality to such a blow. At the same time
the expected approach of Bougainville in the rear had to be watched for
and anticipated.

It was indeed a critical and anxious moment! The Forty-eighth regiment
were stationed as a reserve of Wolfe's line, though to act as a check
rather to danger from Bougainville than as a support to the front
attacks in which they took no part. Part, too, of Townshend's brigade,
who occupied the left of the line nearest to the wooded slopes in which
the plain terminated, were drawn up _en potence_, or at right angles to
the main column, in case of attacks from flank or rear. The Bougainville
incident is, in fact, a feature of this critical struggle that has been
too generally ignored, but in such a fashion that inferences might be
drawn, and have been drawn, detrimental to that able officer's sagacity.
Theoretically he should have burst on the rear of Wolfe's small army, as
it attacked Montcalm, with more than twenty-three hundred tolerable
troops.

He was but six miles off, and it was now almost as many hours since the
British scaled the cliff. Pickets and a small battery or two between
himself and Wolfe had been early in the morning actually engaged. The
simple answer is that Bougainville remained ignorant of what was
happening. Nothing but an actual messenger coming through with the news
would have enlightened him, and in the confusion none came till eight
o'clock. The sound of desultory firing borne faintly against the wind
from the neighborhood of the city had little significance for him. It
was a chronic condition of affairs, and Bougainville's business was to
watch the upper river, where an attack was really expected. It was a
rare piece of good-fortune for Wolfe that the confusion among the French
was so great as to cause this strange omission. But then it was Wolfe's
daring that had thus robbed a brave enemy of their presence of mind and
created so pardonable a confusion.

The constituents of that ever-memorable line of battle which Wolfe drew
up on the Plains of Abraham must of a surety not be grudged space in
this account. On the right toward the cliffs of the St. Lawrence were
the Twenty-eighth, the Thirty-fifth, the Forty-third, and the Louisburg
Grenadiers under Monckton; in the centre, under Murray, were the
Forty-seventh, Fifty-eighth, and the Seventy-eighth Highlanders; with
Townshend on the left were the Fifteenth (_en potence_) and the Second
battalion of the Sixtieth or Royal Americans--in all somewhat over three
thousand men. In reserve, as already stated, was Burton with the
Forty-eighth, while Howe with some light infantry occupied the woods
still farther back, and the Third battalion of the Sixtieth guarded the
landing-place. None of these last corps joined in the actual attack.

When Montcalm, toward ten o'clock, under a cloudy but fast-clearing sky,
gave the order to advance, he had, at the lowest estimate from French
sources, about thirty-five hundred men, exclusive of Indians and
flanking skirmishers, who may be rated at a further fifteen hundred. The
armies were but half a mile apart, and the French regulars and militia,
being carefully but perhaps injudiciously blended along their whole
line, went forward with loud shouts to the attack.

The British, formed in a triple line, now sprang to their feet and moved
steadily forward to receive the onset of the French. Wolfe had been hit
on the wrist, but hastily binding up the shattered limb with his
handkerchief, he now placed himself at the head of the Louisburg
Grenadiers, whose temerity against the heights of Beauport, in July, he
had soundly rated. He had issued strict orders that his troops were to
load with two bullets, and to reserve their fire till the enemy were at
close quarters. He was nobly obeyed, though the French columns came on
firing wildly and rapidly at long range, the militia throwing themselves
down, after their backwoods custom, to reload, to the disadvantage of
the regular regiments among whom they were mixed. The British fire, in
spite of considerable punishment, was admirably restrained, and when
delivered it was terrible.

Knox tells us that the French received it at forty paces, that the
volleys sounded like single cannon-shots, so great was the precision,
and French officers subsequently declared they had never known anything
like it. Whole gaps were rent in the French ranks, and in the confusion
which followed the British reloaded with deliberation, poured in yet
another deadly volley, and with a wild cheer rushed upon the foe. They
were the pick of a picked army, and the shattered French, inured to arms
in various ways though every man of them was, had not a chance.
Montcalm's two thousand regulars were ill-supported by the still larger
number of their comrades, who, unsurpassed behind breastworks or in
forest warfare, were of little use before such an onslaught. The rush of
steel, of bayonet on the right and centre, of broadsword on the left,
swept everything before it and soon broke the French into a flying mob,
checked here and there by brave bands of white-coated regulars, who
offered a brief but futile resistance.

Wolfe, in the mean time, was eagerly pressing forward at the head of his
Grenadiers, while behind him were the Twenty-eighth and the
Thirty-fifth, of Lake George renown. One may not pause here to speculate
on the triumph that must at such a moment have fired the bright eyes
that redeemed his homely face and galvanized the sickly frame into a
very Paladin of old, as sword in hand he led his charging troops. Such
inevitable reflections belong rather to his own story than to that of
the long war which he so signally influenced, and it was now, in the
very moment of victory, as all the world well knows, that he fell.

He was hit twice in rapid succession--a ball in the groin which did not
stop him, and a second through the lungs, against which his high courage
fought in vain. He was seen to stagger by Lieutenant Browne of the
Grenadiers and Second regiment, who rushed forward to his assistance.
"Support me," exclaimed Wolfe, "lest my gallant fellows should see me
fall." But the lieutenant was just too late, and the wounded hero sank
to the ground; not, however, before he was also seen by Mr. Henderson, a
volunteer, and almost immediately afterward by an officer of artillery,
Colonel Williamson, and a private soldier whose name has not been
preserved. The accurate Knox himself was not far off, and this is the
account given him by Browne that same evening, and seems worthy to hold
the field against the innumerable claims that have been set up in the
erratic interests of "family tradition."

These four men carried the dying general to the rear, and by his own
request, being in great pain, laid him upon the ground. He refused to
see a surgeon, declared it was all over with him, and sank into a state
of torpor. "They run; see how they run!" cried out one of the officers.
"Who run?" asked Wolfe, suddenly rousing himself. "The enemy, sir; egad,
they give way everywhere." "Go, one of you, my lads," said the dying
general, "with all speed to Colonel Burton, and tell him to march down
to the St. Charles River and cut off the retreat of the fugitives to the
bridge." He then turned on his side, and exclaiming, "God be praised, I
now die in peace," sank into insensibility, and in a short time, on the
ground of his victory which for all time was to influence the destinies
of mankind, gave up his life contentedly at the very moment, to quote
Pitt's stirring eulogy, "when his fame began."

FOOTNOTES:

[43] That of Professor Robinson, of Edinburgh University, who was
present as a midshipman.

USURPATION OF CATHARINE II IN RUSSIA

A.D. 1762

W. KNOX JOHNSON

"No sovereign since Ivan the Terrible," says Rambaud, "extended the
frontiers of the empire by such vast conquests" as those of
Catharine II. "She gave Russia for boundaries the Niemen, the
Dniester, and the Black Sea." This aggrandizement, which was her own
boast, was a sufficient compensation to Russia, if not to history,
for the crimes charged against Catharine both at home and elsewhere
in the scenes of her political and military triumphs. Her
participation in the three partitions of Poland (1772, 1793, 1795)
associated her name forever with the long and pathetic tragedy of
that nation.

Voltaire, whose admiration for Catharine engages Johnson's
attention, seems really to have regarded her as the political
teacher of Europe, for, referring to her, he said, "Light now comes
from the North." The woman who so enslaved men of genius and
enlarged the empire which Peter the Great had already made powerful,
was not herself a Russian. She was born at Stettin, Prussian
Pomerania, in 1729, the daughter of Christian Augustus, Prince of
Anhalt-Zerbst and Governor of Stettin.

Johnson gives an interesting account of her introduction to the
court of the Empress (Czarina) Elizabeth Petrovna, daughter of Peter
the Great and Catharine I. His story of her marriage and sudden
usurpation of the throne is a spirited picture of a dark event in
her career. Above all, he furnishes a most animated and searching
analysis of her character and acts, and of her relations with great
personages of her day. His critical observations, happily blending
with the historical review, shed a revealing light upon this famous
ruler and her reign.

It is January, 1744, and the commandant of Stettin, Prince of
Anhalt-Zerbst zu Dornburg, is keeping New-Year festivities at his castle
of Zerbst, when suddenly couriers from Berlin, couriers from St.
Petersburg, throw everyone into wild commotion. For the Czarina
Elizabeth, casting about for a wife for her nephew, the young grand duke
Peter of Holstein, nominated heir-presumptive to all the Russias, has
accepted advice from Frederick, soon to become "the Great." She is
formally desirous of a visit from the Princess of Zerbst and her
daughter, Sophie Frederika, now fifteen years of age, and already
noticeable for her good looks and good-sense. Not a moment is to be
lost. So eastward, northward, the sleighs hurry them through the white
leagues of snow, to arrive within six weeks at the Russian court, now
established in Moscow; with little state or ceremony, nevertheless, for
the princely house of Zerbst is poor as it is ancient. Sophie's
wardrobe, she informs us herself, consists just of three, or it may be
four, dresses, with twelve chemises. For here begins that singular
autobiography; an unauthenticated fragment, it is true, but a
self-portraiture convincing as any in literature.

At Moscow they made the best of impression; the Czarina was graciousness
itself, and within eighteen months the young Princess had been received
into the Greek Church as Catharine, and married to the Grand Duke,
himself only seventeen years old.

But already she had learned not to expect happiness. He was, if we
believe the accounts of him, senseless and boorish in the extreme.
Certainly he did not pretend to the least affection for Catharine. A few
days after her arrival, he had confided to her, "as his cousin," that he
was "ardently in love with one of the maids-of-honor; since, however,
the Empress desired it, he had resigned himself, and was willing to
marry her instead!" She was forced, according to her assertion, to
listen to confidences of a like nature during many years. His
puerilities and eccentricities, we are told, amounted almost to madness.
He was fond of drilling dogs and tin soldiers, together with his
disgusted suite. But, like everyone else about the court, he lived in
terror of the strong-willed, strong-drinking Czarina. His kennel must be
kept a secret, and was accordingly located in his wife's bedroom. He
would spend hours indoors cracking whips or emitting weird sounds on
musical instruments. At night, after Madame Tchoglokoff, who was charged
with the surveillance of the grand-ducal _ménage_, had retired, under
the impression that she had locked everyone up safely, he would call for
lights again, like a schoolboy, and make Catharine and her attendants
play with marionettes on the counterpane till one, two, three o'clock in
the morning.

He had been more or less drunk, to credit his enemies, since the age of
ten; and Catharine declares he had a mortal aversion to the bath, which
it seems was then a Russian, not a German, observance. When ordered by
the Empress to take one as penance during Lent, he replied that it was
repugnant to his moral nature and unsuited to his physical constitution:
nothing, he said, but the most vital considerations could induce him to
risk the Empress' displeasure, but he was not prepared to die; and life
was dearer to him than her majesty's approbation. Both were obstinate,
and the dispute led to the most terrific outburst of rage on the part of
the Czarina that Catharine had yet witnessed.

On another occasion his wife discovered him presiding over a
court-martial in full regimentals, with a large rat in the centre of the
room, which had just been suspended with all the formalities of a
military execution. It appeared that the unfortunate beast had
transgressed the laws of war; it had climbed the ramparts of a
card-board fortress, and had actually eaten two pith sentries on duty at
the bastions. It was to be exposed to the public view as an example
during three days following! Catharine, unluckily, was so lost to the
fitness of things as to betray open merriment. The Grand Duke was
furious; and she had to retire, excusing herself with difficulty on
account of her ignorance of military discipline. The affair sensibly
aggravated the estrangement between them.

Of Elizabeth, who led an eccentric life with her own peculiar intimates,
Catharine knew little; but she was the victim of an unrelenting if petty
tyranny, which kept jealous watch over every word and movement, deprived
her of any attendant of whom she made a friend, and dictated every
minute circumstance of her life. It was like nothing so much as a dame
school, even to the various tutors and governesses ordered her by the
Czarina. When her father died she was allowed a week's mourning; at the
end of that time the Empress sent a command to leave off; "she was a
grand duchess, and her father was not a king." But Catharine was not of
the stuff from which are modelled the monuments of docility. Little by
little, as her character develops, she acquires a proud and lonely
self-dependence. She awakens to intellectual interests; from the first,
indeed, she had flung herself with ardor into the study of Russian
history and language. During these early years books are her great
distraction; "_dixhuit années d'ennui et de solitude_," we read in a
epitaph written by herself, "_lui firent lire bien des livres_."

After a trial in the wilderness of third-rate contemporary fiction,
Voltaire stirs her intellect. And he leads her, too, spellbound by that
incomparable _verve_ and intellectual agility of his; she surrenders
herself to the illusion of his brilliant assurances, dancing like some
triumphant will-o'-the-wisp over the obscure deeps and perplexities of
things. In a hundred ways, evil and good, she will remain the pupil of
Voltaire. He has his part in her social test of philosophical
speculations; he has his part also, be sure of it, in her long devotion
to ideals of monarchy expressed for her in Henri Quatre and Louis
Quatorze.

After Voltaire and Madame de Sévigné, Montesquieu, Baronius, Tacitus,
Bayle, Brantôme, and the early volumes of the _Encyclopædia_. But her
gay, expansive nature was not capable, for long, of purely intellectual
or stoic consolation. In a moral environment such as that of Elizabeth's
court it was too easy for the reader of Brantôme to seek elsewhere the
"love" romances had spoken of, but marriage had denied her. She was
remarked by all in her day for her gift of fascination. To outward
observers she seemed at this time a radiant and happy presence, as Burke
saw Marie Antoinette, the morning-star of a pleasure-loving society,
"full of life, and splendor, and joy." She says that she never
considered herself extremely beautiful, but "she was able to please, _et
cela était mon fort_." All contemporary testimony bears out this
singular faculty of attracting others, rarest of natural gifts, but to a
woman such as Catharine a very perilous one.

Not even those set to spy upon her could resist her personal magnetism.
She could be beautiful or terrible, playful or majestic, at pleasure. At
St. Petersburg there were few wits, and her intellectual superiority to
those about her was sufficient to gain her the nickname among her
husband's friends of "Madame la Ressource." Despite Peter's difficult
relations with her, he would refer to her in most of his perplexities,
especially when political, connected with his duchy of Holstein. "I
don't understand things very well myself," he would explain to
strangers, "but my wife understands everything." We observe in the
_Autobiography_ a fixed idea to "gain over" as many people as possible,
to attach them to her interests; partly because of the opposition to the
Czarina's circle, which gradually came to characterize the "_Jeune
Cour_," but specially in the service of those vague, ambitious
foreshadowings which from her first years in Russia had possessed her
mind. Clear-sighted, with a keen sense of her husband's inadequacy to
his position, warned by the implacable hostility of his mistress
Elizabeth Vorontsoff and her relations, above all with a passionate
thirst to realize her presentiment of greatness, she was instinctively
preparing for some emergency, she knew not exactly what. As for the more
precise premonitions of the memoirs, they are what would naturally
appear to her after the _fait accompli_. Ambition, calculation looking
before and after, patience in adversity, quickness to note and use the
weakness of those about her, a steady indifference to unessentials, a
political intelligence unhampered by the keener sensibilities--these are
the master traits of the Catharine of the _Autobiography_.

So far, then, of these earlier years, while we have the memoirs with us.
We must now pass quickly over many things. The motto of the Romanoffs
might be taken from _Macbeth_: "The near in blood, the nearer
bloody."[44] But in that sombre history there is no darker page than the
conspiracy of 1762.

In January Elizabeth died and the Grand Duke ascended the throne,
quietly enough, as Peter III. But the position of Catharine was worse
than before. The Czar was completely under the influence of her enemies;
he insulted her in public; and it seemed certain that his next step
would be to divorce her, throw her into prison, and marry Elizabeth
Vorontsoff. He had once already ordered her arrest, which his uncle had
afterward persuaded him to retract. The very reforms with which he had
begun his reign worked against him. He had made himself unpopular not
only with the clergy, but with the Preobrajenski Guards, which, like the
prætorians of the Roman Empire, disposed of the throne. He smoked and
drank till three or five o'clock in the morning, writes the French
ambassador; yet he would be up again at seven manoeuvring his troops.
He would order a hundred cannon to be fired together that he might have
a foretaste of war, and his eccentricities in general were intensified
by absolute power. The history of the _coup-d'état_ is still obscure. A
considerable party, however, formed round Catharine: the brothers
Gregory and Alexis Orloff won over several regiments, and the princess
Dashkoff gained adherents in society. Matters were precipitated by the
accidental arrest of one of the conspirators; and although their plans
were incoherent, the good-fortune of Catharine carried her through. At
five o'clock in the morning of July 9th Alexis Orloff entered her room
at Peterhoff, and told her to set out for St. Petersburg, where she was
to be proclaimed immediately. She hastened there with the Orloffs. Three
regiments, to whom _vodka_ had judiciously been dispensed beforehand,
took the oath of allegiance with enthusiasm; and others followed suit.
Peter was thunderstruck. On the advice of Marshal Muennich he embarked
for Cronstadt, where he was challenged, and demanded admittance as
emperor. "_Il n'y a plus d'empéreur!_" replied the commandant,
Talitsine. He hurried back again, and after agonies of indecision
finally abdicated. "He had lost his crown," as Frederick said
scornfully, "like a naughty child sent to bed with a whipping."

So far the revolution had been bloodless, but its darker hour was to
come. "I placed the deposed Emperor under the command of A. Orloff, with
four 'chosen' officers and a detachment of 'quiet' and 'sober' men, and
sent him to a distance of twenty-seven versts from St. Petersburg to a
place called Ropsha, 'very retired,' but very pleasant"--so runs
Catharine's account to Poniatowski. On the 15th he was dead; of
"hemorrhoidal colic," said the official announcement; strangled, as
Europe rightly believed, by Alexis Orloff with his own hands. It is
hardly possible that this hideous murder was without Catharine's at
least tacit consent. She certainly condoned the crime. There was danger
in a name; and her sentiment was doubtless that of Lord Essex when the
fate of Stafford hung in the balance: "Stone dead hath no fellow!"
Already, where the Neva turns toward the Baltic, one wretched boy-Czar
languished beneath the melancholy fortress of the Schluesselburg. Two
years, and he too, after having known the bitterness of life, will be
violently done to death in his turn. But Voltaire wrote to Madame du
Deffand: "I am aware that people reproach her with some bagatelles _à
propos_ of that husband of hers; however, one really cannot intermeddle
in these family squabbles!"

Such was the tragedy of Peter III. He dies, as Catharine said, unpitied:
a fool, echo her friends, who perished in his folly. But history is
precise and simple; truth complex and difficult. Was there no light, no
touch of nobility at all in that strange chaotic temperament? No
reverence in the boy who would kneel to the picture of the great
Frederick? No generosity in the Czar who sacrificed victory to a
sentiment; who abolished the hateful "secret chancery," torture,
monopolies, and refused a statue of gold offered by St. Petersburg,
"desiring rather to raise a monument in the hearts of the people"? There
was something inarticulate there, surely--in the would-be musician who
must shut himself up for hours to scrawk madly, passionately, on a crazy
violin, and whose last request was for his confidant and instrument.
"What is history," said Napoleon, "but a fiction agreed upon?" Such,
nevertheless, is the form and spirit of the hapless Peter as portrayed
by his enemies.

This was the Catharine of Elizabeth's court, and protagonist of that
revolution which first made her known to Europe. But it was the
sovereign who dazzled her contemporaries, and still lives splendidly
with the "Great Czar" in the annals of Russia. That exuberant
personality of hers is so eloquent, so omnipresent in the sphere of
politics, that one is often the most luminous illustration of the other.
There is a note you will find common to her grandiose schemes of
territorial expansion, of intellectual enlightenment and domestic
reform. It is the note of theatricality, of extravagance, of excess. The
strangest chimeric phantasy sometimes here possesses her, hitherto
prosaic enough in so many ways; and it communicates itself to men like
the Orloffs, Patiomkin, Suvaroff. It is, I think, M. Leroy-Beaulieu, who
remarks that in Russia the shows of things are more important than
reality. So rite, ceremonial, the spectacular, the symbolic, seem to
have a power there greater than in any other people of civilization.

But stronger still was Catharine's overmastering desire to play to the
applause of Europe. She had conceived herself as the heroine of a
grandiose drama. It was her ambition to be the "Grand Monarque" of the
North, and to show the Paris of Louis Quinze that the age of Olympian
sovereignty was not yet past. Hence her sensitiveness to Western
opinion, her assiduous court to the men of intellect, her anxiety to be
admired and feared in Europe. Nowhere is this pose, this consciousness
of a gallery, more evident than in the sphere of foreign policy. The
great Peter had fulfilled the dream of Ivan in reaching the Baltic, and
so, in her wars with the Turk, Catharine realized the aim of Peter by
forcing her way to the Black Sea.

But a Hellenic empire at Constantinople haunts her dreams. She stirs up
Greek against Ottoman, and her trumpeter Voltaire heralds a new Sparta
and Athens; she calls her grandson Constantine, and surrounds him with
Greek nurse and servants. Her famous progress southward, the most
eccentric pageant in history, is typical of Patiomkin's _régime_. This
extraordinary man--mountebank, writes the English envoy, "_esprit
réveur_," says the keener-eyed Prince de Ligne--a barbarian, of terrific
appearance; fantastic beyond the verge of madness, acquired a greater
influence with Catharine than any other man of her reign. He had been
created "Prince of Taurida" (the Crimea) after the conquest of the
southern provinces; and was resolved to dazzle Europe and his sovereign
with her new acquisitions.

In January, 1787, she set out on her triumphal journey. A huge retinue
accompanied her, together with the foreign ambassadors, Cobenzl,
Fitzherbert, and Ségur, the last of whom has described this strange
procession. Forty miles were covered every day. There is a palace at
every stopping-place; towns and villages dot what six months ago had
been a howling wilderness. Painted forests seem to clothe the horizon:
fertile solitudes swarm with gayly dressed peasants--imported for this
occasion only. From Kiev floating pavilions carry them down the Dnieper:
the prince-magician alone has a hundred twenty of his beloved musicians.
Again the same _mise-en-scène_: operatic Cossacks rowing out from either
shore, the village of yesterday in the foreground, roofless façades in
the middle distance; the same reviews in successive provinces of hussars
out of her own escort! The greatest of optimists saw everything and
affected to see through nothing--the works of his highness surpass
conception. Suddenly spring appears, glittering on the enamelled meadows
and majestic river; they journey to the music of the galleys between
throngs of spectators from thirty nations. Every morning a fresh scene
opens, the days "travel more quickly than they themselves."

At Kanioff she is met by his majesty of Poland, none other than
Poniatowski, the lover, of Peterhoff in the old days! At Kherson, on an
eastern gate, appears the famous legend "The road to Byzantium"; and
there it is the Holy Roman Emperor who is drawn into her train--they
have already mapped out the Ottoman dominions. So with excursions and
alarums eastward by Poltava of glorious memory to the new "Glory of
Catharine," her city of Ekaterinoslaff; and last of all through
undulating steppes to the gorgeous palace piled upon the sand at
Inkerman, where after banquetings a curtain falls away, and behold--the
pasteboard fortifications of Sebastopol! where a green-wood squadron
anchored beneath them splutters forth its husky artillery. _Splendide
mendax!_ The West applauded frantically: never had such a
travelling-show been seen in Europe.

At home, too, the cult of appearances went hand in hand with generosity
and enthusiasm. "_C'est presque un monde_," she writes to Voltaire, "_à
créer, à unir, à conserver!_" First comes the administration of justice,
and her ukase of 1762, on its abuses, has a ring of sincerity that can
hardly be mistaken. There is a real courage again in her dealings with
the clergy. Four years later she summons a great assembly to Moscow to
consider a new code; and her "Instruction" to the delegates, saturated
as it is with Montesquieu and the rest, shows her abreast of her time.
Politicians of the old school, indeed, shuddered at its array of
grandiloquent maxims--"there are bombs enough in it," cried Panin, "to
bring the walls about our ears." She is here, in spite of all that has
been said, exactly where we invariably find her, neither a day in front
of her age nor a day behind.

Reform of the _ex cathedra_ sort was just then in the air. From the
Tagus to the Dnieper, and from Copenhagen to the Vatican, Europe was
crowded with paternal monarchs and earnest ministers, who were willing
to do almost everything for the people and nothing by them. The world
had not seen statesmen so sincere, enlightened, and plausible. A
generation later, on the meeting of the National Assembly, the despotic
reformation of Montesquieu and Voltaire will still seem about to be
translated into action. Men read their Rousseau: soon they will
understand him; they will also understand that _Non de nobis sine
nobis_, which was the haughty motto of the Hungarian magnates.

But her attention soon became diverted. She was not, as Gunning thought,
insincere, only fickle; she wanted patience and continuity of aim. The
"States-General" had produced an excellent effect in the world, and, in
fact, had afforded her information afterward turned to account. Her eye
is on the Turk: as with the second Pitt, had it not been for this cursed
war we should have seen greater things. "Beginnings--only beginnings!"
exclaims an eye-witness, "there are plenty of sketches to be seen, but
where is the finished picture?" Another reports that shoals of academies
and secondary schools bear witness to Catharine's enthusiasm for
education, but that some exist only on paper, while others seem to have
everything except scholars. Things are done hastily, and without just
measure or proportion; the imitative talent of the Russian does not seem
to carry him quite far enough. At her death, says a historian who wrote
eight years after it, most of her foundations were already in ruins;
everything seemed to have been abandoned before completion. Yet we must
not forget that liberal ideas were in themselves a revelation to the
Russia of her days, and that after a succession of contemptible
sovereigns she appeared as the first worthy successor of Peter. It was
already something for a woman there to be governed by large social
conceptions; has it not been said even elsewhere that the politics of
women are proper names? You may say what you will: she saved the
European tradition of Peter the Great, and was in a sense the creator of
modern Russia.

But to her philosophic friends at Paris it mattered little whether her
designs were in the parchment or any other stage. Since Voltaire had
hailed her as the "Northern Semiramis," no adulation was enough to
translate their enthusiasm: the "charms of Cleopatra," for example, were
united in her to "the soul of Brutus." On her side she "distributed
compliments in abundance, gold medals also (but more often in bronze?),
and from time to time even a little money." La Harpe, Marmontel, Volney,
Galiani, and many others fallen silent in these days were sharers in
her bounty. She would buy the books of some specially favored and instal
them at home again as "her librarians." Only one or two, D'Alembert,
Raynal, stood aloof, with the mistrustful Jean Jacques, who refused the
demesne of Gatschina. Diderot came to St. Petersburg in those days,
declaiming for two, three, five hours with unmatched copiousness of
discourse, astounding Catharine with his large argument and fiery
eloquence, and entertaining her hugely by his oblivion of everything
once fairly launched on his foaming torrent. The philosopher who, borne
on spiritual hurricanes, would leap from his chair at Princess
Dashkoff's, striding to and fro as he spat upon the floor in his
excitement, forgot himself equally in the presence of "Semiramis." "In
the heat of exposition he brought his hands down on the imperial knees
with such force and iteration" that Catharine complained they had turned
black and blue. But for all that she would egg on this strange
wild-fowl. "_Allons_," she would exclaim, a table once set safely
between them, "_entre hommes tout est permis!_"

As for Voltaire, his proudest title was that of "lay preacher of the
religion of 'St.' Catharine." Her correspondence with him, which begins
the year after her accession and continues until his death, is in truth
a kind of journalism, written partly by herself, partly by others. Its
object is to keep the friend of princes and dictator of literary opinion
_au courant_ with her ideas, measures, and general policy. She is not
content now, however, with the applause of her generation; she aims at
commanding the sources of history itself. Here she motions posterity to
take its stand behind contemporaries in the church of Voltaire's
foundation, while the archpriest of Ferney prostrates himself with
iterated formula, "_Te Cathariniam laudamus, te Dominam confitemur_."
For St. Catharine was an interested reader of that correspondence of
Diderot's with her sculptor Falconet, whose theme is the solidity of
posthumous fame. Rulihière had already written an account of the events
of 1762, of which he had been an eye-witness; she had tried first to buy
him, and then to have him thrown into the Bastille. She will search
Venice for a pliable historian; and her own letter on the _coup-d'état_,
together with her memoirs, shows how strong in her was that "_besoin de
parolier_" analyzed by the great Pascal a century before. Catharine, be
quite certain of it, is no earnest seeker after truth; rather "the plain
man," with something of the acuteness as well as the insensibility of
common-sense. The _Philosophes_ were the interest of the cultivated "as
scholars had been in one century, painters in another, theologians in a
third." They had the ear of Europe, who rest now in Mr. Morley's bosom.
But Catharine confessed years after: "Your learned men in '_ist_' bored
me to extinction. There was only my good protector Voltaire. Do you know
it was he who made me the mode?"

With what a quaint inconsequence her truer self appeared at the
Revolution! She, who will foresee Napoleon, was rudely shocked by the
fall of the Bastille. The Revolution touched her in her tenderest point.
With every year, in spite of her sentiments and cosmopolitan culture,
this Princess of Zerbst became more and more fervently autocratic and
Russian. She had jestingly asked her doctor to bleed away the last drop
of her German blood. No one ever had a more fanatical hero-worship for
the Russian himself, or a deeper enthusiasm for the greatness in his
history. It was in the political sphere that her convictions play, and
she had a vague but passionate belief in what she and Russia might do
together. Yet here were these declaimers threatening to overrun Europe,
and "Equality setting peoples at the throats of kings!" The cant about
fraternity, the catch-words and sentiments, vanish like smoke. No
anathemas on the Revolution were fiercer than those of the "_Ame
Républicaine_," who had burned to restore the ancient institutions of
Athens. The hostess of Diderot breathed fiery indignation against "these
Western atheists"; and the nationalization of church property, the very
first of her own reforms, becomes, in the men of '89, an "organized
brigandage." "There is an economy of truth," said Burke. "Semiramis,"
like Romeo, "hung up philosophy," and the bust of her "preceptor,"
Voltaire, accompanied Fox to the basement!

"_Enfin tout philosophe est banni de céans,
Et nous ne vivons plus qu'avec les honnétes gens._"

The advantage of women in affairs of this sort is, that they are natural
opportunists, and care nothing for the tyranny of your system. There is
a wise inconsequence in their ideas, for the logic of the universe is
not professed from an academic chair. "_Moi_," she says, "_je ne suis
qu'un composé de batons rompus!_" Voltaire had learned from Bayle, and
Catharine tells us she had learned from Voltaire, to distrust "the men
of a system." "_Stulti sunt innumerabiles_," said Erasmus, and theirs
was but an ingenious foolishness. Diderot, on that adventurous visit of
his, was bursting with eagerness to take Russia off the wall, and put it
"in the kettle of magicians." Never before now had such projects been
seen in a government office! He gesticulated by the hour: she was
delighted to listen. He drew up scores of schemes; they were as well
ordered, as regular, as his own meals. But presently he realized that no
one had taken him seriously! Catharine once remarked herself that she
wrote on "sensitive skins, while his material was foolscap." And
finally, like Mercier de la Rivière, he departed wiser, and a little
hurt. "A wonderful man," she said afterward to Ségur, "but a little too
old--and a little too young!" His _Plan of a University for Russia_,
which had an appreciable influence on education elsewhere, "has never to
this day," says Waliszewski, "been translated into Russian."

How natural again, and with what vivid abandon, she presents herself in
her correspondence with Grimm! He lives in Paris, factotum and
confidant, passes his life in executing her commissions. To him she
talks, rather than writes, as she talks to her intimates, in
overwhelming voluble fashion, gossiping, punning, often playing the
buffoon, as she does with that little set of hers at her retreat of the
"Hermitage." Persons, even places, have their nicknames. St. Petersburg
is the "Duck-pond"; Grimm himself the "Fag," "Souffredouleur," George
Dandin, "M. le Baron de Thunder-ten-Tronck." Frederick the Great appears
as "Herod" (a palpable hit that!), the diplomats as "Wind-bags,"
"Pea-soup," "Die Perrueckirte Haeupter;" Maria Theresa becomes "Maman;"
Gustavus of Sweden, "Falstaff;" and so on. There is no question here of
making a figure; often she has nothing to say; she writes purely to give
extravagance an outlet. We have her here as though we had been present
at one of those sparkling conversations which, in old days, used to send
Grimm sleepless to his rooms, but of which nothing remained memorable,
which in truth charmed by their vivacity rather than by wit--by that
_verve_ which so often supplies the place of brilliancy. This familiar
note will appear again in her letters to the Emperor Joseph; as unlike
those addressed to Herod as the letters to Grimm are unlike those to
Madame Geoffrin or Voltaire. He was also _des nôtres_. She, who judged
men in general poorly enough, though she used them incomparably well,
not only recognized--unlike most of his contemporaries--but was
fascinated by the elements of greatness in that extraordinary man. She
used him, it is true, as she used Orloff and Patiomkin; her good-fortune
helped her as it did before, and will again; their great alliance
against the Ottoman brought her everything, and him nothing. Still, no
foreigner ever dazzled her as he, who could so little impose himself on
his age. "He will live unrivalled," she wrote in her enthusiasm; "his
star is in the ascendant, he will leave all Europe behind!" A wandering
star, alas! He will go before her to the grave, the great failure of his
generation, in the bitterness of death dictating that saddest of
epitaphs, "Here lies one who never fulfilled an aim." _Impar
congressus!_ like Michelet's Charles the Bold, "_il avait trop voulu,
des choses infinies_."

The arts were indifferent to her, and she was insensible to the
simplicity of true greatness. She idolized a Zuboff, but Kosciuszko was
immured at St. Petersburg till the day of her death, and she never even
learned his precise name. Yet she brought to society and politics much
of that protean activity which was the distinction of her teacher
Voltaire in the field of letters. She did much for education, and
something for Russian literature. She herself wrote or collaborated in
plays, whose performances the Holy Synod had to attend--and applaud--in
a body. She also published translations, pamphlets, books for her
grandchildren, a history of Russia to the fourteenth century, and even
helped to edit a newspaper. Unlike Frederick, she did not despise the
language of her country. She put her court to school, and at the
"Hermitage" so many lines of Russian were learned every day. But
Radistchev said: "Fear and silence reign round Czarkoe-Sielo. The
silence of Death is there, for there despotism has its abode." He
received the knout and Siberia, because his words were true. She lived,
as he said, remote from her people. Beggars were forbidden to enter
Moscow, lest she should see them; but a rumor ran after her return from
the South that Alexis Orloff led her into a barn where were laid out the
bodies of all who had died of hunger on the day of her triumphal entry.
Like Peter the Great, she even in some ways intensified serfdom. A
hundred fifty thousand "peasants of the crown" were handed over by her
as serfs to her lovers. Their proprietors could send them with hard
labor to Siberia; they could give them fifteen thousand blows for a
trifling offence; a Soltikoff tortured seventy-five to death. _Sed
ignoti perierunt mortibus illi!_ the day will come, but not yet.

This is not the place to describe the campaigns of Rumaintsoff,
Patiomkin, and the rest, against Sweden and the Ottomans. Her own ideas
in the field of foreign policy we have already seen. After the
Revolution another policy, that of spurring on Gustavus and the Western
powers to a crusade against France, takes the first place. It gave them
something to think about, she explained to Ostermann, and she "wanted
elbow-room." The third Polish partition explains why she was so anxious
for "elbow-room." Schemes of the kind were common enough in the
eighteenth century, everybody was dismembered on paper by everybody
else; it was but a delicate attention reserved for a neighbor in times
of trouble and sickness. And John Sobieski had foretold the doom of
Poland a hundred years before. But it remains a blot upon her name. For
her final fate overtook Poland, not, as is commonly said, because of her
internal anarchy--sedulously fostered by the foreign powers--but because
that anarchy seemed about to disappear. The spirit of reform had
penetrated to Warsaw, and after the Constitution of May 3d Catharine was
afraid of a revival of the national forces similar to that which had
followed the reforms of 1772 in her neighbor Sweden. She was aided by
traitors from within, _a'quali era piu cara la servitu che la liberta
della loro patria_; and on the field of Maciejovitsy they were able to
cry, "_Finis Poloniæ!_" No question has been more obscured. The fashion
of liberal thought has changed, the history, like that of town and gown,
has been written by the victorious aggressors, and Poland is become the
rendezvous of the political sophistries, as it has been the cockpit of
the political ruffianism, of all Europe. But Catharine could boast that
she had pushed the frontiers of Russia farther than any sovereign since
Ivan the Terrible. "I came to Russia a poor girl. Russia has dowered me
richly, but I have paid her back with Azov, the Crimea, and the
Ukraine."

There remains the side of her which attracted Byron, and which no one
has failed to seize. The beginnings of her moral descent are there
before us in the memoirs; ennui and solitude weighed upon her, and as
she gained greater liberty she sought distractions which, at first, were
harmless. The third stage was the infamous command of the Empress--the
Grand Duke and she have no children; the succession must be secured. If
Soltikoff, as Catharine implies, were the father of her son Paul, the
sovereigns who have since occupied the throne of Russia are Romanoffs
only in name. From this point till her death, in 1796, she entirely
ignored the code of morality convenient in a society whose basis is the
family. In the succession of her "lovers" only Patiomkin, and for a
moment Gregory Orloff, acquired a position of the first political
importance; and Patiomkin's was maintained long after his first relation
had come to an end. It has been ascribed to her as a merit that she
pensioned these worthies handsomely, instead of dealing with them after
the manner of Christina of Sweden; and that she was able to make
passion, which has lost others, coincident with her calculated
self-interest.

Certainly she entered, a child, into a society "rotten before it was
ripe." She was surrounded with a court long demoralized by a succession
of drunken and dissolute czarinas, which aped the corruption of
Versailles more consummately than its refinement. The age was that of
Louis XV, of Lord Sandwich, of Augustus the Strong: in it even a Burke
had persuaded himself that "vice lost half its evil by losing all its
grossness." The reader of Bayle and Brantôme had been introduced to a
bizarre sort of morality; her "spiritual father," Voltaire, was the
author of _La Pucelle_ and _Jacques le Fataliste_ proceeded from the
same pen as the _University for Russia_. Diderot, indeed, whose moral
obscenity was not the whole of the man, but was, nevertheless, sincere
and from the centre, was able to compliment her on the freedom from "the
decencies and virtues, the worn-out rags of her sex." She had no fund of
theoretical cynicism on such matters, nor, on the other hand, the
slightest moral pretence. The revolutionary _Moniteur_ branded her as
Messalina. "_Cela ne regarde que moi_," she said haughtily, and the
sheet circulated throughout the empire. Such is the summary of the
gallons of printers' ink that have soiled paper on this account. It is
the aspect of her allowed to escape no one, and therefore we say no more
of it here. How easy it is to "hint and chuckle and grin" with the
"_chroniques scandaleuses!_" easier still to be incontinent of one's
moral indignation. The truth is that this back-stair gossip misses, on
the whole, that just proportion necessary if you would not only see but
also perceive. Catharine, whom her generation called "the Great," had
one absorbing passion; it was the greatness of Russia, and of herself as
ruler of Russia--"_mon petit ménage_," as she would call it, with her
touch of lightness--and she desired to be the first amateur of "_la
grande politique_" in Europe.

"_Elle brillait surtout par le caractère_," says Waliszewski, whose
volumes, collecting most of what is known about Catharine, I have freely
consulted. It is only natural that her biographer should regard her as a
strikingly complex and exceptional being. _Nous sommes tous des
exceptions._ Yet she is not essentially different from the "woman of
character" you may meet in every street. Given her splendid physical
constitution there is nothing prodigious about her except her
good-fortune in every crisis and important action of her career. In one
of his Napoleonic fits of incoherence, Patiomkin said vividly enough
that the Empress and himself were "the spoilt children of God." For
herself, she says in that introductory page, which Sainte-Beuve has well
compared with Machiavelli, that what commonly passes for good-fortune is
in reality the result of natural qualities and conduct. If that
satisfies, it is so much to her credit. Certainly, "the stars connived"
with her from the day in 1762 when she galloped in her cuirassier's
uniform through the streets of St. Petersburg. "_Toute la politique_,"
she said, "_est fondée sur trois mots circonstances, conjectures et
conjonctures_;" and like many leaders of action she was in her moments a
fatalist, for then she saw how little after all, the greatest, as
Bismarck says, can control events.

FOOTNOTES:

[44] _Macbeth_, ii, 3. That is, the nearer in relationship the heirs of
power to the source of their inheritance, the greater their danger at
the hands of bloody usurpers (like Macbeth).--ED.

CONSPIRACY OF PONTIAC

A.D. 1763

E.O. RANDALL

With the fall of Quebec and De Vaudreuil's capitulation of Montreal,
Canada passed from the dominion of France to Britain, and for a time
came under military rule. In the West, around the shores of the
Great Lakes and the country watered by the Ohio, though small
English garrisons occupied the forts of the region, the French still
held posts on the Wabash and the Mississippi, and had a considerable
settlement at New Orleans. About the Lakes and in the Ohio Valley
discontent smouldered among the Indians, many of whom bewailed the
fate of their old allies, the French, while they feared the English,
whom they dreaded as likely to drive them from their hunting-grounds
and treat them with injustice or neglect.

Their fears in this respect were worked upon and disaffection among
them was fomented by French traders from Montreal and St. Louis; the
results of which were presently seen in the rising of all the
Western tribes under the wily leadership of Pontiac, chief of the
Ottawa warriors, who sought to exterminate the English and restore
the supremacy of the French and Indian races. The incidents of this
conspiracy of Pontiac are related in an edifying paper by the Hon.
E.O. Randall, of Columbus, Ohio, contributed to the _Transactions_
of the Ohio Archæological and Historical Society, and here, by kind
permission, reproduced.

The conquest of Canada left the Indians of the Ohio and Mississippi
valleys subject to British domination. The red men were repulsed but not
conquered. They were scattered over a vast territory; their total number
between the Mississippi on the west, the ocean on the east, between the
Ohio on the south, and the Great Lakes on the north was probably not in
excess of two hundred thousand, and their fighting warriors not more
than ten thousand.[45] Fort Duquesne was in November, 1758, captured
from the French by the British forces under General John Forbes. The
military posts of the French in the East, on the waters of Lake Erie and
the Allegheny, viz., Presqu'île, Le Boeuf, and Venango, passed into
the hands of the British soon after the taking of Fort Duquesne. Most of
the Western forts were transferred to the English during the autumn of
1760; but the extreme Western settlements on the Illinois, viz., Forts
Ouatanon, Vincennes, Kaskaskia, Chartres, and Cahokia, remained several
years longer under French control. In the fall of 1760 Major Robert
Rogers was directed by the then British commander, Sir Jeffrey Amherst,
to traverse the Great Lakes with a detachment of provincial troops and,
in the name of England, take possession of Detroit, Michilimackinac, and
the other Western forts included in the surrender of the French.

Major Rogers, with two hundred rangers, left Montreal, ascended the St.
Lawrence, crossed Lakes Ontario and Erie, and reached the mouth of the
Cuyahoga[46] on November 7th. No body of troops under the British flag
had ever before penetrated so far west on the Lakes. Rogers and his men
encamped in the neighboring forest. Shortly after their arrival a party
of Indian chiefs and warriors appeared at the camp and declared they
were envoys from Pontiac, "ruler of all that country," and demanded, in
his name, that the British soldiers "should advance no farther" until
they had conferred with the great chief, who was rapidly approaching.
That same day Pontiac himself appeared; and "it is here," says Parkman,
"for the first time, that this remarkable man stands forth distinctly on
the page of history."

The place and date of birth of Pontiac are both matters of dispute.
There seems to be no doubt that he was the son of an Ottawa chief; his
mother is variously stated to have been an Ojibwa, a Miami, and a Sac.
Preponderance of evidence, as the lawyers say, seems to favor the
Ojibwas. Authorities also vary as to the date of his nativity from 1712
to 1720.[47] Historical writers usually content themselves with the
vague statement that he was born "on the Ottawa River," without
designating which Ottawa River, for many were so called; indeed, the
Ottawas were in the habit of calling every stream upon which they
sojourned any length of time "Ottawa," after their own tribe. The Miami
chief Richardville is on record as often asserting that Pontiac was born
by the Maumee at the mouth of the Auglaize.[48] In any event, Pontiac,
like his great successor, the incomparable Shawano chief, Tecumseh, was
a native of Ohio.

The Ottawas, Ojibwas, and the Pottawottomis had formed a sort of
alliance of which Pontiac was the virtual head. He was of a despotic and
commanding temperament, and he wielded practical authority among all the
tribes of the Illinois country, and was known to all the Indian nations
of America. Pontiac, conscious of his power and position, haughtily
asked Major Rogers, "What his business was in that country?" and how he
dared enter it without Pontiac's permission? Rogers informed the chief
that the war was over, the French defeated, the country surrendered to
the British, and he was on his way to receive the posts from the French
occupiers. Pontiac was wily and diplomatic. He received the news
stolidly, reserved his answer till next morning, when his reply was that
as he desired to live in peace with the British, he would let them
remain in his country as long as "they treated him with due respect and
deference." Both parties smoked the calumet and protested friendship.
Rogers proceeded on his errand. On November 29, 1760, the French
garrison at Detroit transferred that historic and most important Western
station to British possession.[49]

The stormy season prevented Rogers from advancing farther.
Michilimackinac and the three remoter posts of Ste. Marie, La Baye
(Green Bay), and St. Joseph remained in the hands of the French until
the next year. The interior posts of the Illinois country were also
retained by the French, but the British conquest of America was
completed. The victory of England and the transfer of the French
strongholds to British commanders were a terrible and portentous blow to
the Indian. He could not fail to foresee therein dire results to his
race. His prophetic vision read the handwriting on the wall! Expressions
and signs of discontent and apprehension began to be audible among the
Indian tribes; "from the Potomac to Lake Superior, and from the
Alleghanies to the Mississippi, in every wigwam and hamlet of the
forest, a deep-rooted hatred of the English increased with rapid
growth." When the French occupied the military posts of the lakes and
the rivers they freely supplied the neighboring Indians with weapons,
clothing, provisions, and fire-water. The sudden cessation of these
bounties was a grievous and significant calamity.

The English fur-trader and incomer was rude and coarse and domineering
as compared with the agreeable and docile Frenchman. Worse and more
alarming than all was the intrusion into the forest solitude and
hunting-ground of the Indian by the English settler, who regarded the
red man as having no rights he was bound to respect. While the rivalry
between the two white nations was in progress, the red man was courted
by each as holding in large degree the balance of power. But the war
over, the ascendant Briton no longer regarded the Indians as necessary
allies, and they were in large measure treated with indifference and
injustice. The hostility of the Indian against the British was, of
course, assiduously promoted by the French, who saw in it trouble for
the British, possibly a regaining of their lost ground. The warlike and
revengeful spirit of the Indian began to give itself vent. The
smouldering fires were bound to burst forth. During the years 1761 and
1762 plots were hatched in various tribes to stealthily approach, and,
by attack or treacherous entrance, destroy the posts of Detroit, Fort
Pitt, and others. These plots were severally discovered in time to
forestall their attempt. Indian indignation reached its height when in
1763 it was announced to the tribes that the King of France had ceded
all their (Indian) country to the King of England, without consulting
them in the matter. At once a plot was contrived, "such as was never
before or since conceived or executed by North American Indians."

It was determined and planned to make an assault upon all the British
posts on the same day; "then, having destroyed the garrisons, to turn
upon the defenceless frontier and ravage and lay waste the white
settlements." It was fondly believed by thousands of braves that then
the British might be exterminated, or at least driven to the seaboard
and confined to their coast settlements. It was the great chief,
Pontiac, who if he did not originally instigate, fostered, directed, and
personally commanded this secretly arranged universal movement. His
mastermind comprehended the importance and necessity of combined and
harmonious effort. He proposed to unite all the tribes into one
confederacy for offensive operations. At the close of 1762 he despatched
ambassadors to the different nations--to the tribes of the North on the
Lakes; to the northwest, the head-waters of the Mississippi and south to
its mouth; to the east and the southeast. The Indians thus enlisted and
banded together against the British comprised, "with few unimportant
exceptions, the whole Algonquin stock." Especially were the Ohio tribes
solicited and secured; the Shawanoes, the Miamis, the Wyandots, and the
Delawares. The Senecas were the only members of the Iroquois confederacy
that joined the league. The onslaught was to be made in the month of
May, 1763, the tribes to rise simultaneously at the various points and
each tribe destroy the British garrison in its neighborhood.

It was a vast scheme, worthy the brain and courage of the greatest
general and shrewdest statesman. The plan was divulged by individual
Indians to officers at two or three of the posts, but was either
disbelieved or its importance ignored. While this gigantic and almost
chimerical plot was being developed by Pontiac and his associate chiefs,
the treaty of peace between France and England was signed at Paris,
February 10, 1763. By this compact France yielded to England all her
territory north of the Great Lakes and the St. Lawrence and east of the
Mississippi. The Spanish possessions on the Gulf of Mexico were ceded to
England, the territory west of the Mississippi going to Spain. France
was left no foothold in North America. While the powers of England,
France, and Spain were in the French capital arranging this result, as
Parkman remarks, "countless Indian warriors in the American forests were
singing the war-song and whetting their scalping-knives."

The chief centre of Indian activity and the main point of attack was the
post of Detroit, the Western head-quarters of the British government.
Pontiac was personally to strike the first blow. The rendezvous of his
painted and armed warriors was to be the banks of the little river
Ecorces, which empties into the Detroit River a few miles below the
Fort, now the city of Detroit. It was April 27th when the assembled
warriors listened to the final war-speech of the great chief.

Pontiac was an orator of a high order, fierce and impassioned in style.
He presented at length the injustice of the British as compared with
that of the French; he set forth the danger to his race from the
threatened supremacy of the British power; he predicted the awakening of
"their great father the King of France," during whose sleep the English
had robbed the Indian of his American possessions. In passionate appeals
he aroused the vengeance and superstition of his people and warned them
that the white man's civilization was poisoning and annihilating the red
race. In his dramatic way he related to the superstitious Indians a
dream wherein the Great Spirit sent his message that they were to cast
aside the weapons, the utensils of civilization, and the "deadly rum" of
the white men, and, with aid from the Great Spirit, drive the dogs in
red from every post in their (Indian) country. He revealed his plans of
destruction of the whites and the details of the plot to secure Detroit.
He and a few of his chosen chiefs were to visit the Fort, under pretence
of a peaceful visit, gain admittance, seek audience with Major Henry
Gladwyn, the commandant, and his officers, and then at an agreed signal
the chiefs were to draw their weapons, previously concealed beneath
their blankets, raise the war-whoop, rush upon the officers and strike
them down.

The Indian forces waiting meanwhile at the gate were then to assail the
surprised and half-armed soldiers. Thus through this perfidious murder
Detroit would fall an easy prey to the savages and Pontiac's conspiracy
have a successful inauguration. His plan was approved. Just below
Detroit, on the same side of the river, was a Pottawottomi village;
across the river some three miles up the current was an Ottawa village;
on the same eastern side about a mile below Detroit was the Wyandot
village. Along each side of the river for two or three miles were houses
of the French settlers. "The king and lord of all this country," as
Major Rogers called Pontiac, had located one of his homes, where he
spent the early summer, on a little island (Île à Pêche) at the opening
of Lake St. Clair. Here he had a small oven-shaped cabin of bark and
rushes. Here he dwelt with his squaws and children, and here doubtless
he might often have been seen, lounging, Indian style, half naked, on a
rush mat or bear-skin.

The number of warriors under the command of Pontiac is variously
estimated from six hundred to two thousand. The garrison consisted of
one hundred twenty soldiers, eight officers, and about forty others
capable of bearing arms. Two armed schooners, The Beaver and The
Gladwyn, were anchored in the river near the Fort. Pontiac's plot was
revealed to Gladwyn the night before its proposed execution by an Ojibwa
girl from the Pottawottomi village.[50] Gladwyn, thus warned, was
forearmed. Pontiac and his six chiefs were admitted to the
council-chamber. Pontiac began the harangue of peace and friendly
palaver and was about to give the preconcerted signal when Gladwyn
raised his hand and the sound of clashing arms and drum-beating was
heard without. Pontiac feared he was foiled, and announcing that he
would "call again," next time with his squaws and children, he and his
party withdrew.

The next morning, Pontiac, in hopes of regaining Gladwyn's confidence,
repaired to the Fort with but three of his chiefs, and bearing in his
hand the pipe of peace. Offering it to Gladwyn he again protested his
friendship for the British, whom he declared "we love as our brothers."
A few days later, the Indians thronged the open field behind the Fort
gate. It was closed and barred. Pontiac, advancing, demanded admittance.
Gladwyn replied that he might enter, but only alone. The great chief,
baffled and enraged, then "threw off the mask he had so long worn" and
boldly declared his intention to make war. A day or two later the four
tribes, Ottawas, Ojibwas, Pottawottomis, and Wyandots, clamored about
the Fort, and the attack was begun by volleys of bullets fired at the
palisade walls. Thus opened the famous siege of Detroit, which lasted
six months, from May 1 to November 1 (1763), one of the longest and most
bitterly contested sieges in the history of Western Indian warfare.

The incomparable treachery of Pontiac in endeavoring to secure the Fort
by dissemblance of friendship was further evidenced by his pretence at a
truce. Pontiac declaring his earnest desire for "firm and lasting
peace," requested Gladwyn to send to the camp of the chief, Captain
Campbell, Gladwyn's second in command, a veteran officer and most
upright and manly in character. Campbell went, was made prisoner, and
subsequently was foully and hideously murdered. Pontiac neglected no
expedient known to Indian perfidy, cruelty, or deviltry. He surpassed
his race in all the detestable elements of their nature. His conduct
from first to last was only calculated to create distrust, contempt, and
loathing. His warriors murdered the British settlers in the vicinity of
the Fort, burned their huts, robbed the Canadians, and committed every
variety of depredation.

Pontiac, realizing the seriousness of the situation and the obstinate
courage of the British garrison, prepared for a lengthy campaign. He
ordered the Ottawa village moved across the river to the Detroit side,
where it was located about a mile and a half northeast of the Fort, at
the mouth of Parent's Creek, afterward known as Bloody Run.

The garrison bravely and patiently withstood all assaults and bided the
time of rescue. By midnight sallies and other expedients they removed
all exterior buildings, fences, trees, and other obstacles that lay
within the range of their guns or that might afford protection to
sneaking and stealthy Indians who would crawl snakelike close to the
palisade and fire at the sentinels and loop-holes, or shoot their arrows
tipped with burning tow upon the roofs of the structures within the
Fort. Fortunately the supply of water was inexhaustible; the provisions
were wisely husbanded; friendly Canadians across the river, under cover
of night, brought supplies.

These Canadian farmers were also subject to tribute to the Indians, who
seized their supplies by theft or open violence. They appealed to
Pontiac, and about the only creditable act recorded of that perfidious
chief was his agreement to make restitution to the robbed settlers.
Pontiac gave them in payment for their purloined property promissory
notes drawn on birch-bark and signed with the figure of an otter--the
totem to which he belonged--all of which promises to pay, it is said,
were redeemed.

Day after day passed with varying incidents of attack and repulse. The
keen-eyed watchfulness of the Indians never for an instant abated; their
vigils were tireless and ceaseless; woe to the soldier who ventured
without the Fort or even lifted his head above the palisade. Pontiac's
patience was strengthened with the delusive idea that the French were
only temporarily defeated and would rally to his assistance. He even
despatched messengers across the interior to the French commandant,
Neyon, at Fort Chartres on the Mississippi, requesting that French
troops be sent without delay to his aid. Meanwhile Gladwyn had sent one
of his schooners to Fort Niagara to hasten promised reënforcements from
the British.

Lieutenant Cuyler had already (May 13th) left Niagara with convoy of
seven boats, ninety-six men, and quantities of supplies and ammunition.
This little fleet coasted along the northern shore of Lake Erie until
near the mouth of the Detroit River. The force attempted to land, when a
band of Wyandot Indians suddenly burst from the woods, seized five of
the boats, and killed or captured sixty of the soldiers. Cuyler with the
remaining men (thirty-six), many of whom were wounded, escaped in the
other boats and crossed to Fort Sandusky, which they found had been
taken and burned by the Wyandots; the garrison had been slaughtered and
Ensign Paully sent prisoner to Pontiac's camp. Cuyler with his escaping
companions slowly wended his way back, where he reported the result of
his expedition to the commanding officer, Major Wilkins.

At the same time the Wyandots, with the captured boats and prisoners,
proceeded up the Detroit to Pontiac's quarters, arriving in full sight
of the Fort's garrison, when Gladwyn, of course, learned of the
destruction of the Cuyler flotilla. The disappointment to the inmates of
the Fort was almost unbearable. Gladwyn's schooner, however, reached
Fort Niagara and returned about July 1st, laden with food, ammunition,
and reënforcements, and the most welcome news of the Treaty of Paris.
Pontiac, undismayed, continued his efforts. His forces now numbered, it
is recorded, about eight hundred twenty warriors: two hundred fifty
Ottawas, his own tribe and under his immediate command; one hundred
fifty Pottawottomis, under Ninivay; fifty Wyandots, under Takee; two
hundred Ojibwas, under Wasson; and one hundred seventy of the same
tribe, under Sekahos.

The two schooners were a serious menace to the movements of the Indians,
and many desperate attempts were made to burn them by midnight attacks,
and the floating of fire-rafts down upon them; but all to no avail.
Pontiac had the stubborn persistency of a later American general who
said he would fight it out on that line if it took all summer. He
exerted himself with fresh zeal to gain possession of the Fort. He
demanded the surrender of Gladwyn, saying a still greater force of
Indians was on the march to swell the army of besiegers. Gladwyn was
equally tenacious and unyielding; he proposed to "hold the fort" till
the enemy were worn out or reënforcements arrived. Pontiac sought to
arouse the active aid of the neighboring Canadians, but the Treaty of
Paris had made them British subjects, and they dared not war on their
conquerors. History scarcely furnishes a like instance of so large an
Indian force struggling so long in an attack on a fortified place.

The Wyandots and Pottawottomis, however, never as enthusiastic in this
war as the other tribes, late in July decided to withdraw from the
besieging confederacy and make peace with the British. They did so, and
exchanged prisoners with Gladwyn. The Ottawas and Ojibwas, however,
still held on, watching the Fort and keeping up a desultory fusillade.
The end was drawing nigh. On July 29th, Captain James Dalzell arrived
from Niagara with artillery supplies and two hundred eighty men in
twenty-two barges. Their approach to the Fort was bravely contested by
the combined Indian forces, even the Wyandots and Pottawottomis breaking
their treaty and treacherously joining in the assault. Dalzell's troops
entered the Fort, and he proposed an immediate sortie. Dalzell was
bravery personified, and he had fought with Israel Putnam.

On the morning after his arrival (July 31st) at two o'clock, he led a
force of two hundred fifty men out of the Fort. They silently in the
darkness marched along the river toward the Ottawa village just across
Parent's Creek. The Indians were prepared and had ambuscaded both sides
of the road. They were, Indian fashion, secreted behind trees and fences
and Canadian houses. Their presence was not discovered till the van of
Dalzell's column reached the bridge over the creek, when a terrible fire
was opened upon the soldiers from all sides. It was still dark; the
Indians could not be seen.

A panic ensued. The troops in disorder retreated amid an awful
slaughter. Dalzell himself was killed, and Major Robert Rogers assumed
command, and the fleeing soldiers were only spared from total
destruction by two of the British boats coming to the rescue. About
sixty men were killed or wounded. It was known as the Battle of Bloody
bridge. Upon the retreating into the Fort of Major Rogers' survivors the
siege was renewed. Pontiac was greatly encouraged over this victory, and
his Indians showed renewed zeal. The schooner Gladwyn was sent to
Niagara for help. On its return, it was attacked and its crew and
supplies practically destroyed. Another relief expedition under Major
Wilkins in September was overwhelmed in a lake storm and seventy
soldiers were drowned.

But even Indian persistency began to tire. The realization that the
French were beaten and time only would bring victory to the British led
all the tribes, except the Ottawas, to sue for peace. This was on
October 12th. Pontiac could only hold his own tribe in line. The Ottawas
sustained their hostility until October 30th, when a French messenger
arrived from Neyon, who reported to Pontiac that he must expect no help
from the French, as they were now completely and permanently at peace
with the British.[51] Pontiac was advised to quit the war at once. His
cause was doomed. The great chief who had so valiantly and unremittently
fought for six months suddenly raised the siege and retired into the
country of the Maumee, where he vainly endeavored to arouse the Miamis
and neighboring tribes to another war upon the invading British.

Though the memorable siege of Detroit, personally conducted by Pontiac,
ended in failure to the great chief, his conspiracy elsewhere met with
unparalleled success. The British posts planned to be simultaneously
attacked and destroyed by the savages were some dozen in number,
including besides Detroit, St. Joseph, Michilimackinac, Ouiatenon,
Sandusky, Miami, Presqu'île, Niagara, Le Boeuf, Venango, Fort Pitt,
and one or two others of lesser importance. Of all the posts from
Niagara and Pitt westward, Detroit alone was able to survive the
conspiracy. For the rest "there was but one unvaried tale of calamity
and ruin." It was a continued series of disasters to the white men. The
victories of the savages marked a course of blood from the Alleghanies
to the Mississippi.

On May 16, 1763, the Wyandots surrounded Fort Sandusky, and under
pretence of a friendly visit several of them well known to Ensign
Paully, the commander, were admitted. While smoking the pipe of peace
the treacherous and trusted Indians suddenly arose, seized Paully, and
held him prisoner while their tribesmen killed the sentry, entered the
fort, and in cold blood murdered and scalped the little band of
soldiers. The traders in the post were likewise killed and their stores
plundered. The stockade was fired and burned to the ground. Paully was
taken to Detroit where he was "adopted" as the husband of an old
widowed squaw, from whose affectionate toils he finally escaped to his
friends in the Detroit Fort.

St. Joseph was located at the mouth of the river St. Joseph, near the
southern end of Lake Michigan.[52] Ensign Schlosser was in command with
a mere handful of soldiers, fourteen in number. On the morning of May
25th the commander was informed that a large "party" of Pottawottomis
had arrived from Detroit "to visit their relations," and the chief
(Washashe) and three or four of his followers wished to hold a "friendly
talk" with the commander. Disarmed of suspicion, the commander-ensign
admitted the callers; the result is the oft-repeated story. The entering
Indians rushed to the gate, tomahawked the sentinel, let in their
associates, who instantly pounced upon the garrison, killed eleven of
the soldiers, plundered the fort, and later carried Schlosser and his
three surviving companions captives to Detroit.

Fort Michilimackinac was the most important point on the Upper Lakes,
commanding as it did the Straits of Mackinac, the passage from Lake
Huron into Lake Michigan. Great numbers of the Chippewas (Ojibwas), in
the last of May, began to assemble in the vicinity of the fort, but with
every indication of friendliness. June 4th was King George's birthday.
It must be celebrated with pastimes. The discipline of the garrison,
some thirty-five in number, was relaxed. Many squaws were admitted as
visitors into the fort, while their "braves" engaged in their favorite
game of ball just outside the garrison entrance. It was a spirited
contest between the Ojibwas and Sacs.

Captain George Etherington, commander of the fort, and his lieutenant,
Leslie, stood without the palisades to watch the sport. Suddenly the
ball was thrown near the open gate and behind the two officers. The
Indians pretending to rush for the ball instantly encircled and seized
Etherington and Leslie, and crowded their way into the fort, where the
squaws supplied them with tomahawks and hatchets, which they had carried
in, hidden under their blankets. Quick as a flash, the instruments of
death were gleaming in the sunlight, and Lieutenant Jamet and fifteen
soldiers and a trader were struck down, never to rise. The rest of the
garrison were made prisoners and five of them afterward tomahawked. All
of the peaceful traders were plundered and carried off. The prisoners
were conveyed to Montreal. The French population of the post was
undisturbed. Captain Etherington succeeded in sending timely warning to
the little garrison at La Baye; Lieutenant Gorrell, the commandant, and
his men were brought as prisoners to the Michilimackinac fort and thence
sent with Etherington and Leslie to the Canadian capital. The little
post of Ste. Marie (the Sault) had been partially destroyed and
abandoned. The garrison inmates had withdrawn to Michilimackinac and
shared its fate.

The garrison at Ouiatenon situated on the Wabash (Indian _Ouabache_),
near the present location of Lafayette (Indiana), then in the very heart
of the Western forest, as planned, was to have been massacred on June
1st. Through the information given by the French at the post, the
soldiers were apprised of their intended fate, and, through the
intervention of the same French friends, the Indians were dissuaded from
executing their sanguinary purpose. Lieutenant Jenkins and several of
his men were made prisoners by stratagem; the remainder of the garrison
readily surrendered.

On the present site of Fort Wayne (Indiana) was Fort Miami,[53] at the
confluence of the Rivers St. Joseph and St. Mary, which unite to form
the Maumee. The fort at this time was in charge of Ensign Holmes. On May
27th the commander was decoyed from the Fort by the story of an Indian
girl, that a squaw lay dangerously ill in a wigwam near the stockade,
and needed medical assistance. The humane Holmes, forgetting his caution
on an errand of mercy, walked without the gate and was instantly shot
dead. The soldiers in the palisades, seeing the corpse of their leader
and hearing the yells and whoopings of the exultant Indians, offered no
resistance, admitted the red men and gladly surrendered on promise of
having their lives spared.

Fort Presqu'île stood on the southern shore of Lake Erie at the site of
the present town of Erie. The block-house, an unusually strong and
commodious one, was in command of Ensign Christie, with a courageous and
skilful garrison of twenty-seven men. Christie, learning of the attack
on the other posts, "braced up" for his "visit from the hell-hounds" as
he appropriately called the enemy. He had not long to wait. On June 15th
about two hundred of them put in an appearance from Detroit. They sprang
into the ditch around the fort, and with reckless audacity approached to
the very walls and threw fire-balls of pitch upon the roof and sides of
the fortress. Again and again the wooden retreat was on fire, but amid
showers of bullets and arrows the flames were extinguished by the
fearless soldiers.

The savages rolled logs before the fort and erected strong breastworks,
from behind which they could discharge their shots and throw their
fire-balls. For nearly three days a terrific contest ensued. The savages
finally undermined the palisades to the house of Christie, which was at
once set on fire, nearly stifling the garrison with the smoke and heat,
for Christie's quarters were close to the block-house. Longer resistance
was vain, "the soldiers, pale and haggard, like men who had passed
through a fiery furnace, now issued from their scorched and
bullet-pierced stronghold." The surrendering soldiers were taken to
Pontiac's quarters on the Detroit River.

Three days after the attack on Presqu'île, Fort le Boeuf, twelve miles
south on Le Boeuf Creek, one of the head sources of the Allegheny
River, was surrounded and burned. Ensign Price and a garrison of
thirteen men miraculously escaped the flames and the encircling savages
and endeavored to reach Fort Pitt. About half of them succeeded; the
remainder died of hunger and privation by the way.

Fort Venango, still farther south, on the Allegheny River, was captured
by a band of Senecas, who gained entrance by resorting to the
oft-employed treachery of pretending friendliness. The entire garrison
was butchered, Lieutenant Gordon, the commander, being slowly tortured
to death, and the fort was burned to the ground. Not a soul escaped to
tell the horrible tale.

Fort Ligonier, another small post, commanded by Lieutenant Archibald
Blane, forty miles southeast of Fort Pitt, was attacked but successfully
held out till relieved by Bouquet's expedition.

Thus within a period of about a month from the time the first blow was
struck at Detroit, Pontiac was in full possession of nine out of the
twelve posts, so recently belonging to and, it was thought, securely
occupied by the British. The fearful threat of the great Ottawa
conspirator that he would exterminate the whites west of the Alleghanies
was wellnigh fulfilled. Over two hundred traders with their servants
fell victims to his remorseless march of slaughter and rapine, and goods
estimated at over half a million dollars became the spoils of the
confederated tribes.

The result of Pontiac's widespread and successful uprising struck untold
terror to the settlers along the Western frontier of Pennsylvania,
Maryland, and Virginia. The savages, roused to the highest pitch of fury
and weltering in the blood of their victims, were burning the cabins and
crops of the defenceless whites and massacring the men, women, and
children. Many hundreds of the forest-dwellers with their families
flocked to the stockades and protected posts. Particularly in the
Pennsylvania country did dread and consternation prevail. The
frontiersmen west of the Alleghanies fled east over the mountains to
Carlisle, Lancaster, and numbers even continued their flight to
Philadelphia. Pontiac was making good his threat that he would drive the
pale-faces back to the sea.

But Forts Niagara and Pitt were still in the possession of the
"red-coats," as the British soldiers were often called by the forest
"redskins." Following the total destruction of Le Boeuf and Venango,
the Senecas made an attack on Fort Niagara, an extensive work on the
east side of Niagara River, near its mouth as it empties into Lake
Ontario. This fort guarded the access to the whole interior country by
way of Canada and the St. Lawrence. The fort was strongly built and
fortified and was far from the centre of the country of the warpath
Indians, for, with the exception of the Senecas, the Iroquois tribes
inhabiting Eastern Canada and New York did not participate in Pontiac's
conspiracy. The attack on Fort Niagara, therefore, was half-hearted, and
after a feeble effort the besiegers despaired of success or assistance
and abandoned the blockade, which only lasted a few days.

Fort Pitt was the British military head-quarters of the Western
frontier. It was the Gibraltar of defence, protecting the Eastern
colonies from invasion by the Western Indians. The consummation of
Pontiac's gigantic scheme depended upon the capture of Fort Pitt. It was
a strong fortification at the confluence of the Allegheny and
Monongahela Rivers. Its northern ramparts were faced with brick on the
side looking down the Ohio. Fort Pitt stood "far aloof in the forest,
and one might journey eastward full two hundred miles before the English
settlements began to thicken." The garrison consisted of three hundred
thirty soldiers, traders, and backwoodsmen, besides about one hundred
women and a greater number of children. Captain Simeon Ecuyer, a brave
Swiss officer, was in command. Every preparation was made for the
expected attack. All houses and cabins outside the palisade were
levelled to the ground. A rude fire-engine was constructed to extinguish
any flames that might be kindled by the burning arrows of the Indians.

In the latter part of May the hostile savages began to approach the
vicinity of the fort. On June 22d they opened fire "upon every side at
once." The garrison replied by a discharge of howitzers, the shells of
which, bursting in the midst of the Indians, greatly amazed and
disconcerted them. The Indians then boldly demanded a surrender of the
fort, saying vast numbers of braves were on the way to destroy it.
Ecuyer displayed equal bravado and replied that several thousand British
soldiers were on the way to punish the tribes for their uprising. The
fort was now in a state of siege. For about a month "nothing occurred
except a series of petty and futile attacks," in which the Indians,
mostly Ottawas, Ojibwas, and Delawares, did small damage. On July 26th,
under a flag of truce, the besiegers again demanded surrender. It was
refused and Ecuyer told the savages that if they again showed themselves
near the Fort he would throw "bombshells" among them and "blow them to
atoms." The assault was continued with renewed fury.

Meanwhile Sir Jeffrey Amherst, the commander-in-chief of the British
forces, awakening to the gravity of the situation, ordered Colonel
Bouquet, a brave and able officer in his majesty's service, to take
command of certain specified forces and proceed as rapidly as possible
to the relief of Fort Pitt, and then make aggressive warfare on the
Western tribes. Bouquet, leaving his head-quarters at Philadelphia,
reached Carlisle late in June, where he heard for the first time of the
calamities at Presqu'île, Le Boeuf, and Venango. He left Carlisle with
a force of five hundred men, some of them the pick of the British
regulars, but many of them aged veterans enfeebled by disease and long,
severe exposure. Bouquet had seen considerable service in Indian
warfare. He was not likely to be caught napping. He marched slowly along
the Cumberland Valley and crept cautiously over the mountains, passing
Forts Loudon and Bedford, the latter surrounded with Indians, to Fort
Ligonier, which, as noted above, had been blockaded for weeks by the
savages who, as at Bedford, fled at Bouquet's approach.

On August 5th the little army, footsore and tired and half-famished,
reached a small stream within twenty-five miles of Fort Pitt, known as
Bushy Run. Here in the afternoon they were suddenly and fiercely fired
upon by a superior number of Indians. A terrific contest ensued, only
ended by the darkness of night. The encounter was resumed next day; the
odds were against the British, who were surrounded and were being cut
down in great numbers by the Indians who skulked behind trees and logs
and in the grass and declivities. Bouquet resorted to a ruse which was
signally successful. He formed his men in a wide semicircle, and from
the centre advanced a company toward the enemy; the advancing company
then made a feint of retreat, the deceived Indians followed close after
and fell into the ambuscade. The outwitted savages were completely
routed and fled in hopeless confusion. Bouquet had won one of the
greatest victories in Western Indian warfare. His loss was about one
hundred fifty men, nearly a third of his army. The loss of the Indians
was not so great.

As rapidly as possible Bouquet pushed on to Fort Pitt, which he entered
without molestation on August 25th. The extent and the end of Pontiac's
conspiracy had at last been reached. The Pennsylvania Assembly, and King
George, even, formally thanked Bouquet.

Forts Detroit and Pitt, as has been seen, proved impregnable; neither
the evil cunning nor the persistent bravery of the savage could dislodge
the occupants of those important posts. The siege of Detroit had been
abandoned by the combined forces of Pontiac, but the country round
about continued to be infested with the hostile Indians, who kept up a
sort of petty bushwhacking campaign that compelled the soldiers and
traders of the fort, for safety, to remain "in doors" during the winter
of 1763-1764. Bouquet, on gaining Fort Pitt, desired to pursue the
marauding and murderous savages to their forest retreats and drive them
hence, but he was unable to accomplish anything until the following
year.

In the spring of 1764 Sir Jeffrey Amherst resigned his office, and
General Thomas Gage succeeded him as commander-in-chief of the British
forces in America, with head-quarters in Boston. Shortly after assuming
office, General Gage determined to send two armies from different points
into the heart of the Indian country. The first, under Bouquet, was to
advance from Fort Pitt into the midst of the Delaware and Shawano
settlements of the Ohio Valley; and the other, under Bradstreet, was to
pass from Fort Niagara up the Lakes and force the tribes of Detroit and
the region round about to unconditional submission.

Colonel John Bradstreet left Fort Niagara in July, 1764, with the
formidable force of over a thousand soldiers. In canoes and _bateaux_
this imposing army of British regulars coasted along the shore of Lake
Erie, stopping at various points to meet and treat with the Indians,
who, realizing their inability to cope with so powerful an antagonist,
made terms of peace or went through the pretence of so doing. At
Sandusky (Fort), particularly, Bradstreet accepted the false promises of
the Wyandots, Ottawas, Miamis, Delawares, and Shawanoes. On August 26th
he arrived at Detroit, to the great joy and relief of the garrison,
which now, for more than a year, had been "cut off from all
communication with their race" and had been virtually prisoners confined
within the walls of their stockade. Bradstreet forwarded small
detachments to restore or retake, as the case might be, the farther
western British posts, which had fallen into the hands of Pontiac's wily
and exultant warriors.

In October (1764) Bouquet, with an army of fifteen hundred troops,
defiled out of Fort Pitt, and, taking the Indian trail westward, boldly
entered the wilderness, "which no army had ever before sought to
penetrate." It was a novel sight, this regiment of regulars, picking
its way through the woods and over the streams to the centre of the Ohio
country. Striking the Tuscarawas River he followed down its banks,
halting at short intervals to confer with delegations of Indians until
October 25th, when he encamped on the Muskingum, near the forks of that
river formed by the confluence of the Tuscarawas and Walhonding rivers.
Here with much display of the pomp and circumstance of war on the part
of Bouquet, to impress and over-awe the savages, he held conferences
with the chiefs of the various tribes. They agreed to lay down their
arms and live for the future in friendship with the white invaders. All
prisoners heretofore taken and then held by the Indians were to be
surrendered to Bouquet. Over two hundred of these, captives, including
women and children, were delivered up, and with these Bouquet, with his
successful soldiery, retraced his course to Fort Pitt, arriving there on
November 28th. It was one of the most memorable expeditions in the
pre-State history of Ohio.

The sudden and surprising victories of Pontiac were being rapidly
undone. The great Ottawa chief saw his partially accomplished scheme
withering into ignominious failure. Sullen, disappointed, consumed with
humiliation and revenge, he withdrew from active prominence to his
forest wigwam. He sought the banks of the Maumee, the scene of his birth
and the location of the villages of many tribes who were his sympathetic
adherents. He did not participate in any of the councils held by
Bradstreet and the chiefs. "His vengeance was unslaked and his purpose
unshaken." But his glory was growing dim and his power was withering
into dust. From the scenes of his promising but short-lived triumphs, he
retired into the country of the Illinois and the Mississippi. He tried
to arouse the aid of the French. He gathered a band of four hundred
warriors on the Maumee, and with these faithful followers revisited the
Western tribes, in hopes of creating another confederation.[54] Not even
would the southern tribes, however, respond to his appeals. All was
lost. His allies were falling off; his followers, discouraged, were
deserting him. Again and again he went back to his chosen haunts and
former faithful followers on the Maumee. But his day had passed.

In the spring of 1766 Pontiac met Sir William Johnson[55] at Oswego. In
his peace speech at that time he said: "I speak in the name of all the
nations westward, of whom I am the master. It is the will of the Great
Spirit that we should meet here to-day; and before him I now take you by
the hand. I call him to witness that I speak from my heart; for since I
took Colonel Croghan[56] by the hand last year, I have never let go my
hold, for I see that the Great Spirit will have us friends.

"Moreover, when our great father, of France, was in this country, I held
him fast by the hand. Now that he is gone, I take you, my English
father, by the hand, in the name of all the nations, and promise to keep
this covenant as long as I shall live."

But he did not speak from the heart; on the contrary, only from the
head. Leaving the Oswego conference, "his canoe laden with the gifts of
his enemy," Pontiac steered homeward for the Maumee; and in that
vicinity he spent the following winter. From now on for some two years
the great Ottawa chief disappeared as if lost in the forest depths.

In April, 1769, he is found at Fort St. Louis, on the west side of the
Mississippi, where he gave himself mainly to the temporary oblivion of
"fire-water," the dread destroyer of his race. He was wont to cross the
"Father of Waters" to the fort on the British side at Cahokia, where he
would revel with the friendly creoles. In one of these visits, in the
early morning, after drinking deeply, he strode with uncertain step into
the adjacent forest. He was arrayed in the uniform of a French officer,
which apparel had been given him many years before by the Marquis of
Montcalm. His footsteps were stealthily dogged by a Kaskaskia Indian,
who in the silence and seclusion of the forest, at an opportune moment,
buried the blade of a tomahawk in the brain of the Ottawa conqueror, the
champion of his race.

The murderer had been bribed to the heinous act by a British trader
named Williamson, who thought to thus rid his country (England) of a
dangerous foe. The unholy price of the assassination was a barrel of
liquor. It was supposed that the Illinois, Kaskaskia, Peoria, and
Cahokia Indians were more or less guilty as accomplices in the horrible
deed. That an Illinois Indian was guilty of the act was sufficient. The
Sacs and Foxes, and other Western tribes friendly to Pontiac and his
cause were aroused to furious revenge. They went upon the warpath
against the Illinois Indians. A relentless war ensued, and, says
Parkman, "over the grave of Pontiac more blood was poured out in
atonement than flowed from the veins of the slaughtered heroes on the
corpse of Patroclus."

The body of the murdered chief was borne across the river and buried
near Fort St. Louis. No monument ever marked the resting-place of the
great hero and defender of his people.

FOOTNOTES:

[45] Estimate of Sir William Johnson in 1763: Iroquois, 1950; Delawares,
600; Shawnees, 300; Wyandots, 450; Miamis and Kickapoos, 800; Ottawas,
Ojibwas, and other wandering tribes of the Northwest "defy all efforts
at enumeration." The British population in the colonies was then about
1,000,000; the French, something like 100,000.

[46] Rogers called this river Chocage. Rogers' camp was on the present
site of the city of Cleveland.

[47] Parkman says he was about fifty years old when he met Major Rogers,
which was in 1760.

[48] Chief Richardville also asserted that Pontiac was born of an Ottawa
father and a Miami mother. The probability of this tradition is allowed
by Knapp, and accepted by Dr. C.E. Slocum, of Defiance, a very careful
and reliable authority. Dodge says some claimed Pontiac was a Catawba
prisoner, adopted into the Ottawa tribe.

[49] Detroit was first settled by Cadillac, July 24, 1701, with fifty
soldiers and fifty artisans and traders. So it had been the chief
Western stronghold of the French for one hundred fifty years. Detroit at
this time (1760) contained about two thousand inhabitants. The centre of
the settlement was a fortified town, known as the "Fort," to distinguish
it from the dwellings scattered along the river-banks. The Fort stood on
the western bank of the river and contained about a hundred small wood
houses with bark or thatch-straw roofs. These primitive dwellings were
packed closely together and surrounded and protected by a palisade about
twenty-five feet high; at each corner was a wooden bastion, and a
block-house was erected over each gateway. The only public buildings in
the enclosure were a council-house, the barracks, and a rude little
church.

[50] There are many versions of the divulging of the plot; one that it
was by an old squaw; another that a young squaw of doubtful character
told it to one of the subordinate officers; still another, that it was
by an Ottawa warrior. Parkman seems to favor the Ojibwa girl, called
Catherine, and said to be the mistress of Gladwyn.

[51] True to his Indian nature, Pontiac determined to assume a mask of
peace and bide his time. Gladwyn wrote as follows to Lord Jeffrey
Amherst: "This moment I received a message from Pontiac telling me that
he should send to all the nations concerned in the war to bury the
hatchet; and he hopes your excellency will forget what has passed."--ED.

[52] This post of St. Joseph was the site of a Roman Catholic mission
founded about the year 1700. Here was one of the most prominent French
military posts.

[53] There were several forts called Miami in those early days. This one
was built in 1749-1750 by the French commandant, Raimond.

[54] Pontiac sought the aid of the Kickapoos, Piankishaws, Sacs, Foxes,
Dakotas, Missouris, and other tribes on the Mississippi and its
head-waters.

[55] Sir William Johnson was at this time superintendent of Indian
affairs in the North (of the colonies) by appointment from the King.
Johnson was a great favorite with the Indians, and exerted great power
over them, especially among the Six Nations. He married a sister of
Brant, the Mohawk chief; he was, moreover, adopted into the Mohawk tribe
and made a sachem.

[56] George Croghan was a deputy Indian agent under Sir William Johnson.
In 1765, at the instance of Johnson, Croghan proceeded from Fort Pitt
down the Ohio to the mouth of the Wabash, up which he journeyed and
thence across the country to Detroit, treating with the Indians as he
passed. On this journey Croghan met Pontiac, who made promises of peace
and friendship.

AMERICAN COLONIES OPPOSE THE STAMP ACT

PATRICK HENRY'S SPEECH

A.D. 1765

JAMES GRAHAME GEORGE BANCROFT

Although the Stamp Act passed by the English Parliament in 1765 was
repealed in the following year, the opposition which led to its
repeal became also one of the principal causes of the American
Revolution. The passage of this act and the laying of its
impositions upon the colonies formed the climax of England's
mercantile policy there, where irritating revenue laws had already,
as in Massachusetts, for some years been in force.

In 1763 England determined to levy upon the colonies direct taxes,
not only for their own military defence, but also as a contribution
to the payment of the British war debt. George Grenville, who, says
Macaulay, knew of "no national interests except those which are
expressed by pounds, shillings, and pence," became prime minister in
1763. His first measure was that known as the "Molasses or [Sugar]
Act," reviving an old law for enforcement in the American colonies.
The act was meant to "protect" West Indian sugar-planters, and it
laid a heavy duty upon all sugar and molasses imported into North
America from the French West Indies.

The outbreak of indignation, especially in New England, against this
imposition was a prelude to the more general and determined
resistance to the Stamp Act, which was Grenville's second obnoxious
measure. The history of "Grenville's Stamp Act" is adequately set
forth by Grahame and Bancroft, whose respective accounts present its
most important features and its fate in the hands of American
patriots.

JAMES GRAHAME

The calamities of the French and Indian War (1755) had scarcely ended
when the germ of another war was planted which soon grew up and produced
deadly fruit. At that time sundry resolutions passed the British
Parliament relative to the imposition of a stamp duty in America, which
gave a general alarm. By them the right, the equity, the policy, and
even the necessity of taxing the colonies were formally avowed. These
resolutions, being considered as the preface of a system of American
revenue, were deemed an introduction to evils of much greater magnitude.
They opened a prospect of oppression, boundless in extent and endless in
duration. They were, nevertheless, not immediately followed by any
legislative act. Time and an invitation were given to the Americans to
suggest any other mode of taxation that might be equivalent in its
produce to the Stamp Act; but they objected not only to the mode, but
the principle; and several of their assemblies, though in vain,
petitioned against it.

An American revenue was, in England, a very popular measure. The cry in
favor of it was so strong as to silence the voice of petitions to the
contrary. The equity of compelling the Americans to contribute to the
common expenses of the empire satisfied many who, without inquiring into
the policy or justice of taxing their unrepresented fellow-subjects,
readily assented to the measures adopted by the Parliament for this
purpose. The prospect of easing their own burdens at the expense of the
colonists dazzled the eyes of gentlemen of landed interest, so as to
keep out of their view the probable consequences of the innovation. The
omnipotence of Parliament was so familiar a phrase on both sides of the
Atlantic that few in America, and still fewer in Great Britain, were
impressed, in the first instance, with any idea of the illegality of
taxing the colonists.

Illumination on that subject was gradual. The resolutions in favor of an
American stamp act, which passed in March, 1764, met with no opposition.
In the course of the year which intervened between these resolutions and
the passing of a law grounded upon them, the subject was better
understood, and constitutional objections against the measure were urged
by several, both in Great Britain and America. This astonished and
chagrined the British ministry; but as the principle of taxing America
had been for some time determined upon, they were unwilling to give it
up. Impelled by partiality for a long-cherished idea, Grenville, in
March, 1765, brought into the House of Commons his long-expected bill
for laying a stamp duty in America. By this, after passing through the
usual forms, it was enacted that the instruments of writing in daily use
among a commercial people should be null and void unless they were
executed on stamped paper or parchment, charged with a duty imposed by
the British Parliament.

When the bill was brought in, Charles Townshend concluded a speech in
its favor with words to the following effect: "And now will these
Americans, children planted by our care, nourished up by our indulgence,
till they are grown to a degree of strength and opulence, and protected
by our arms--will they grudge to contribute their mite to relieve us
from the heavy weight of that burden which we lie under?" To which
Colonel Barre replied: "They planted by your care? No, your oppressions
planted them in America! They fled from tyranny to a then uncultivated
and inhospitable country, where they exposed themselves to almost all
the hardships to which human nature is liable; and, among others, to the
cruelty of a savage foe the most subtle, and I will take upon me to say
the most formidable, of any people upon the face of God's earth! And
yet, actuated by principles of true English liberty, they met all
hardships with pleasure, compared with those they suffered in their own
country from the hand of those that should have been their friends.

"They nourished up by your indulgence? They grew by your neglect of
them! As soon as you began to care about them, that care was exercised
in sending persons to rule them, in one department and another, who
were, perhaps, the deputies of deputies to some members in this House,
sent to spy out their liberties, to misrepresent their actions, and to
prey upon them: men whose behavior on many occasions has caused the
blood of those sons of liberty to recoil within them; men promoted to
the highest seats of justice--some who to my knowledge were glad, by
going to a foreign country, to escape being brought to the bar of a
court of justice in their own.

"They protected by your arms? They have nobly taken up arms in your
defence, have exerted a valor, amid their constant and laborious
industry, for the defence of a country whose frontier was drenched in
blood, while its interior parts yielded all its little savings to your
emolument. And, believe me, that same spirit of freedom which actuated
these people at first will accompany them still: but prudence forbids me
to explain myself further. God knows I do not at this time speak from
any motives of party heat. I deliver the genuine sentiments of my
heart. However superior to me, in general knowledge and experience, the
respectable body of this House may be, yet I claim to know more of
America than most of you; having seen and been conversant in that
country. The people, I believe, are as truly loyal as any subjects the
King has; but a people jealous of their liberties, and who will
vindicate them if ever they should be violated: but the subject is too
delicate. I will say no more."

During the debate on the bill, the supporters of it insisted much on the
colonies being virtually represented in the same manner as Leeds,
Halifax, and some other towns were. A recurrence to this plea was a
virtual acknowledgment that there ought not to be taxation without
representation. It was replied that the connection between the electors
and non-electors of Parliament, in Great Britain, was so interwoven from
both being equally liable to pay the same common tax as to give some
security of property to the latter: but with respect to taxes laid by
the British Parliament, and paid by the Americans, the situation of the
parties was reversed. Instead of both parties bearing a proportional
share of the same common burden, what was laid on the one was exactly so
much taken off from the other.

The bill met with no opposition in the House of Lords; and, on March 22,
1765, it received the royal assent. The night after it passed, Dr.
Franklin wrote to Charles Thomson: "The sun of liberty is set; you must
light up the candles of industry and economy." Thomson answered, "I was
apprehensive that other lights would be the consequence"; and he
foretold the opposition which shortly took place. On its being suggested
from authority that the stamp officers would not be sent from Great
Britain, but selected from among the Americans, the colony agents were
desired to point out proper persons for that purpose. They generally
nominated their friends, which affords a presumptive proof that they
supposed the act would have gone down. In this opinion they were far
from being singular.

That the colonists would be ultimately obliged to submit to the Stamp
Act was at first commonly believed, both in England and America. The
framers of it, in particular, flattered themselves that the confusion
which would arise upon the disuse of writings, and the insecurity of
property which would result from using any other than that required by
law, would compel the colonies, however reluctant, to use the stamped
paper, and consequently to pay the taxes imposed thereon. They therefore
boasted that it was a law which would execute itself. By the term of the
Stamp Act, it was not to take effect till November 1st--a period of more
than seven months after its passing. This gave the colonists an
opportunity of leisurely canvassing the new subject and examining fully
on every side. In the first part of this interval, struck with
astonishment, they lay in silent consternation, and could not determine
what course to pursue. By degrees they recovered their recollection.
Virginia led the way in opposition to the Stamp Act. Patrick Henry, on
May 29, 1765, brought into the House of Burgesses of that colony
vigorous resolutions, which were substantially adopted. [See Bancroft's
account.]

They were well received by the people and immediately forwarded to the
other provinces. They circulated extensively and gave a spring to the
discontented. Till they appeared, most were of opinion that the act
would be quietly adopted. Murmurs, indeed, were common, but they seemed
to be such as would soon die away. The countenance of so respectable a
colony as Virginia confirmed the wavering and emboldened the timid.
Opposition to the Stamp Act, from that period, assumed a bolder face.
The fire of liberty blazed forth from the press. Some well-judged
publications set the rights of the colonists in a plain but strong point
of view. The tongues and the pens of the well-informed citizens labored
in kindling the latent sparks of patriotism. The flame spread from
breast to breast till the conflagration became general. In this
business, New England had a principal share. The inhabitants of that
part of America, in particular, considered their obligations to the
mother-country, for past favors, to be very inconsiderable. They were
fully informed that their forefathers were driven by persecution to the
woods of America, and had there, without any expense to the parent
state, effected a settlement on bare creation. Their resentment, for the
invasion of their accustomed right of taxation, was not so much
mitigated by the recollection of late favors as it was heightened by the
tradition of grievous sufferings to which their ancestors, by the rulers
of England, had been subjected.

The heavy burdens which the operation of the Stamp Act would have
imposed on the colonists, together with the precedent it would establish
of future exactions, furnished the American patriots with arguments
calculated as well to move the passions as to convince the judgments of
their fellow-colonists. In great warmth they exclaimed: "If the
Parliament have a right to levy the stamp duties, they may by the same
authority lay on us imposts, excises, and other taxes without end, till
their rapacity is satisfied or our abilities are exhausted. We cannot,
at future elections, displace these men who so lavishly grant away our
property. Their seat and their power are independent of us, and it will
rest with their generosity where to stop in transferring the expenses of
government from their own to our shoulders."

It was fortunate for the liberties of America that newspapers were the
subject of a heavy stamp duty. Printers, when uninfluenced by
government, have generally arranged themselves on the side of liberty,
nor are they less remarkable for their attention to the profits of their
profession. A stamp duty, which openly invaded the first and threatened
a diminution of the last provoked their united zealous opposition. They
daily presented to the public original dissertations tending to prove
that if the Stamp Act were suffered to operate, the liberties of
Americans were at an end, and their property virtually transferred to
their transatlantic fellow-subjects. The writers among the Americans,
seriously alarmed for the fate of their country, came forward with
essays to prove that, agreeably to the British Constitution, taxation
and representation were inseparable; that the only constitutional mode
of raising money from the colonists was by acts of their own
legislatures; that the crown possessed no further power than that of
requisition; and that the Parliamentary right of taxation was confined
to the mother-country, where it originated from the natural right of man
to do what he pleased with his own, transferred by consent from the
electors of Great Britain to those whom they chose to represent them in
Parliament.

They also insisted much on the misapplication of public money by the
British ministry. Great pains were taken to inform the colonists of the
large sums annually bestowed on pensioned favorites and for the various
purposes of bribery. Their passions were inflamed by high-colored
representations of the hardship of being obliged to pay the earnings of
their industry into a British treasury, well known to be a fund for
corruption.

While a variety of legal and illegal methods were adopted to oppose the
Stamp Act, November 1st, on which it was to commence its operation,
approached. At Boston the day was ushered in by a funereal tolling of
bells. Many shops and stores were shut. The effigies of the planners and
friends of the Stamp Act were carried about the streets in public
derision, and then torn in pieces by the enraged populace. It was
remarkable that, though a large crowd was assembled, there was not the
least violence or disorder.

At Portsmouth, in New Hampshire, the morning was ushered in with tolling
all the bells in town. In the course of the day notice was given to the
friends of Liberty to attend her funeral. A coffin, neatly ornamented
and inscribed with the word "Liberty" in large letters was carried to
the grave. The funeral procession began from the State House, attended
with two unbraced drums. While the inhabitants who followed the coffin
were in motion, minute-guns were fired, and continued till the coffin
arrived at the place of interment. Then an oration in favor of the
deceased was pronounced. It was scarcely ended before the coffin was
taken up; it having been perceived that some remains of life were left,
on which the inscription was immediately altered to "Liberty revived."
The bells immediately exchanged their melancholy for a more joyful
sound; and satisfaction appeared in every countenance. The whole was
conducted with decency and without injury or insult to any man's person
or property.

The general aversion to the Stamp Act was, by similar methods, in a
variety of places, demonstrated. It is remarkable that the proceedings
of the populace on these occasions were carried on with decorum and
regularity. They were not ebullitions of a thoughtless mob, but for the
most part planned by leading men of character and influence, who were
friends to peace and order. These, knowing well that the bulk of mankind
are more led by their senses than by their reason, conducted the public
exhibitions on that principle, with a view of making the Stamp Act and
its friends both ridiculous and odious.

Though the Stamp Act was to have operated from November 1st, yet legal
proceedings in the courts were carried on as before. Vessels entered and
departed without stamped papers. The printers boldly printed and
circulated their newspapers, and found a sufficient number of readers;
though they used common paper in defiance of the acts of Parliament. In
most departments, by common consent, business was carried on as though
no Stamp Act had existed. This was accompanied by spirited resolutions
to risk all consequences rather than submit to use the paper required by
law. While these matters were in agitation, the colonists entered into
associations against importing British manufactures till the Stamp Act
should be repealed. In this manner British liberty was made to operate
against British tyranny. Agreeably to the free Constitution of Great
Britain, the subject was at liberty to buy or not to buy, as he pleased.
By suspending their future purchases on the repeal of the Stamp Act, the
colonists made it the interest of merchants and manufacturers to solicit
for that repeal. They had usually taken so great a proportion of British
manufactures that the sudden stoppage of all their orders, amounting,
annually, to two or three millions sterling, threw some thousands in the
mother-country out of employment, and induced them, from a regard to
their own interest, to advocate the measures wished for by America. The
petitions from the colonists were seconded by petitions from the
merchants and manufacturers of Great Britain. What the former prayed for
as a matter of right, and connected with their liberties, the latter
also solicited from motives of immediate interest.

In order to remedy the deficiency of British goods, the colonists betook
themselves to a variety of necessary domestic manufactures. In a little
time large quantities of common cloths were brought to market; and
these, though dearer and of a worse quality, were cheerfully preferred
to similar articles imported from Britain. That wool might not be
wanting, they entered into resolutions to abstain from eating lambs.
Foreign elegancies were laid aside. The women were as exemplary as the
men in various instances of self-denial. With great readiness they
refused every article of decoration for their persons and luxuries for
their tables. These restrictions, which the colonists had voluntarily
imposed on themselves, were so well observed that multitudes of
artificers in England were reduced to great distress, and some of their
most flourishing manufactories were in a great measure at a stand. An
association was entered into by many of the "Sons of Liberty"--the name
given to those who were opposed to the Stamp Act--by which they agreed,
"to march with the utmost expedition, at their own proper costs and
expense, with their whole force, to the relief of those that should be
in danger from the Stamp Act or its promoters and abettors, or anything
relative to it, on account of anything that may have been done in
opposition to its obtaining." This was subscribed by so many in New York
and New England that nothing but a repeal could have prevented the
immediate commencement of a civil war.

From the decided opposition to the Stamp Act which had been adopted by
the colonies, it became necessary for Great Britain to enforce or to
repeal it. Both methods of proceeding had supporters. The opposers of a
repeal urged arguments, drawn from the dignity of the nation, the danger
of giving way to the clamors of the Americans, and the consequences of
weakening Parliamentary authority over the colonies. On the other hand,
it was evident, from the determined opposition of the colonies, that it
could not be enforced without a civil war, by which event the nation
must be a loser. In the course of these discussions Dr. Franklin was
examined at the bar of the House of Commons, and gave extensive
information on the state of American affairs, and the impolicy of the
Stamp Act, which contributed much to remove prejudices and to produce a
disposition that was friendly to a repeal.

Some speakers of great weight, in both Houses of Parliament, denied
their right of taxing the colonies. The most distinguished supporters of
this opinion were Lord Camben, in the House of Lords, and William Pitt,
in the House of Commons. The former, in strong language, said: "My
position is this; I repeat it; I will maintain it to my last hour:
taxation and representation are inseparable. This position is founded on
the laws of nature. It is more; it is itself an eternal law of nature.
For whatever is a man's own is absolutely his own. No man has a right to
take it from him without his consent. Whoever attempts to do it
attempts an injury. Whoever does it commits a robbery."

Pitt, with an original boldness of expression, justified the colonists
in opposing the Stamp Act. "You have no right," said he, "to tax
America. I rejoice that America has resisted. Three millions of our
fellow-subjects, so lost to every sense of virtue as tamely to give up
their liberties, would be fit instruments to make slaves of the rest."
He concluded with giving his advice that the Stamp Act be repealed
absolutely, totally, and immediately; that reasons for the repeal be
assigned; that it was founded on an erroneous principle. "At the same
time," said he, "let the sovereign authority of this country over the
colonies be asserted in as strong terms as can be devised, and be made
to extend to every point of legislation whatsoever, that we may bind
their trade, confine their manufactures, and exercise every power except
that of taking their money out of their pockets without their consent."

The approbation of this illustrious statesman, whose distinguished
abilities had raised Great Britain to the highest pitch of renown,
inspired the Americans with additional confidence in the rectitude of
their claims of exemption from parliamentary taxation, and emboldened
them to further opposition, when, at a future day, the project of an
American revenue was resumed. After much debating, two protests in the
House of Lords, and passing an act, "For securing the dependence of
America on Great Britain," the repeal of the Stamp Act was carried, in
March, 1766. This event gave great joy in London. Ships in the River
Thames displayed their colors, and houses were illuminated all over the
city. It was no sooner known in America, than the colonists rescinded
their resolutions, and recommenced their mercantile intercourse with the
mother-country. They presented their homespun clothes to the poor, and
imported more largely than ever. The churches responded with
thanksgivings, and public and private rejoicings knew no bounds. By
letters, addresses, and other means, almost all the colonies showed
unequivocal marks of acknowledgment and gratitude. So sudden a calm
after so violent storm is without a parallel in history. By the
judicious sacrifice of one law, the Parliament of Great Britain procured
an acquiescence in all that remained.

GEORGE BANCROFT

Virginia received the plan to tax America by Parliament with
consternation. At first the planters foreboded universal ruin; but soon
they resolved that the act should recoil on England, and began to be
proud of frugality; articles of luxury of English manufacture were
banished, and threadbare coats were most in fashion. A large and
embarrassing provincial debt enforced the policy of thrift.

Happily the Legislature of Virginia was then assembled; and the electors
of Louisa County had just filled a sudden vacancy in their
representation by making choice of Patrick Henry. He had resided among
them scarcely a year, but his benignity of temper, pure life, and
simplicity of habits had already won their love. Devoted from his heart
to their interest, he never flattered the people and was never forsaken
by them. As he took his place, not yet acquainted with the forms of
business in the House, or with its members, he saw the time for the
enforcement of the Stamp Tax drawing near, while all the other colonies,
through timid hesitation or the want of opportunity, still remained
silent, and cautious loyalty hushed the experienced statesmen of his
own. More than half the assembly had made the approaching close of the
session an excuse for returning home.

But Patrick Henry disdained submission. Alone, a burgess of but a few
days, unadvised and unassisted, in an auspicious moment, of which the
recollection cheered him to his latest day, he came forward in the
committee of the whole House, and while Thomas Jefferson, a young
collegian from the mountain frontier, stood outside of the closed hall,
eager to catch the first tidings of resistance, and George Washington,
as is believed, was in his place as a member, he maintained by
resolutions that the inhabitants of Virginia inherited from the first
adventurers and settlers of that dominion equal franchises with the
people of Great Britain; that royal charters had declared this equality;
that taxation by themselves, or by persons chosen by themselves to
represent them, was the distinguishing characteristic of British freedom
and of the constitution; that the people of that most ancient colony had
uninterruptedly enjoyed the right of being thus governed by their own
laws respecting their internal polity and taxation; that this right had
never been forfeited, nor in any other way given up, but had been
constantly recognized by the King and people of Great Britain.

Such was the declaration of colonial rights adopted at his instance by
the Assembly of Virginia. It followed from these resolutions--and
Patrick Henry so expressed it in a fifth supplementary one--that the
General Assembly of the whole colony have the sole right and power to
lay taxes on the inhabitants of the colony, and that any attempt to vest
such power in any other persons whatever tended to destroy British as
well as American freedom. It was still further set forth, yet not by
Henry, in two resolutions, which, though they were not officially
produced, equally embodied the mind of the younger part of the Assembly,
that the inhabitants of Virginia were not bound to yield obedience to
any law designed to impose taxation upon them, other than the laws of
their own General Assembly, and that anyone who should, either by
speaking or writing, maintain the contrary, should be deemed an enemy to
the colony.

A stormy debate arose and many threats were uttered. Robinson, the
speaker, already a defaulter; Peyton Randolph, the King's attorney, and
the frank, honest, and independent George Wythe, a lover of classic
learning, accustomed to guide the House by his strong understanding and
single-minded integrity, exerted all their powers to moderate the tone
of "the hot and virulent resolutions"; while John Randolph, the best
lawyer in the colony, "singly" resisted the whole proceeding. But, on
the other side, George Johnston, of Fairfax, reasoned with solidity and
firmness, and Henry flamed with impassioned zeal. Lifted beyond himself,
"Tarquin," he cried, "and Cæsar, had each his Brutus; Charles the First,
his Cromwell; and George the Third----" "Treason!" shouted the speaker,
"treason, treason!" was echoed round the house, while Henry, fixing his
eye on the first interrupter, continued without faltering, "may profit
by their example!"

Swayed by his words, the committee of the whole showed its good-will to
the spirit of all the resolutions enumerated; but the five offered by
Patrick Henry were alone reported to the House, and on Thursday, May
30th, having been adopted by small majorities, the fifth by a vote of
twenty to nineteen, they became a part of the public record. "I would
have given five hundred guineas for a single vote," exclaimed the
attorney-general, aloud, as he came out past young Jefferson, into whose
youthful soul the proceedings of that day sank so deeply that resistance
to tyranny became a part of his nature. But Henry "carried all the young
members with him." That night, thinking his work done, he rode home, but
the next day, in his absence, an attempt was made to strike all the
resolutions off the journals, and the fifth, and the fifth only, was
blotted out. The Lieutenant-Governor, though he did not believe new
elections would fall on what he esteemed cool, reasonable men, dissolved
the assembly; but the four resolutions which remained on the journals,
and the two others, on which no vote had been taken, were published in
the newspapers throughout America, and by men of all parties, by
royalists in office, not less than by public bodies in the colonies,
were received without dispute as the avowed sentiment of the "Old
Dominion."

This is the "way the fire began in Virginia." Of the American colonies,
"Virginia rang the alarum bell. Virginia gave the signal for the
continent."

WATT IMPROVES THE STEAM-ENGINE

A.D. 1769

FRANÇOIS ARAGO

No greater service has been rendered to the world through mechanical
invention than that performed by James Watt in his improvement of
the steam-engine. Watt was born at Greenock, Scotland, in 1736.
During the eighty-three years of his life much progress was made in
mechanics and engineering in different countries, but the name of
Watt remains the most brilliant among contemporary workers in these
departments of practical science.

The first contriver of a working steam-engine is supposed to have
been Edward, second Marquis of Worcester (1601-1667). No complete
description of his engine is known to exist, and conjectures about
it disagree; but it is not questioned that he made important
contributions to the great invention, upon which others at the same
time were engaged. The construction of the first actual working
steam-engine is usually credited to Thomas Savery, born in England
about 1650. He devised a "fire-engine," as he called it, for the
raising of water, but, owing to the want of strong boilers and a
suitable form of condenser, it imperfectly served its purpose, and
was soon superseded by the better engine of Thomas Newcomen, here
referred to by Arago.

Newcomen was an English inventor, born in 1663. With Savery and
Cawley, he invented and in 1705 patented the atmospheric
steam-engine by which he is known, and which, as told by Arago, gave
place to the superior invention of Watt.

Arago was an eminent French physicist and astronomer (1786-1853),
who is even better known through his biographies of other great
workers in science. His account of "the fruitful inventions which
will forever connect the name of Watt with the steam-engine" is all
the more valuable for preservation because written while the
steam-engine was still in an early stage of its development. Of its
later improvements and varied uses, numerous descriptions are within
easy reach of all readers.

In physical cabinets we find a good many machines on which industry had
founded great hopes, though the expense of their manufacture or that of
keeping them at work has reduced them to be mere instruments of
demonstration. This would have been the final fate of Newcomen's
machine, in localities at least not rich in combustibles, if Watt's
efforts had not come in to give it an unhoped-for degree of perfection.
This perfection must not be considered as the result of some fortuitous
observation or of a single inspiration of genius; the inventor achieved
it by assiduous labor, by experiments of extreme delicacy and
correctness. One would say that Watt had adopted as his guide that
celebrated maxim of Bacon's: "To write, speak, meditate, or act when we
are not sufficiently provided with _facts_ to stake out our thoughts is
like navigating without a pilot along a coast strewed with dangers or
rushing out on the immense ocean without compass or rudder."

In the collection belonging to the University of Glasgow there was a
little model of a steam-engine by Newcomen that had never worked well.
The professor of physics, Anderson, desired Watt to repair it. In the
hands of this powerful workman the defects of its construction
disappeared; from that time the apparatus was made to work annually
under the inspection of the astonished students. A man of common mind
would have rested satisfied with this success. Watt, on the contrary, as
usual with him, saw cause in it for deep study. His researches were
successively directed to all the points that appeared likely to clear up
the theory of the machine. He ascertained the proportion in which water
dilates in passing from a state of fluidity into that of vapor; the
quantity of water that a certain weight of coal can convert into vapor;
the quantity and weight of steam expended at each oscillation by one of
Newcomen's engines of known dimensions; the quantity of cold water that
must be injected into the cylinder to give a certain force to the
piston's descending oscillation; and finally the elasticity of steam at
various temperatures.

Here was enough to occupy the life of a laborious physicist, yet Watt
found means to conduct all these numerous and difficult researches to a
good termination, without the work of the shop suffering thereby. Dr.
Cleland wished, not long since, to take me to the house, near the port
of Glasgow, whither our associate[57] retired, on quitting his tools, to
become an experimenter. It was razed to the ground! Our anger was keen
but of short duration. Within the area still visible of the foundations
ten or twelve vigorous workmen appeared to be occupied in sanctifying
the cradle of modern steam-engines; they were hammering with redoubled
blows various portions of boilers, the united dimensions of which
certainly equalled those of the humble dwelling that had disappeared
there. On such a spot, and under such circumstances, the most elegant
mansion, the most sumptuous monument, the finest statue, would have
awakened less reflection than those colossal boilers.

If the properties of steam are present to your mind, you will perceive
at a glance that the economic working of Newcomen's engine seems to
require two irreconcilable conditions. When the piston descends, the
cylinder is required to be cold, otherwise it meets some steam there,
still very elastic, which retards the operation very much, and
diminishes the effect of the external atmosphere. Then, when steam at
the temperature of 100° flows into the same cylinder and finds it cold,
the steam restores its heat by becoming partially fluid, and until the
cylinder has regained the temperature of 100° its elasticity will be
found considerably attenuated; thence will ensue slowness of motion, for
the counterpoise will not raise the piston until there is sufficient
spring contained in the cylinder to counterbalance the action of the
atmosphere; thence there will also arise an increase of expense.

No doubt will remain on the immense importance of this economical
observation, when I shall have stated that the Glasgow model at each
oscillation expended a volume of steam several times larger than that of
the cylinder. The expense of steam, or, what comes to the same thing,
the expense of fuel, or, if we like it better, the pecuniary cost of
keeping on the working of the machine, would be several times less if
the successive heatings and coolings, the inconveniences of which have
just been described, could be avoided.

This apparently insolvable problem was solved by Watt in the most simple
manner. It sufficed for him to add to the former arrangement of the
engine a vessel totally distinct from the cylinder, and communicating
with it only by a small tube furnished with a tap. This vessel, now
known as "the condenser," is Watt's principal invention.

Still another invention by Watt deserves a word, the advantages of
which will become evident to everybody. When the piston descends in
Newcomen's engine, it is by the weight of the atmosphere. The atmosphere
is cold; hence it must cool the sides of the metal cylinder, which is
open at the top, in proportion as it expands itself over the entire
surface. This cooling is not compensated during the whole ascension of
the piston, without the expense of a certain quantity of steam. But
there is no loss of this sort in the engines modified by Watt. The
atmospheric action is totally eliminated by the following means:

The top of the cylinder is closed by a metal cover, only pierced in the
centre by a hole furnished with greased tow stuffed in hard, but through
which the rod of the piston has free motion, though without allowing
free passage either to air or steam. The piston thus divides the
capacity of the cylinder into two distinct and well-closed areas. When
it has to descend, the steam from the caldron reaches freely the upper
area through a tube conveniently placed, and pushes it from top to
bottom as the atmosphere did in Newcomen's engine. There is no obstacle
to this motion, because, while it is going on, only the base of the
cylinder is in communication with the condenser, wherein all the steam
from that lower area resumes its fluid state. As soon as the piston has
quite reached the bottom, the mere turning of a tap suffices to bring
the two areas of the cylinder, situated above and below the piston, into
communication with each other, so that both shall be filled with steam
at the same degree of elasticity; and the piston being thus equally
acted upon, upward and downward, ascends again to the top of the
cylinder, as in Newcomen's atmospheric engine, merely by the action of a
slight counterpoise.

Pursuing his researches on the means of economizing steam, Watt also
reduced the result of the refrigeration of the external surface of the
cylinder containing the piston, almost to nothing. With this view he
enclosed the metal cylinder in a wooden case of larger diameter, filling
the intermediate annular space with steam.

Now the engine was complete. The improvements effected by Watt are
evident; there can be no doubt of their immense utility. As a means of
drainage, then, you would expect to see them substituted for Newcomen's
comparatively ruinous engines. Undeceive yourselves: the author of a
discovery has always to contend against those whose interest may be
injured, the obstinate partisans of everything old, and finally the
envious. And these three classes united, I regret to acknowledge it,
form the great majority of the public. In my calculation I even deduct
those who are doubly influenced to avoid a paradoxical result. This
compact mass of opponents can only be disunited and dissipated by time;
yet time is insufficient; it must be attacked with spirit and
unceasingly; our means of attack must be varied, imitating the chemist
in this respect--he learning from experience that the entire solution of
certain amalgams requires the successive application of several acids.
Force of character and perseverance of will, which in the long run
disintegrate the best woven intrigues, are not always found conjoined
with creative genius. In case of need, Watt would be a convincing proof
of this. His capital invention--his happy idea on the possibility of
condensing steam in a vessel separate from the cylinder in which the
mechanical action goes on--was in 1765.

Two years elapsed without his scarcely making an effort to apply it on a
large scale. His friends at last put him in communication with Dr.
Roebuck, founder of the large works at Carron, still celebrated at the
present day. The engineer and the man of projects enter into
partnership; Watt cedes two-thirds of his patent to him. An engine is
constructed on the new principles; it confirms all the expectations of
theory; its success is complete. But in the _interim_ Dr. Roebuck's
affairs receive various checks. Watt's invention would undoubtedly have
restored them; it would have sufficed to borrow money; but our associate
felt more inclined to give up his discovery and change his business. In
1767, while Smeaton was carrying on some triangulations and levellings
between the two rivers of the Forth and the Clyde, forerunners of the
gigantic works of which that part of Scotland was to be the theatre, we
find Watt occupied with similar operations along a rival line crossing
the Lomond passage. Later he draws the plan of a canal that was to bring
coals from Monkland to Glasgow, and superintends the execution of it.
Several projects of a similar nature, and, among others, that of a
navigable canal across the isthmus of Crinan, which Rennie afterward
finished; some deep studies on certain improvements in the ports of Ayr,
Glasgow, and Greenock; the construction of the Hamilton and Rutherglen
bridges; surveys of the ground through which the celebrated Caledonian
Canal was to pass, occupied our associate up to the end of 1773. Without
wishing at all to diminish the merit of these enterprises, I may be
permitted to say that their interest and importance were chiefly local,
and to assert that neither their conception, direction, nor execution
required a man called James Watt.

In the early part of 1774, after contending with Watt's indifference,
his friends put him into communication with Mr. Boulton, of Soho, near
Birmingham, an enterprising, active man, gifted with various talents.
The two friends applied to Parliament for a prolongation of privilege,
since Watt's patent, dated 1769, had only a few more years to run. The
bill gave rise to the most animated discussion. The celebrated mechanic
wrote as follows to his aged father: "This business could not be carried
on without great expense and anxiety. Without the aid of some
warm-hearted friends we should not have succeeded, for several of the
most powerful in the House of Commons were opposed to us." It seemed to
me interesting to search out to what class of society these
Parliamentary persons belonged to whom Watt alluded, and who refused to
the man of genius a small portion of the riches that he was about to
create. Judge of my surprise when I found the celebrated Burke at their
head. Is it possible, then, that men may devote themselves to deep
studies, possess knowledge and probity, exercise to an eminent degree
oratorical powers that move the feelings, and influence political
assemblies, yet sometimes be deficient in plain common-sense? Now,
however, owing to the wise and important modifications introduced by
Lord Brougham in the laws relative to patents, inventors will no longer
have to undergo the annoyances with which Watt was teased.

As soon as Parliament had granted a prolongation of twenty-five years to
Watt's patent, he and Boulton together began the establishments at Soho,
which have become the most useful school in practical mechanics for all
England. The construction of draining-pumps of very large dimensions was
soon undertaken there, and repeated experiments showed that, with equal
effect, they saved three-quarters of the fuel that was consumed by
Newcomen's previous engines. From that moment the new pumps were spread
through all the mining counties, especially in Cornwall. Boulton and
Watt received as a duty the value of one-third of the coal saved by each
of their engines. We may form an opinion of the commercial importance of
the invention from an authentic fact: in the Chace-water mine alone,
where three pumps were at work, the proprietors found it to their
advantage to buy up the inventor's rights for the annual sum of sixty
thousand francs (two thousand four hundred pounds). Thus in one
establishment alone, the substitution of the condenser for internal
injection had occasioned an annual saving in fuel of upward of one
hundred eighty thousand francs (seven thousand pounds).

Men are easily reconciled to paying the rent of a house or the price of
a farm. But this good-will disappears when an _idea_ is the subject
treated of, whatever advantage, whatever profit, it may be the means of
procuring. Ideas! are they not conceived without trouble or labor? Who
can prove that with time the same might not have occurred to everybody?
In this way days, months, and years of priority would give no force to
the patent!

Such opinions, which I need not here criticise, had obtained a footing
from mere routine as decided. Men of genius, the "manufacturers of
ideas," it seemed, were to remain strangers to material enjoyments; it
was natural that their history should continue to resemble a legend of
martyrs!

Whatever may be thought of these reflections, it is certain that the
Cornwall miners paid the dues that were granted to the Soho engineers
with increased repugnance from year to year. They availed themselves of
the very earliest difficulties raised by plagiarists, to claim release
from all obligation. The discussion was serious; it might compromise the
social position of our associate: he therefore bestowed his entire
attention to it and became a lawyer. The long and expensive lawsuits
that resulted therefrom, but which they finally gained, would not
deserve to be now exhumed; but having recently quoted Burke as one of
the adversaries to our great mechanic, it appears only a just
compensation here to mention that the Roys, Mylnes, Herschels, Delucs,
Ramsdens, Robisons, Murdocks, Rennies, Cummings, Mores, Southerns,
eagerly presented themselves before the magistrates to maintain the
rights of persecuted genius. It may be also advisable to add, as a
curious trait in the history of the human mind, that the lawyers--I
shall here prudently remark that we treat only of the lawyers of a
neighboring country--to whom malignity imputes a superabundant luxury in
words, reproached Watt, against whom they had leagued in great numbers,
for having invented nothing but ideas. This, I may remark in passing,
brought upon them before the tribunal the following apostrophe from Mr.
Rous: "Go, gentlemen, go and rub yourselves against those untangible
combinations, as you are pleased to call Watt's engines; against those
pretended abstract ideas; they will crush you like gnats, they will hurl
you up in the air out of sight!"

The persecutions which a warm-hearted man meets with, in the quarters
where strict justice would lead him to expect unanimous testimonies of
gratitude, seldom fail to discourage, and to sour his disposition. Nor
did Watt's good-humor remain proof against such trials. Seven long years
of lawsuits had excited in him such a sentiment of indignation, that it
occasionally showed itself in severe expressions; thus he wrote to one
of his friends: "What I most detest in this world are plagiarists! The
plagiarists. They have already cruelly assailed me; and if I had not an
excellent memory, their impudent assertions would have ended by
persuading me that I have made no improvement in steam-engines. The bad
passions of those men to whom I have been most useful (would you believe
it?) have gone so far as to lead them to maintain that those
improvements, instead of deserving this denomination, have been highly
prejudicial to public wealth."

Watt, though greatly irritated, was not discouraged. His engines were
not, in the first place, like Newcomen's, mere pumps, mere
draining-pumps. In a few years he transformed them into universal motive
powers, and of indefinite force. His first step in this line was the
invention of a double-acting engine (_à double effet_).

In the engine known under this name, as well as in the one denominated
the "modified" engine, the steam from the boiler, when the mechanic
wishes it, goes freely above the piston and presses it down without
meeting any obstacle; because at that same moment, the lower area of the
cylinder is in communication with the condenser. This movement once
achieved, and a certain cock having been opened, the steam from the
caldron can enter only below the piston and elevates it. The steam above
it, which had produced the descending movement, then goes to regain its
fluid state in the condenser, with which it has become, in its turn, in
free communication. The contrary arrangement of the cocks replaces all
things in their primitive state, as soon as the piston has regained its
maximum height. Thus similar effects are reproduced indefinitely.

Power is not the only element of success in industrial works. Regularity
of action is not less important; but what regularity could be expected
from a motive power engendered by fire fed by shovelfuls, and the coal
itself of various qualities; and this under the direction of a workman,
sometimes not very intelligent, almost always inattentive? The motive
steam will be more abundant, it will flow more rapidly into the
cylinder, it will make the piston work faster in proportion as the fire
is more intense. Great inequalities of movement then appear to be
inevitable. Watt's genius had to provide against this serious defect.
The throttle-valves by which the steam issues from the boiler to enter
the cylinder are constantly open. When the working of the engine
accelerates, these valves partly close; a certain volume of steam must
therefore occupy a longer time in passing through them, and the
acceleration ceases. The aperture of the valves, on the contrary,
dilates when the motion slackens. The pieces requisite for the
performance of these various changes connect the valves with the axes
which the engine sets to work, by the introduction of an apparatus, the
principle of which Watt discovered in the regulator of the sails of some
flour-mills: this he named the "governor," which is now called the
"centrifugal regulator." Its efficacy is such, that a few years ago, in
the cotton-spinning manufactory of a renowned mechanic, Mr. Lee, there
was a clock set in motion by the engine of the establishment, and it
showed no great inferiority to a common spring clock.

Watt's regulator, and an intelligent use of the revolving
principle--that is the secret, the true secret, of the astonishing
perfection of the industrial products of our epoch; this is what now
gives to the steam-engine a rate entirely free from jerks. That is the
reason why it can, with equal success, embroider muslins and forge
anchors, weave the most delicate webs and communicate a rapid movement
to the heavy stones of a flour-mill. This also explains how Watt had
said, fearless of being reproached for exaggeration, that to prevent the
comings and goings of servants, he would be served, he would have gruel
brought to him, in case of illness, by tables connected with his
steam-engine. I am aware it is supposed by the generality of people that
this suavity of motion is obtained only by a loss of power; but it is an
error, a gross error: the saying, "much noise and little work," is true,
not only in the moral world, but is also an axiom in mechanics.

A few words more and we shall reach the end of our technical details.
Within these few years great advantage has been found in not allowing a
free access of steam from the boiler into the cylinder, during the whole
time of each oscillation of the engine. This communication is
interrupted, for example, when the piston has reached one-third of its
course. The two remaining thirds of the cylinder's length are then
traversed by virtue of the acquired velocity, and especially by the
detention of the steam. Watt had already indicated such an arrangement.
Some very good judges esteem the economical importance of the
steam-detent as equal to that of the condenser. It seems certain that
since its adoption the Cornwall engines give unhoped-for results; that
with one bushel of coal they equal the labor of twenty men during ten
hours. Let us keep in mind that in the coal districts a bushel of coal
only costs ninepence, and it will be demonstrated that over the greater
part of England Watt reduced the price of a man's day's work, a day of
ten hours' labor, to less than a sou (one halfpenny).

Numerical valuations make us appreciate so well the importance of his
inventions that I cannot resist the desire to present two more
improvements. I borrow them from one of the most celebrated
correspondents of the Academy--from Sir John Herschel.

The ascent of Mont Blanc, starting from the valley of Chamounix, is
justly considered as the hardest work that a man can accomplish in two
days. Thus the maximum mechanical work of which we are capable in twice
twenty-four hours is measured by transporting the weight of our body to
the elevation of Mont Blanc. This work or its equivalent would be
accomplished by a steam-engine in the course of burning one kilogram
(two pounds) of coal. Watt has, therefore, ascertained that the daily
power of a man does not exceed what is contained in half a kilogram (one
pound) of coal.

Herodotus records that the construction of the great Pyramid of Egypt
employed 100,000 men during 20 years. The pyramid consists of calcareous
stone; its volume and its weight can be easily calculated; its weight
has been found to be about 5,900,000 kilograms (nearly 5,000 tons). To
elevate this weight to 38 metres, which is the pyramid's centre of
gravity, it would require to burn 8244 hectolitres of coal. Our English
neighbors have some foundries where they consume this quantity every
week.

FOOTNOTES:

[57] Watt was one of the eight foreign associates of the French Academy
of Sciences, which body Arago was addressing.--ED.

FIRST PARTITION OF POLAND

A.D. 1772

JAMES FLETCHER

Of the three partitions which Poland underwent in the last quarter of
the eighteenth century, the first was due to the jealousies of European
powers. It was an event of great significance for the Polish kingdom,
ominous of future spoliations, which indeed followed, to the destruction
of its political life. It had been long since Poland passed her golden
age--two centuries and more. In the mean time she had undergone many
vicissitudes, yet had preserved her identity as a state.

When Russia had won successes in the war of 1768-1774 with Turkey, she
seized the principalities of Wallachia and Moldavia. Austria, seeing in
this acquisition a menace to her eastern frontier, opposed it. Russia,
in order to appease Austria, looked about for territory that might be
obtained for her in compensation. The state of affairs in Poland
presented a tempting opportunity for interference which might lead to a
division of the kingdom. Stanislaus II, King of Poland, had been elected
in 1764, mainly through the influence of Russia--he was one of Catharine
II's lovers. His people had risen against him when Russia adopted her
policy of spoliation. Prussia, as well as Austria, advanced territorial
claims, and the partition of 1772, really planned by Frederick the
Great, was consummated on the basis of a secret treaty of those powers
with Catharine's government.

Some writers, possessed with the love of reducing political transactions
to one rigid scale of cause and effect, and at the same time of
exhibiting their acumen by threading the mazes of events up to remote
circumstances, pretend to trace the design of the partition of Poland
for more than a century back. Rulhière seems to plume himself on the
idea. "The projects executed in our days against Poland," he observes,
"were proposed more than a hundred years ago. I have discovered this
important and hitherto unknown circumstance in the archives of foreign
affairs of France." This point had been canvassed under the reign of
John Casimir; and it only remains to be remarked that such very subtle
analysis of the motives and progress of actions generally overshoots the
mark, since no men can act always according to rule, but are in some
degree influenced by circumstances and caprice. It would be equally
absurd to imagine that Frederick, in the complicated intrigues which
preceded the first partition, was actuated by one deeply laid scheme of
policy to arrive at one end: the possession of Polish Prussia. It was,
indeed, absolutely essential for him to obtain this province, to
consolidate and open a communication between his scattered dominions,
which then, as Voltaire says, were stretched out like a pair of gaiters;
but it remained a _desideratum_ rather than a design, since he knew that
neither Russia nor Austria would be inclined to permit the aggression;
for the former had evidently marked out the whole of Poland for herself,
and would consider Frederick an unwelcome intruder; while Austria, which
had lately experienced the Prussian King's encroachments, was more
jealous than ever of his obtaining the slightest aggrandizement, and had
openly declared that she would not allow the seizure of the least Polish
village. His views, however, widened as he advanced, and no doubt he
spoke with sincerity when he told the Emperor Joseph that "he had never
followed a plan in war, much less any plan in policy, and that events
alone had suggested all his resolutions." Admitting the truth of this,
we proceed to trace out the circumstances which produced this crisis.

The relations of the three courts, at the commencement of the war
between Russia and Turkey (1768), did not portend anything like a
coalition; Frederick, indeed, was in alliance with Russia, but also
secretly favored the Sultan; Austria was all but an open enemy of both
Russia and Prussia. Circumstances, however, obliged Austria to forget
her hatred to Prussia, and Frederick thus became the mediator between
the courts of Vienna and St. Petersburg. Frederick had every reason to
wish to lull the suspicions and jealousies of Austria, that he might be
left in undisputed possession of Silesia; and that power, moreover, was
no longer an object of dread or jealousy to him, for the Seven Years'
War had reduced its resources to the lowest ebb. The dispositions of the
court of Vienna cannot be comprised in so few words: its situation was
much more complicated, its policy more embarrassed, and the persons who
governed it will be much more difficult to make known.

Maria Theresa was now not very far from the tomb, and after all the
arduous struggles she had undergone for the defence of her states,
vicissitudes she had experienced, and the exhaustion of her resources,
she determined to end her days in peace. She devoted almost the whole of
her time to superstitious devotions in a gloomy chamber hung round with
death's heads, and a portrait of her late husband in the act of
expiring. She yet cherished, however, some of the feelings of mortality,
implacable hatred to Frederick, and contempt mingled with hate for
Catharine II, of whom she never spoke but with disdain, calling her
"_that woman_." Besides, she could sometimes also silence the reproaches
of conscience, so as to seize for the public use the bequests of the
pious for religious purposes, and to confiscate the revenues of rich
monasteries apparently without any compunction. Men fancied, says our
author, that they could foresee in all this conduct that if this just
and religious Princess had power enough over herself to silence her
generosity and even sometimes her piety, she might perhaps be capable in
some state crisis of incurring still greater remorse and silence
justice.

Her minister, Kaunitz, to whom she intrusted all the management of
affairs, is not the least important personage in this drama, nor did he
underrate his own consequence. "Heaven," said he, "is a hundred years in
forming a great mind for the restoration of an empire, and it then rests
another hundred years; on this account I tremble for the fate which
awaits this monarchy after me." Throughout a long and arduous ministry
he had shown himself the most subtle and refined politician, unfettered
in his schemes by any remorse or feeling, and making a boast that he had
no friends. Such a man was well fitted to play the part allotted to him.
After the conclusion of the long war, he had made it his policy to
repair the damages the empire had sustained by alliances, and even his
opposition to Frederick daily subsided.

But it was another agent who commenced the connection between Austria
and Prussia. Joseph, Maria Theresa's son and coregent with his mother,
detested this pacific policy and longed for war. He was, however,
obliged to submit; for Maria dreaded the effects of this warlike
propensity, and kept the government in the hands of her ministers. He
had continual contentions with the Empress, and urged her to improve her
finances by conquest or aggression; but all the power he could obtain
was the command of the troops, which he augmented to two hundred
thousand men, and organized them under the counsel of his field marshal,
Lacy. In his mania for military matters he visited in 1768 all the
fields of battle of the last war, and after traversing Bohemia and
Saxony, and learning from his generals the causes of the defeats and
victories, he approached in the course of his tour the borders of
Prussian Silesia, where Frederick was engaged in his annual reviews. The
King sent a polite message, and expressed a great desire to be
personally acquainted with him. The young Prince could not pay a visit
to the former enemy of his family without previously consulting his
mother, the Empress; and the interview was deferred till the next year;
when it took place on August 25th, at Neisse, a town in Silesia.

At this period the war between Russia and Turkey engrossed general
attention, and seems to have formed the principal subject of the
conference; but no resolutions of any importance were agreed to. The
flattering manner in which Frederick received the young Prince must have
made a great impression on his mind; and the extravagant compliments
which were lavished on him were highly gratifying to youthful vanity,
from such a great man. Frederick frequently repeated that Joseph would
surpass Charles V; and though it has the appearance of irony to those
acquainted with the _dénouement_ of this youthful monarch's character,
it was probably not intended so, for Frederick, we have seen before,
could stoop to the most servile adulation when it answered his purpose.
Be that as it may, the effect on Joseph was the same, for on his return
he spoke of the Prussian monarch with the highest enthusiasm.

Maria Theresa was growing old, and the Austrian ministers began to turn
to the rising sun; the eyes of Kaunitz were opened to the policy of
cultivating a friendship with Prussia; and the correspondence between
the two courts became every day more frequent. This led to another
conference between the two princes at Neustadt, in Moravia, which was
held on September 3, 1770, and at which Kaunitz was present. The King
was more courteous than ever; he appeared in the military uniform of
Austria, and continued to wear it as long as he remained in the Austrian
territory. He made use of every species of compliment. One day, as they
were leaving the dining-room and the Emperor made a motion to give him
the precedence, he stepped back, saying with a significant smile and
_double entendre_, not lost on Joseph, "Since your imperial majesty
begins to manoeuvre, I must follow wherever you lead." Nor did he spare
his civilities to Kaunitz, with the view of removing the rankling
feeling which had often made that conceited minister exclaim, "The King
of Prussia is the only man who denies me the esteem which is due to me."

Kaunitz insisted on the necessity of opposing the ambitious views of
Russia, and stated that the Empress would never allow Catharine to take
possession of Moldavia and Wallachia, which would make her states adjoin
those of Austria; nor permit her to penetrate farther into Turkey. He
added that an alliance between Austria and Prussia was the only means of
checking Catharine's overbearing power. To this Frederick replied that
being in alliance with the court of St. Petersburg, his only practicable
measure was to prevent the war from becoming general by conciliating the
friendly feelings of Catharine toward Austria. On the day after this
conference a courier arrived from Constantinople, with the news of the
destruction of the Turkish fleet and the rout of their army, and to
request the mediation of the courts of Vienna and Berlin. To this both
readily assented, but without agreeing upon any terms.

Frederick did not forget to follow up his former mode of tactics with
the Emperor; he pretended to make him the confidant of all his designs,
a species of flattery most gratifying to a young prince. On his return
to Berlin, also, the King affected to imitate the Austrian manners, and
uttered several pompous panegyrics on the talents of Joseph, who had
recited to him some of Tasso's verses, and nearly a whole act of the
_Pastor Fido_.

Thus did Frederick avail himself of circumstances to commence an
amicable correspondence with Austria, and he thus became the medium of
communication between the hostile courts of Vienna and St. Petersburg.
No more direct intelligence, however, existed between these two states
than before; for great as was Theresa's hatred against Catharine,
Catharine's was no less violent; and even when Austria made friendly
overtures, through Frederick, concerning mediation between Turkey and
Russia, she desired Frederick to desist, and rejected the interference.

A channel of communication, however, was opened between the three
conspiring powers; and the next step was for one of the triumvirate to
broach the iniquitous partition plot. It is made a matter of much
dispute which of them started the project, and they all equally disclaim
the infamy of being its author. The fact, no doubt, was, that in this,
as in all other unjust coalitions, they did not, in the first instance,
act on a preconcerted plan; but each individual power cherished secretly
its design, and like designing villains, who understand one another,
almost

"Without eyes, ears, and harmful sound of words,"

the conspiring parties were naturally drawn together by the similarity
of reckless atrocity in their designs.

It cannot be imagined that the scheme of partition originated with
Catharine; she had long been the real mistress of Poland, the King was
nothing more than her tenant at will, and it required only a little time
for the whole kingdom to sink into a Russian province. The intentions of
the other powers began to evince themselves more plainly in 1770.
Frederick began to throw out hints of claims on certain Polish
districts; he obliged the Polish Prussians to furnish his troops with
horses and corn in exchange for debased money, which was either forged
Polish silver coin, only one-third of its nominal value, or false Dutch
ducats, 17 per cent. under the proper value. By this disgraceful species
of swindling it is calculated he gained seven million dollars.

The young Poles were enrolled in the armies by force; and every town and
village in Posnania was taxed at a stated number of marriageable girls,
who were sent to stock the districts of the Prussian dominions
depopulated by the long wars. Each girl's portion was to be a bed, two
pigs, a cow, and three ducats of gold. It is said that one town alone
was obliged to furnish the Prussian general, Belling, with fifty girls.
Under pretence that the magistrates of Dantzic prevented the levies,
troops were marched into the territories of the city, a contribution of
one hundred thousand ducats was exacted, and one thousand young men were
pressed for the Prussian service. Frederick's military possession of
Posnania, as well as the greater part of Polish Prussia, seemed to be
but too consonant with his hinted claims, and his arbitrary levies
evinced not merely intended, but actual possession.

Austria, too, was playing a similar part on the south. In the spring of
1769 Birzynski, at the head of a small troop of confederates, entered
Lubowla, one of the towns in the starosty or district of Zips, or Spiz,
with the intention of levying contributions, as he was accustomed, in a
disorderly manner. This little district is situated to the south of the
palatinate of Cracow, among the Carpathian Mountains, and has been
originally a portion of the kingdom of Hungary. The confederates were
followed by the Russians, and took refuge in Hungary, as was their
custom. This near approach of the Russians to the imperial frontiers was
made a pretext by the court of Vienna for concentrating a body of troops
there; and at the same time hints were thrown out of Austria's claims,
not only to this but some of the adjacent districts. Researches were
ordered to be made into old records, to establish these pretensions; the
Austrian troops seized the territory of Zips, and engineers were
employed by the Empress to mark out the frontier. They advanced the
boundary line along the districts of Sandecz, Nowitarg, and Czorsztyn,
and marked it out with posts furnished with the imperial eagle.
Stanislaus had complained of this proceeding in a letter of October 28,
1770; to which the Empress returned for answer, in January, 1771, that
she would willingly make an amicable arrangement, after peace was
established, to settle the disputed frontier, but that she was
determined to claim her right to the district of Zips, and that for the
present it was requisite to pursue the operation of demarcation.

The Empress seems to have been instigated not only by the characteristic
avidity of Austrian policy, but by jealousies awakened by the near
approaches of the Russian troops. Besides, it is a point of some
consequence to be remembered--though it seems to have escaped the
observation of most historians--that she had before her eyes a fearful
proof of the danger of an uncertain frontier in the affair of Balta,
which was the ostensible cause of the war between Turkey and Russia.

This open encroachment on the Polish territory, however, was a fatal
precedent; Catharine and Frederick could advance, as excuses for their
proceedings, that they were solely intended to restore tranquillity to
Poland; and that their possession was only temporary, whereas Theresa's
was a permanent seizure. Frederick, therefore, endeavors strenuously in
his writings to exonerate his intentions from censure, and shifts the
odium of this step on Austria; but whether he is absolutely innocent of
the "injustice," as he himself calls it, or adds to his guilt by the
height of hypocrisy and cant, is a question not very difficult of
solution.

The three powers could now readily understand each other's designs; but
the first communication which took place between them on the subject
occurred in December, 1770, and January, 1771. In the former month
Catharine invited Prince Henry, Frederick's brother, who had before been
a personal acquaintance, to her court; and the wily despot of Prussia
urged him earnestly to accept the invitation. He reached St. Petersburg
in the midst of the festivities and rejoicings for the victories over
the Turks; and having, like his brother, abundant flattery at will, he
seized the opportunity of loading Catharine with compliments. It would
be absurd to suppose that the Empress, masculine as her mind was, could
be insensible to this species of attack; she, like all other followers
of ambition and conquest, made the applause and admiration, even of the
vulgar, the aim of her life; and it can only be affectation in those who
pretend to despise the adulation which they so eagerly labor for. Henry
was admitted to confidential conferences, and so well did he avail
himself of his opportunities and influence that he succeeded in
persuading the Empress to accept the mediation of Austria between Turkey
and Russia--a commission with which he was charged by his brother.

It was in these conferences that the fate of Poland was decided. While
Catharine was hesitating about accepting the terms Austria proposed,
which were that she should renounce her design upon Moldavia and
Wallachia, the news arrived at St. Petersburg that the Austrian troops
had taken possession of Zips. Catharine was much astonished at the
proceeding, and remarked that if Austria seized the Polish territory,
the two other neighboring powers must imitate her example until she
desisted. This hint suggested to Henry a mode of removing those
objections of Austria which impeded the negotiation. He knew that the
court of Vienna was as eager for aggrandizement as Russia, and that all
her jealousies would be allayed by a similar accession of territory;
that at the same time she would never consent to have the Russians as
her neighbors in Moldavia and Wallachia, but would have no objection to
their making an equal increase to that immense empire elsewhere.
Frederick's consent, also, must be purchased by an equal allotment;
where, then, he thought, were there three such portions to be found but
where Austria pointed out? Catharine approved of the plan after a few
moments' reflection, but mentioned two impediments: first, that when her
troops had entered Poland she had solemnly declared that she would
maintain the integrity of the kingdom; the next, that Austria would not
receive such a proposal from her without suspicion. These difficulties
were readily removed--the first by breaking the engagement, and the
second by making Frederick the negotiator with the court of Vienna.

Frederick's admirers pretend that he was unacquainted with this
intrigue, and, when the plan was made known to him, opposed it
strenuously; "but that on the following day, having reflected on the
misfortunes of the Poles, and on the impossibility of reëstablishing
their liberty, he showed himself more tractable." It is to be hoped
that, for the sake of Frederick's remnant of character, that is not
true; after the singular manner in which he had evinced his concern for
"the misfortunes of the Poles," and his solicitude for their "liberty"
in Polish Prussia, such pretensions would have been the very height of
hypocrisy. His scruples, at any rate, if any such existed, were soon
dispelled; and he exerted himself in persuading the court of Vienna to
enter into the plot.

Austria was but too ready to fall into the design; the conflicting
views, indeed, between Maria Theresa, Joseph, and their minister Kaunitz
gave rise to some complication of politics and consequent delay.
Frederick, strongly as he is said to have disclaimed the plan in the
present instance, was now the only party impatient to conclude it. "The
slowness and irresolution of the Russians," he says in his _Mémoires_,
"protracted the conclusion of the treaty of partition; the negotiation
hung chiefly on the possession of the city of Dantzic. The Russians
pretended they had guaranteed the liberty of this little republic, but
it was in fact the English, who, jealous of the Prussians, protected the
liberty of this maritime town, and who prompted the Empress of Russia
not to consent to the demands of his Prussian majesty. It was requisite,
however, for the King to determine; and as it was evident that the
master of the Vistula and the port of Dantzic would, in time, subject
that city, he decided that it was not necessary to stop such an
important negotiation, for an advantage _which in fact was only
deferred_; therefore his majesty relaxed in this demand. After so many
obstacles had been removed this secret contract was signed at St.
Petersburg, February 17, 1772. The month of June was fixed on for taking
possession, and it was agreed that the Empress-Queen should be invited
to join the two contracting powers and share in the partition."

It now remained to persuade Austria to join the coalition. Joseph and
Kaunitz were soon won over, but Maria Theresa's conscience made a longer
resistance. The fear of hell, she said, restrained her from seizing
another's possessions. It was represented to her, however, that her
resistance could not prevent the other two powers from portioning out
Poland, but might occasion a war which would cost the valuable lives of
many; whereas the peaceable partition would not spill a drop of blood.
She was thus, she imagined, placed in a dilemma between two sins; and
forgetting the command, "Do not evil that good may come," she endeavored
to persuade herself that she was doing her duty in choosing the least.
She yielded at length with the air of some religious devotee who
exclaims to her artful seducer, "May God forgive you!" and at the same
time sinks into his arms. The contract was signed between Prussia and
Austria on March 4th, and the definite treaty of partition which
regulated the three portions was concluded on August 5, 1772.

Russia was to have, by this first partition, the palatinates of Polotsk,
Vitebsk, and Mstislavl, as far as the rivers of Dwina and Dnieper, more
than three thousand square leagues; Austria had for her share Red Russia
(Galicia), and a portion of Podolia and Little Poland as far as the
Vistula, about twenty-five hundred square leagues; and Prussia was to be
contented with Polish Prussia (excepting Dantzic and Thorn with their
territory), and part of Great Poland as far as the river Notec (or
Netze), comprising about nine hundred square leagues. All the rest of
the kingdom was to be insured to Stanislaus under the old constitution.

All the three powers thought it necessary to publish some defence of
their conduct; and, in separate pamphlets, they attempted to prove that
they had legitimate claims on Poland, and that their present violent
seizures were only just resumptions of their own territory or equivalent
to it.

Rulhière says that Catharine only made her claim as a just
indemnification for the trouble and expense which she had devoted to
Poland; this, however, it will be found by referring to her defence, is
not the case. She sets forth the great kindness she had shown the
republic by insuring the election of a Piast (Stanislaus), and uses
these remarkable words on the subject: "That event was necessary to
restore the Polish liberty to its ancient lustre, to insure the elective
right of the monarchy, and to destroy foreign influence, which was so
rooted in the state, and which was the continual source of trouble and
contest." She then exclaims against the confederates:

"Their ambition and cupidity, veiled under the phantom of religion and
the defence of their laws, pervade and desolate this vast kingdom,
without the prospect of any termination of this madness but its entire
ruin." She then proceeds with her "Deduction," endeavoring to prove,
from old authors, that it was not till 1686 that the Polish limits were
extended beyond the mouth of the Dwina and the little town of Stoika on
the Dnieper, five miles below Kiow. The following is a specimen of the
lawyer-like sophistry which the Empress employs to establish her claim
to the Russian territory, which remained in the hands of the Poles after
the treaty in 1686:

"The design of such a concession being only to put an end to a bloody
war more promptly, and by a remedy as violent as a devastation (_aussi
violent qu'une devastation_), to insure tranquillity of neighborhood
between two rival and newly reconciled nations, it necessarily follows
that every act on the part of the subjects of the republic of Poland,
contrary to such intention, has, _ipso facto_, revived Russia's
indisputable and unalienated right to all that extent of territory. It
must be observed, also, that this arrangement about the frontier was
only provisional and temporary, since it is expressly said that it shall
only remain so _until it has been otherwise amicably settled_.

"The object was, therefore, to give the nations time to lay aside their
inveterate hatred; and to remove immediate causes of dispute between the
different subjects, and consequent rupture between the two states.
Russia sacrificed for a time the possession of the territory which
extends from the fertile town of Stoika to the river Tecmine, and from
the right bank of the Dnieper, fifty versts in breadth along the
frontiers of Poland. There is no idea of cession here on the part of
Russia; it is a pledge (gage) which she advances for the solidity of the
peace, _which ought to be returned to her when the object of it is
effected_. This is the only reasonable construction which can be put
upon the stipulation, '_until it has been otherwise amicably settled_.'
Russia is not to be a loser because the confusion of the internal
affairs of Poland has never allowed that country to come to a definite
agreement on this subject, notwithstanding the requests of Russia."

It does not demand much acumen to unveil such impudent sophistry as
this. The assertion that the arrangement was only provisional and
temporary is false; the treaty indeed left the detail of the boundary
line to be drawn out by commissioners, as must always be the case in
arrangements of this kind, and as was meant to be implied by the words
which the Russian minister transforms into "_until it has been otherwise
amicably arranged_."

Such was the weak manner in which the Russian diplomatists imagined to
deceive Europe; their defence indeed is as triumphant a proof of the
badness of their cause as the most earnest friend of Poland could
desire. Our surprise may well be excited at the weakness of the
argument, particularly when we remember that Catharine's servants had
long been trained in glossing over the basest and most shameful
transactions. "The ministers of St. Petersburg," said a contemporary
writer, "are accustomed to appear without blushing at the tribunal of
the public in defence of any cause; the death of Peter and assassination
of Prince John inured them to it."

Such a work hardly requires refutation. Every sophism and every
falsehood is a damning argument against the Russian cause. Truth, in
fact, is outraged in every page of the writing; and one striking
instance will suffice. Catharine states that the Polish Government would
never make any arrangement about the frontier; but the fact is that even
as late as 1764 commissioners were appointed at the diet of coronation
for this very purpose, but the Russians refused to nominate theirs;
again in 1766, when Count Rzewinski, Polish ambassador to St.
Petersburg, made a similar application, he was answered that the affairs
of the dissidents must be first settled.

The Austrian pretensions were even more elaborately drawn up than those
of Russia. In the first place, the district of Zips, the first sacrifice
to Austrian rapacity, came under consideration. Sigismund, who came to
the Hungarian throne in 1387, mortgaged this district to Wladislas II
(Jagello), King of Poland, in 1412, for a stipulated sum of money. It is
commonly called the "Thirteen Towns of Zips," but the district contains
sixteen. No reclamation of it had been made till the present time; it
had then been in the undisputed possession of Poland nearly three
hundred sixty years. The chief demur which the Austrians now made to the
mortgage was that the King of Hungary was restricted by the
constitution, as expressed in the coronation-oath, from alienating any
portion of the kingdom. But even this plea, weak as it is under such
circumstances, is not available; since it is proved that this article
was never made a part of the coronation-oath until the accession of
Ferdinand I in 1527.

The Austrian minister endeavored also to establish the right of his
mistress to Galicia and Podolia, as Queen of Hungary, and the duchies of
Oswiecim and Zator, as Queen of Bohemia. "What lastly establishes
indisputably the ancient claim of Hungary to the provinces in question
is that in several seals and documents of the ancient kings of Hungary
preserved in our archives, the titles and arms of Galicia are always
used." After exhausting the records, and stating that the crown of
Hungary has never in any way renounced its rights and pretensions, the
author modestly winds up his arguments in the following way:
"Consequently, after such a long delay, the house of Austria is well
authorized in establishing and reclaiming the lawful rights and
pretensions of her crowns of Hungary and Bohemia, and to obtain
satisfaction by the means which she now employs; in the use of which she
has exhibited the greatest moderation possible, by confining herself to
a very moderate equivalent for her real pretensions to the best
provinces of Poland, such as Podolia, etc."

Frederick argues his cause on the general principles of civil law.
"Since then," he says, "the crown of Poland cannot prove express
cessions, which are the only good titles between sovereigns to confer a
legitimate possession of disputed provinces, it will perhaps have
recourse to prescription and immemorial possession. We all know the
famous dispute among the learned on the question of prescription and
natural right, whether it obtains between sovereigns and free nations.
The affirmative is founded only on that very weak argument that he who
for a long time has not made use of his rights is presumed to have
abandoned them; a presumption which is at best doubtful, and cannot
destroy the right and established property of a monarch. Besides, even
this presumption altogether vanishes when the superior strength of a
usurper has prevented the lawful proprietor from claiming his rights,
which has been the case in the present instance.

"Time alone cannot render a possession just which has not been so from
its origin; and as there is no judge between free nations, no one can
decide if the time past is sufficient to establish prescription, or if
the presumption of the desertion [of rights] is sufficiently proved. But
even leaving this point undetermined, the prescription which the
republic of Poland could allege in the present case has not any of the
qualities which the advocates of prescription require, to render it
valid between free states."

We do not imagine that our readers will coincide with Frederick in the
following opinion: "We flatter ourselves that when the impartial public
has weighed without prejudice all that has just been detailed in this
_expose_, they will not find in the step which his majesty has taken
anything which is not conformable to justice, to natural right, to the
general use of nations, and, lastly, to the example which the Poles
themselves have given in seizing all these countries by simple matter of
fact. We trust also that the Polish nation will eventually recover from
its prejudices; that it will acknowledge the enormous injustice which it
has done to the house of Brandenburg, and that it will bring itself to
repair it by a just and honorable arrangement with which his majesty
will willingly comply, sincerely wishing to cultivate the friendship and
good-fellowship of this illustrious nation, and to live with the
republic in good union and harmony."

We have thus given the three monarchs liberty to plead for themselves;
and no one can rise from the perusal of their "Defences" without feeling
additional conviction of their injustice, and resentment at their
hypocrisy. We must own we are almost inclined to interpret Frederick's
appeal as a sneering parody on the cant of diplomacy in general; but, in
whatever light it be viewed, it gives additional insight into the heart
and head of that military despot and disciple of Machiavelli.

Iniquity almost invariably pays virtue the compliment of attempting to
assume her semblance; and the three wholesale plunderers--Russia,
Austria, and Prussia--therefore determined to give some show of justice
to their violent seizure, by wringing from their victims a ratification
of their claims. But "the children of this world" with all their wisdom
cannot always preserve consistency, and, cunning as the villain may
sometimes be, he will, at some time or other, make the most disgraceful
mistakes.

By requiring further ratification, the three powers admitted that their
anterior claims were not well founded; and common-sense ought to have
told them that, if the former claims were not just, the latter,
depending on the same title, were rendered still less so by aggravated
violence. Every show of justice in a villainous action rises up in
sterner judgment against the perpetrator, inasmuch as it evinces design,
and makes him responsible for the motive.

These remarks might be applied to Catharine, Frederick, Maria Theresa,
or Joseph; for though they may shield themselves from personal
accusation by acting under the vague titles of "powers," "states," or
"governments," the evasion is mean and cowardly; for particularly in
such despotic governments as theirs the passions and wills of the rulers
are the directors of every political scheme.

The three powers fixed on April 19, 1773, for the opening of a diet at
Warsaw to ratify their claims. Their troops were in possession of all
Poland; the capital in particular was strongly invested; and Rewiski,
Benoit, and Stakelberg, the Austrian, Prussian, and Russian ministers,
were on the spot to overrule and direct all the debates. They declared
that every deputy who opposed their proposals should be treated as an
enemy of his country and of the three powers. Frederick himself states,
in his description of this transaction, that the deputies were informed
if they continued refractory that the whole kingdom would be
dismembered; but, on the contrary, that if they were submissive the
foreign troops would evacuate by degrees the territory they intended to
leave to the republic. The Diet was to be confederated, that the Poles
might be deprived of their last resource, the _liberum veto_.

Some few patriots still raised their voices, even in the midst of the
united armies of Russia, Austria, and Prussia; and among these Reyten
was the most distinguished. He was a Lithuanian by descent, had acted a
good part in the confederacy of Bar, and had earned a character which
made the electors of Nowogrodek select him for their representative in
the present memorable Diet. His colleague was Samuel Korsak, a worthy
coadjutor, who did not turn a deaf ear to his father's parting words:
"My son, I send you to Warsaw accompanied by my oldest domestics; I
charge them to bring me your head if you do not oppose with all your
might what is now plotting against your country."

Poninski, a creature of the allied powers, was the marshal of the Diet,
appointed by the intervention of the ambassadors; and when the session
opened one of the deputies nominated him, and he was immediately
proceeding to take the seat, without waiting for the election; but
several members rose to protest against this breach of privilege, and
Reyten exclaimed: "Gentlemen, the marshal cannot be thus self-appointed;
the whole Assembly must choose him; I protest against the nomination of
Poninski; name him who is to be your president." Some voices instantly
shouted, "Long live the true son of his country, Marshal Reyten!"
Poninski retired, adjourning the session to the next day.

On the following morning Poninski again made his appearance, merely to
postpone the Assembly one day more. When this period arrived he went to
the hall with a guard of foreign soldiers, to station some of his
faction at the doors and to prevent the entrance of the public. Reyten,
Korsak, and their little band of patriots were soon at their posts, when
Reyten, perceiving that the people were not allowed to enter, exclaimed:
"Gentlemen, follow me. Poninski shall not be marshal of the Diet to-day,
if I live!" It was already twelve o'clock, and Poninski did not appear,
but a messenger arrived to state that he adjourned the meeting. "We do
not acknowledge Poninski for marshal," replied Reyten; and seeing many
of the members about to retire, he placed himself before the door with
his arms crossed, and attempted to stop the deserters. But his exertions
proving useless he threw himself along the doorway, exclaiming, with a
wearied but determined voice, "Go, go, and seal your own eternal ruin,
but first trample on the breast which will only beat for honor and
liberty."

There were now only fifteen members in the hall, and of these but six
persevered in their patriotic determination; namely, Reyten, Korsak,
Durin, Terzmanowski, Kozuchowski, and Penczkowski. At ten a message
arrived from the Russian ambassador, inviting the resolute deputies to a
conference at his house. Four of them, among whom was Korsak,
accordingly went; and Stakelberg at first addressed them mildly, but,
finding them resolute, began to threaten them with confiscation of their
estates. On this Korsak rose and declared, since they wished to seize
his possessions--which were already, however, mostly plundered by the
Russian armies--there was no occasion for so many preliminaries; and he
actually put into his hands a list of all his property, adding: "This is
all I have to sacrifice to the avarice of the enemies of my country. I
know that they also can dispose of my life; but I do not know any despot
on earth rich enough to corrupt or powerful enough to intimidate me!"

Reyten remained still at his post, and the four patriots on returning
found the doors closed, and lay down without for the night. On the
following day the ministers of the three powers repaired to the King's
palace, and Stakelberg threatened him with the immediate destruction of
his capital unless he gave his sanction to the forced confederation.
Stanislaus demanded the advice of his council, but received no reply;
and taking their silence for an assent, and not knowing how to evade a
direct answer, he yielded to the ministers' demands. The corrupt Diet
held their assembly without the hall, because Reyten was still at his
post--such was their dread of even one patriotic individual.

On April 23d, when Poninski and the confederates entered, they found
Reyten stretched senseless on the floor, in which state he must have
lain thirty-six hours. Such was the determination with which he resisted
the oppression of his country, and so entirely were all the energies of
his mind devoted to the cause, that when he learned its fall he lost his
reason.

The allies began to redouble their threats, and signified to the
deputies their intention of portioning out the whole of the kingdom, if
any more opposition were offered; but, notwithstanding, the Diet
continued stormy, and many bold speeches were made. Of all situations
the King's must have been the most perplexing and irksome; but no person
was better adapted to act such a part than Stanislaus. He made the most
pathetic appeals to his subjects, and frequently spoke in a strain more
fit for an unfortunate but patriotic hero than for one who had done
nothing but affect a few tears--for we can hardly doubt that they were
hypocritical--over the misfortunes which he had brought on his country.
The following sentence must have sounded strangely in his mouth:
"_Fecimus quod potuimus, omnia tentavimus, nihil omisimus._" Again, on
May 10th, he absolutely had the audacity to defend his political
conduct, stating that he had always done his duty whenever any business
depended on him.

On May 17th the Diet agreed to Poninski's motion to appoint a commission
that, in conjunction with the three ambassadors, should regulate the
limits of the four countries, and determine upon the changes in the
Polish Government. On the 18th the commissioners were nominated by the
King and Poninski.

Some small remains of liberty lingered even among the commissioners, and
called for fresh threats and violence from the allied powers. At length
they agreed to ratify the treaty of August 5th, and establish a
permanent council in whom the executive power was to be vested. This
council consisted of forty members, and was divided into four
departments, which engrossed every branch of administration. The King
was the nominal president, but the real authority was possessed by the
Russian ambassador. The partition was not fully arranged till 1774, and
then Prussia and Austria began to extend their bounds beyond the agreed
limits. _L'appetit vient en mangeant_, and these encroachments were a
sad augury of future partitions to the Poles.

The indifference with which other states regarded this partition was
indeed surprising. France, in particular, might have been expected to
protest against it; but the imbecility and dotage of Louis XV, and the
weakness of his minister, paid too little attention to the interests of
their own nation to be likely to think of others. They made the most
frivolous excuses, and even had the meanness to attempt to shift the
blame on the shoulders of their ambassador at Vienna, pretending that he
amused himself with hunting instead of politics, and had no knowledge of
the design of partition until it was consummated. Louis contented
himself with saying, with an affectation of rage, "It would not have
happened if Choiseul had been here!" Some few patriots in England
declaimed on the injustice of the proceeding; but the spirit of the
ministry, which was occupied in wrangling with the American colonies
about the imposition of taxes, was not likely to be very attentive to
the cries of oppressed liberty.

The partition is not one of those equivocal acts which seem to vibrate
between right and wrong, justice and injustice, and demand the most
accurate analysis to ascertain on which side they preponderate. Argument
is thrown away on such a subject; for to doubt about the nature of a
plain decisive act like this must necessarily proceed from something
even worse than uncertainty and scepticism concerning the simple
fundamental principles of moral action. A little reflection, however,
will not be lost on so memorable a portion of history, which opens a
wider field for instruction than the "thousand homilies" on the ambition
and glory and other commonplaces of Greek and Roman history.

Such great political crimes reveal a corresponding system of motives of
as black a hue, and even the narrowest experience teaches us that
motives are never so well traced as in their results. The corrupt
principle which prompts injustice and deceit in foreign transactions
would operate equally in domestic affairs; and the minister who uses
hypocrisy and falsehood in manifestoes and treaties would not scruple to
do the same in matters of private life. An implicit confidence in
enemies like these was one of the amiable "crimes" for which "Sarmatia
fell unwept."

THE BOSTON TEA-PARTY

A.D. 1773

GEORGE BANCROFT

One of the most famous demonstrations of the purpose of the American
colonies to resist what they regarded as the unjust taxation laid upon
them by Great Britain was this unique occurrence in Boston harbor.
Everywhere in the colonies the people had begun to go without articles
that were subject to taxes. They ceased to import goods for clothing,
and wore homespun. It was not easy to find a substitute for tea, but
various plants and leaves were used instead of it, and "store tea"
became a popular designation of real tea as distinguished from domestic
herbs. At last the English Government abandoned all taxes except that
laid on tea; this the Government insisted upon laying as strictly as
ever. Ships with cargoes of tea were sent with the expectation that the
colonists would pay the tax. What followed upon the arrival of the
tea-ships at Boston and Charlestown, and gave to American history the
"Boston Tea-party," is fully told in Bancroft's pages.

On Sunday, November 28th, the ship Dartmouth appeared in Boston harbor
with one hundred fourteen chests of the East India Company's tea. To
keep the Sabbath strictly was the New England usage. But hours were
precious; let the tea be entered, and it would be beyond the power of
the consignees to send it back. The selectmen held one meeting by day
and another in the evening, but they sought in vain for the consignees,
who had taken sanctuary in the Castle.

The committee of correspondence was more efficient. They met also on
Sunday, and obtained from the Quaker Rotch, who owned the Dartmouth, a
promise not to enter his ship till Tuesday; and authorized Samuel Adams
to invite the committees of the five surrounding towns, Dorchester,
Roxbury, Brookline, Cambridge, and Charlestown, with their own townsmen
and those of Boston, to hold a mass meeting the next morning. Faneuil
Hall could not contain the people that poured in on Monday. The
concourse was the largest ever known. Adjourning to "the Old South"
Meeting-house, Jonathan Williams did not fear to act as moderator, nor
Samuel Adams, Hancock, Molineux, and Warren to conduct the business of
the meeting. On the motion of Samuel Adams, who entered fully into the
question, the assembly, composed of upward of five thousand persons,
resolved unanimously that "the tea should be sent back to the place from
whence it came at all events, and that no duty should be paid on it."
"The only way to get rid of it," said Young, "is to throw it overboard."
The consignees asked for time to prepare their answer; and "out of great
tenderness" the body postponed receiving it to the next morning.
Meantime the owner and master of the ship were converted and forced to
promise not to land the tea. A watch was also proposed. "I," said
Hancock, "will be one of it, rather than that there should be none," and
a party of twenty-five persons, under the orders of Edward Proctor as
its captain, was appointed to guard the tea-ship during the night.

On the same day the council who had been solicited by the Governor and
the consignees to assume the guardianship of the tea, coupled their
refusal with a reference to the declared opinion of both branches of the
General Court that the tax upon it by Parliament was unconstitutional.
The next morning the consignees jointly gave as their answer: "It is
utterly out of our power to send back the teas; but we now declare to
you our readiness to store them until we shall receive further
directions from our constituents"; that is, until they could notify the
British Government. The wrath of the meeting was kindling, when the
sheriff of Suffolk entered with a proclamation from the Governor,
"warning, exhorting, and requiring them, and each of them there
unlawfully assembled, forthwith to disperse, and to surcease all further
unlawful proceedings, at their utmost peril." The words were received
with hisses, derision, and a unanimous vote not to disperse. "Will it be
safe for the consignees to appear in the meeting?" asked Copley; and all
with one voice responded that they might safely come and return; but
they refused to appear. In the afternoon Rotch, the owner, and Hall, the
master, of the Dartmouth, yielding to an irresistible impulse, engaged
that the tea should return as it came, without touching land or paying
a duty. A similar promise was exacted of the owners of the other
tea-ships whose arrival was daily expected. In this way "it was thought
the matter would have ended." "I should be willing to spend my fortune
and life itself in so good a cause," said Hancock, and this sentiment
was general; they all voted "to carry their resolutions into effect at
the risk of their lives and property."

Every shipowner was forbidden, on pain of being deemed an enemy to the
country, to import or bring as freight any tea from Great Britain till
the unrighteous act taxing it should be repealed, and this vote was
printed and sent to every seaport in the province and to England.

Six persons were chosen as post-riders to give due notice to the country
towns of any attempt to land the tea by force, and the committee of
correspondence, as the executive organ of the meeting, took care that a
military watch was regularly kept up by volunteers armed with muskets
and bayonets, who at every half-hour in the night regularly passed the
word "All is well," like sentinels in a garrison. Had they been molested
by night, the tolling of the bells would have been the signal for a
general uprising. An account of all that had been done was sent into
every town in the province.

The ships, after landing the rest of their cargo, could neither be
cleared in Boston with the tea on board nor be entered in England, and
on the twentieth day from their arrival would be liable to seizure.
"They find themselves," said Hutchinson, "involved in invincible
difficulties." Meantime in private letters he advised to separate Boston
from the rest of the province; and to begin criminal prosecutions
against its patriot sons.

The spirit of the people rose with the emergency. Two more tea-ships
which arrived were directed to anchor by the side of the Dartmouth at
Griffin's wharf, that one guard might serve for all. The people of
Roxbury, on December 3d, voted that they were bound by duty to
themselves and posterity to join with Boston and other sister-towns to
preserve inviolate the liberties handed down by their ancestors. The
next day the men of Charlestown, as if foreseeing that their town was
destined to be a holocaust, declared themselves ready to risk their
lives and fortunes. On Sunday, the 5th, the committee of correspondence
wrote to Portsmouth in New Hampshire, to Providence, Bristol, and
Newport in Rhode Island, for advice and cooperation. On the 6th they
entreat New York, through MacDougall and Sears; Philadelphia, through
Mifflin and Clymer, to insure success by "a harmony of sentiment and
concurrence in action." As for Boston itself, the twenty days are fast
running out; the consignees conspire with the revenue officers to throw
on the owner and master of the Dartmouth the whole burden of landing the
tea, and will neither agree to receive it nor give up their bill of
lading nor pay freight. Every movement was duly reported, and "the town
became furious as in the time of the Stamp Act."

On the 9th there was a vast gathering at Newburyport of the inhabitants
of that and the neighboring towns, and, none dissenting, they agreed to
assist Boston, even at the hazard of their lives. "This is not a piece
of parade," they say, "but if an occasion should offer, a goodly number
from among us will hasten to join you."

On Saturday, the 11th, Rotch, the owner of the Dartmouth, is summoned
before the Boston committee with Samuel Adams in the chair, and asked
why he has not kept his engagement to take his vessel and the tea back
to London within twenty days of its arrival. He pleaded that it was out
of his power. "The ship must go," was the answer; "the people of Boston
and the neighboring towns absolutely require and expect it;" and they
bade him ask for a clearance and pass, with proper witnesses of his
demand. "Were it mine," said a leading merchant, "I would certainly send
it back." Hutchinson acquainted Admiral Montagu with what was passing;
on which the Active and the Kingfisher, though they had been laid up for
the winter, were sent to guard the passages out of the harbor. At the
same time orders were given by the Governor to load guns at the Castle,
so that no vessel, except coasters, might go to sea without a permit. He
had no thought of what was to happen; the wealth of Hancock, Phillips,
Rowe, Dennie, and so many other men of property seemed to him a security
against violence; and he flattered himself that he had increased the
perplexities of the committee.

The decisive day draws nearer and nearer; on the morning of Monday, the
13th, the committees of the five towns are at Faneuil Hall, with that of
Boston. Now that danger was really at hand, the men of the little town
of Malden offered their blood and their treasure; for that which they
once esteemed the mother-country had lost the tenderness of a parent and
become their great oppressor. "We trust in God," wrote the men of
Lexington, "that should the state of our affairs require it, we shall be
ready to sacrifice our estates and everything dear in life, yea, and
life itself, in support of the common cause." Whole towns in Worcester
County were on tiptoe to come down. "Go on as you have begun," wrote the
committee of Leicester on the 14th; "and do not suffer any of the teas
already come or coming to be landed or pay one farthing of duty. You may
depend on our aid and assistance when needed."

The line of policy adopted was, if possible, to get the tea carried back
to London uninjured in the vessel in which it came. A meeting of the
people on Tuesday afternoon directed and, as it were, "compelled" Rotch,
the owner of the Dartmouth, to apply for a clearance. He did so,
accompanied by Kent, Samuel Adams, and eight others as witnesses. The
collector was at his lodgings, and refused to answer till the next
morning; the assemblage, on their part, adjourned to Thursday, the 16th,
the last of the twenty days before it would become legal for the revenue
officers to take possession of the ship and so land the teas at the
Castle. In the evening the Boston committee finished their preparatory
meetings. After their consultation on Monday with the committees of the
five towns, they had been together that day and the next, both morning
and evening; but during the long and anxious period their journal has
only this entry: "No business transacted; matter of record."

At ten o'clock on the 15th, Rotch was escorted by his witnesses to the
custom-house, where the collector and comptroller unequivocally and
finally refused to grant his ship a clearance till it should be
discharged of the teas.

Hutchinson began to clutch at victory; "for," said he, "it is notorious
the ship cannot pass the Castle without a permit from me, and that I
shall refuse." On that day the people of Fitchburg pledged their word
"never to be wanting according to their small ability"; for "they had
indeed an ambition to be known to the world and to posterity as friends
to liberty." The men of Gloucester also expressed their joy at Boston's
glorious opposition, cried with one voice that "no tea subject to a duty
should be landed" in their town, and held themselves ready for the last
appeal.

The morning of Thursday, December 16, 1773, dawned upon Boston, a day by
far the most momentous in its annals. Beware, little town; count the
cost, and know well, if you dare defy the wrath of Great Britain, and if
you love exile and poverty and death rather than submission. The town of
Portsmouth held its meeting on that morning, and, with six only
protesting, its people adopted the principles of Philadelphia, appointed
their committee of correspondence, and resolved to make common cause
with the colonies. At ten o'clock the people of Boston, with at least
two thousand men from the country, assembled in the Old South. A report
was made that Rotch had been refused a clearance from the collector.
"Then," said they to him, "protest immediately against the custom-house,
and apply to the Governor for his pass, so that your vessel may this
very day proceed on her voyage for London."

The Governor had stolen away to his country house at Milton. Bidding
Rotch make all haste, the meeting adjourned to three in the afternoon.
At that hour Rotch had not returned. It was incidentally voted, as other
towns had already done, to abstain totally from the use of tea; and
every town was advised to appoint its committee of inspection, to
prevent the detested tea from coming within any of them. Then, since the
Governor might refuse his pass, the momentous question recurred,
"Whether it be the sense and determination of this body to abide by
their former resolutions with respect to the not suffering the tea to be
landed." On this question Samuel Adams and Young addressed the meeting,
which was become far the most numerous ever held in Boston, embracing
seven thousand men. There was among them a patriot of fervid feeling,
passionately devoted to the liberty of his country, still young, his eye
bright, his cheek glowing with hectic fever. He knew that his strength
was ebbing. The work of vindicating American freedom must be done soon,
or he will be no party to the great achievement. He rises, but it is to
restrain, and being truly brave and truly resolved he speaks the
language of moderation: "Shouts and hosannas will not terminate the
trials of this day, nor popular resolves, harangues, and acclamations
vanquish our foes. We must be grossly ignorant of the value of the prize
for which we contend, of the power combined against us, of the
inveterate malice and insatiable revenge which actuate our enemies,
public and private, abroad and in our bosom, if we hope that we shall
end this controversy without the sharpest conflicts. Let us consider the
issue before we advance to those measures which must bring on the most
trying and terrible struggle this country ever saw." Thus spoke the
younger Quincy. "Now that the hand is to the plough," said others,
"there must be no looking back," and the whole assembly of seven
thousand voted unanimously that the tea should not be landed.

It had been dark for more than an hour. The church in which they met was
dimly lighted, when at a quarter before six Rotch appeared, and
satisfied the people by relating that the Governor had refused him a
pass, because his ship was not properly cleared. As soon as he had
finished his report, Samuel Adams rose and gave the word: "This meeting
can do nothing more to save the country." On the instant a shout was
heard at the porch; the war-whoop resounded; a body of men, forty or
fifty in number, disguised as Indians, passed by the door, and,
encouraged by Samuel Adams, Hancock, and others, repaired to Griffin's
wharf, posted guards to prevent the intrusion of spies, took possession
of the three tea-ships, and in about three hours three hundred forty
chests of tea, being the whole quantity that had been imported, were
emptied into the bay without the least injury to other property. "All
things were conducted with great order, decency, and perfect submission
to Government." The people around, as they looked on, were so still that
the noise of breaking open the tea-chests was plainly heard. A delay of
a few hours would have placed the tea under the protection of the
Admiral at the Castle. After the work was done, the town became as still
and calm as if it had been holy time. The men from the country that very
night carried back the great news to their villages.

The next morning the committee of correspondence appointed Samuel Adams
and four others to draw up a declaration of what had been done. They
sent Paul Revere as express with the information to New York and
Philadelphia.

The height of joy that sparkled in the eyes and animated the
countenances and the hearts of the patriots as they met one another is
unimaginable. The Governor, meantime, was consulting his books and his
lawyers to make out that the resolves of the meeting were treasonable.
Threats were muttered of arrests, of executions, of transportation of
the accused to England; while the committee of correspondence pledged
themselves to support and vindicate each other and all persons who had
shared in their effort. The country was united with the town, and the
colonies with one another more firmly than ever. The Philadelphians
unanimously approved what Boston had done. New York, all impatient at
the winds which had driven its tea-ship off the coast, was resolved on
following the example.

In South Carolina the ship with two hundred fifty-seven chests of tea
arrived on December 2d; the spirit of opposition ran very high; but the
consignees were persuaded to resign, so that, though the collector after
the twentieth day seized the dutiable article, there was no one to vend
it or to pay the duty, and it perished in the cellars where it was
stored.

Late on Saturday, the 25th, news reached Philadelphia that its tea-ship
was at Chester. It was met four miles below the town, where it came to
anchor. On Monday, at an hour's notice, five thousand men collected in a
town meeting; at their instance the consignee, who came as passenger,
resigned; and the captain agreed to take his ship and cargo directly
back to London and to sail the very next day. "The ministry had chosen
the most effectual measures to unite the colonies. The Boston committee
were already in close correspondence with the other New England
colonies, with New York and Pennsylvania. Old jealousies were removed
and perfect harmony subsisted between all." "The heart of the King was
hardened against them like that of Pharaoh," and none believed he would
relent. Union therefore was the cry; a union which should reach "from
Florida to the icy plains" of Canada. "No time is to be lost," said the
Boston press; "a congress or a meeting of the American States is
indispensable; and what the people wills shall be effected." Samuel
Adams was in his glory. He had led Boston to be foremost in duty and
cheerfully offer itself as a sacrifice for the liberties of mankind.

COTTON MANUFACTURE DEVELOPED

A.D. 1774

THOMAS F. HENDERSON

Up to the time when James Hargreaves, an English mechanic, invented
(1767) and brought into use the spinning-jenny--so named after his wife,
Jenny--the spinning of yarn was done altogether by hand. Richard
Arkwright added to the jenny of Hargreaves a much more useful invention,
the cotton-spinning frame, called a "water-frame" because it was driven
by water. In 1779 Samuel Crompton invented a still better machine, the
spinning-mule. In this he utilized the principles of the jenny and of
the frame, adding drawing-rollers, and thereby making a machine that
could draw, stretch, and twist yarn at one operation. From this
combination of features the mule received its name. Since the time of
Crompton it has been greatly improved, and the spinning-room of a modern
cotton-mill contains machinery as highly perfected as any that has been
invented.

Spinning by machinery is the foundation of the modern textile industry.
Soon after Arkwright's invention of the spinning-frame, Edmund
Cartwright invented the power-loom, the idea of which came to him while
he was visiting Arkwright's cotton-mills at Cromford. Cartwright took
out his first patent in 1785. Within fifty years from that time there
were at least one hundred thousand power-looms at work in Great Britain.

Arkwright's invention quickly gave a great impetus to the cotton
industry. Both the cultivation and the manufacture of cotton rapidly
increased. Eli Whitney's timely invention of the cotton-gin in 1793
hastened the general introduction of the new manufacturing machinery.
For more than a century the making of cotton goods has been one of the
leading industries of the world.

The first cotton-mill was built by Arkwright and Hargreaves at
Nottingham, England. Not long afterward the earliest cotton-mill in
America was built at Beverly, Massachusetts (1787). To aid the new
industry, the Legislature of that State made a grant of five hundred
dollars. Cotton manufacture rapidly increased in New England, and there
until recently was the centre of the American industry. Within the past
few years, however, many cotton-mills have been built in various
Southern States, and the cotton-belt region bids fair soon to become the
chief seat of manufacture of its own great staple.

Since 1866 the cotton supply of the United States has increased from
somewhat more than two million bales to about twelve million bales
(1904). The world's consumption of cotton in 1903 was nearly fifteen
million bales. In the United States the annual consumption in
cotton-mills is now about four million bales; in Great Britain, over
three million bales; in Continental Europe, about five million bales.
The number of spindles represented in the world's cotton manufacture in
1903 was nearly 112,000,000; in the United States, about 22,240,000;
Great Britain, 42,200,000; Continental Europe, 34,000,000. In 1903 the
exports of cotton manufactures from the United States were valued at
over $32,000,000. Nearly one-half of the exports went to China, the rest
being divided among many countries.

These figures only furnish a slight concrete suggestion of the immense
industrial and commercial importance of the invention that Arkwright and
his associates and successors produced and perfected for mankind. What
Eli Whitney did for the cultivation and handling of cotton they have
done for the world-wide interests connected with its manufacture.

The gradual disuse of wigs is assigned by some as the reason that
Richard Arkwright began to turn his attention to mechanical inventions
as likely to afford him a new source of income; but as during his
journeys he was brought into constant intercourse with persons engaged
in weaving and spinning, his inquisitive and strongly practical
intelligence would in any case have been naturally led to take a keen
interest in inventions which were a constant topic of conversation among
the manufacturing population. The invention of the fly-shuttle by Kay of
Bury had so greatly increased the demand for yarn that it became
difficult to meet it merely by hand labor. A machine for carding cotton
had been introduced into Lancashire about 1760, but until 1767 spinning
continued to be done wholly with the old-fashioned hand-wheel. In that
year James Hargreaves completed his invention of the spinning-jenny,
which he patented in 1770. The thread spun by the jenny was, however,
suitable only for weft, and the roving process still required to be
performed by hand. Probably Arkwright knew nothing of the experiments of
Hargreaves, when, in 1767, he asked John Kay, a clockmaker then residing
in Warrington, to "bend him some wires and turn him some pieces of
brass." Shortly afterward Arkwright gave up his business at Bolton, and
devoted his whole attention to the perfecting of a contrivance for
spinning by rollers. After getting Kay to construct for him certain
wooden models, which convinced him that the solution of the problem had
been accomplished, he is said to have applied to a Mr. Atherton, of
Warrington, to make the spinning-machine, who, from the poverty of
Arkwright's appearance, declined to undertake it. He, however, agreed to
lend Kay a smith and watch-tool maker to do the heavier part of the
engine, and Kay undertook to make the clockmaker's part of it. Arkwright
and Kay then went to Preston, where, with the cooperation of a friend of
Arkwright, John Smalley, described as a "liquor-merchant and painter,"
the machine was constructed and set up in the parlor of the house
belonging to the Free Grammar-school. The room appears to have been
chosen for its secluded position, being hidden by a garden filled with
gooseberry-trees; but the very secrecy of their operations aroused
suspicion, and popular superstition at once connected them with some
kind of witchcraft or sorcery. Two old women who lived close by averred
that they heard strange noises in it of a humming nature, as if the
devil were tuning his bagpipes, and Arkwright and Kay were dancing a
reel, and so much consternation was produced that many were inclined to
break open the place. The building has since been changed into a
public-house, which is known as the Arkwright Arms. As a proof of the
straits to which Arkwright was then reduced, and the degree to which he
had sacrificed his comfort in order to obtain the means of completing
his invention, it is said that his clothes were in such a ragged state
that he declined, unless supplied with a new suit, to go to record his
vote at the Preston election in 1768, which took place while he was
engaged in setting up his machine. Having thoroughly satisfied himself
of the practical value of his invention, he removed to Nottingham, an
important seat of the stocking trade, whither Hargreaves, the inventor
of the spinning-jenny, had removed the year previously, after his
machines had been destroyed by a mob at Blackburn. Arkwright entered
into partnership with Smalley from Preston, Kay continuing with him
under a bond as a workman, and they erected a spinning-mill between
Hockley and Woolpack Lane, a patent being taken out by Arkwright for the
machine, July 3, 1769.

The spinning-frame of Arkwright was the result of inventive power of a
higher and rarer order than that necessary to originate the
spinning-jenny. It was much more than a mere development of the old
hand-wheel. It involved the application of a new principle, that of
spinning by rollers, and in the delicate adjustment of its various parts
and the nice regulation of the different mechanical forces called into
operation, so as to make them properly subordinate to the accomplishment
of one purpose, we have the first adequate examples of those beautiful
and intricate mechanical contrivances that have transformed the whole
character of the manufacturing industries. The spinning-frame consisted
of four pairs of rollers, acting by tooth and pinion. The top roller was
covered with leather to enable it to take hold of the cotton, the lower
one fluted longitudinally to let the cotton pass through it. By one pair
of rollers revolving quicker than another the rove was drawn to the
requisite fineness for twisting, which was accomplished by spindles or
flyers placed in front of each set of rollers. The original invention of
Arkwright has neither been superseded nor substantially modified,
although it has of course undergone various minor improvements.

The first spinning-mill of Arkwright was driven by horses, but finding
this method too expensive, as well as incapable of application on a
sufficiently large scale, he resolved to use water-power, which had
already been successfully applied for a similar purpose, notably in the
silk-mill erected by Thomas Lombe, on the Derwent at Derby in 1717. In
1771 Arkwright therefore went into partnership with Mr. Reed, of
Nottingham, and Mr. Strutt, of Derby, the possessors of patents for the
manufacture of ribbed stockings, and erected his spinning-frame at
Cromford, in Derbyshire, in a deep, picturesque valley near the Derwent,
where he could obtain an easy command of water-power from a
never-failing spring of warm water, which even during the severest frost
scarcely ever froze. From the fact that the spinning-frame was driven by
water, it came to be known as the water-frame; since the application of
steam it has been known as the throstle. As the yarn it produced was of
a much harder and firmer texture than that spun by the jenny, it was
specially suited for warp, but the Lancashire manufacturers declined to
make use of it. Arkwright and his partners therefore wove it at first
into stockings, which, on account of the smoothness and equality of the
yarn, were greatly superior to those woven from the hand-spun cotton.

In 1773 he began to use the thread as warp for the manufacture of
calicoes, instead of the linen warp formerly used together with the
cotton weft, and thus a cloth solely of cotton was for the first time
produced in England. It met at once with a great demand, but, on account
of an act passed in 1736 for the protection of the woollen manufactures
of England against the calicoes of India, it was liable to a double
duty, which at the instance of the Lancashire manufacturers was speedily
enforced. Notwithstanding their strenuous opposition, Arkwright,
however, in 1774 obtained an act specially exempting from extra duty the
"new manufacture of stuffs wholly made of raw cotton-wool." Up to this
time more than twelve thousand pounds had been expended by Arkwright and
his partners on machinery, with little or no return; but after the new
act the cotton manufacture created by his energy and genius developed
with amazing rapidity, until it became the leading industry of the North
of England.

While struggling against the mingled inertness and active opposition of
the manufacturers, Arkwright had all the while been busily engaged in
augmenting the capability and efficiency of his machinery, and in 1775
he brought out a patent for a series of adaptations and inventions by
means of which the whole process of yarn manufacture--including carding,
drawing, roving, and spinning--was performed by a beautifully arranged
succession of operations on one machine. With the grant of this patent,
every obstacle in the way of a sufficient supply of yarn was overcome,
and, whatever might happen to Arkwright, the prosperity of the cotton
manufacture was guaranteed. Afterward the invention was adapted for the
woollen and worsted trade with equal success.

The machine of Arkwright was adapted for roving by means of a revolving
cam. For the process of carding, additions and improvements of great
ingenuity were affixed to the carding-cylinder patented by Lewis Paul in
1748, transforming it into an entirely new machine. The most important
of these were the crank and comb, said to have been used by Hargreaves,
but which it is now known that Hargreaves stole from Arkwright; the
perpetual revolving cloth called the feeder, said to have been used by
John Lees, a Quaker of Manchester, in 1778, but which Arkwright had
undoubtedly used previously at Cromford; and filleted cards on the
second cylinder, which also must have been used by Arkwright in 1778,
although a manufacturer named Wood claimed to have first used them in
1774. Indeed, the whole of the complicated self-acting machinery, which
without the intervention of hand labor performed the different processes
necessary to change raw cotton into thread suitable for warp, was
substantially the invention of Arkwright; and while each separate
machine was in itself a remarkable triumph of inventive skill, the
construction of the whole series, and the adaptation of each to its
individual function in the continuous succession of operations, must be
regarded as an almost unique achievement in the history of invention.

INTELLECTUAL REVOLT OF GERMANY

GOETHE'S "WERTHER" REVIVES ROMANTICISM

A.D. 1775

KARL HILLEBRAND

The latter half of the eighteenth century was, throughout Europe, a
period of revolt against the old ideas, the outworn bonds of mediæval
society. In art and literature the older system, with its elaborately
planned rules and formulas, is technically called "classicism"; and the
outburst against it established "romanticism," the spirit of desire, the
longing for higher things, an impulse which ruled the intellectual world
for generations, and which many critics still believe to be the chief
hope for the future.

Romanticism found expression, more or less impassioned and defiant, in
every land, but its earliest and strongest impulse is generally regarded
as having sprung from Germany. The sceptical, half-cynical rule of
Frederick the Great had left men's minds free, and imagination was
everywhere aroused. The early culmination of its extravagance is found
in the youth of Goethe and Schiller, Germany's two greatest poets; and
Goethe's famous novel, _The Sorrows of Young Werther_, became the
text-book of the rising generation of romanticists. Werther kills
himself for disappointed love, and the book has been seriously accused
of creating an epidemic of suicide in Germany. Hillebrand, writer of the
following analysis of the period and the movement, is among the foremost
of present-day German authorities upon the subject.

Goethe was twenty-six years old when he accepted (1775) the invitation
of Charles Augustus, and transported to Weimar the tone and the
_allures_ of the literary bohemia of Strasburg. There, to the terror of
the good burghers of that small residence, to the still greater terror
of the microscopic courtiers, began that "genial" and wild life which he
and his august companion led during several years. Hunting, riding on
horseback, masquerades, private theatricals, satirical verse,
improvisation of all sorts, flirtation particularly, filled up day and
night, to the scandal of all worthy folk, who were utterly at a loss to
account for his serene highness saying "_Du_" to this Frankfort
_roturier_. The gay Dowager Duchess, Wieland's firm friend, looked upon
these juvenile freaks with a more lenient eye; for she well knew that
the fermentation once over, a noble, generous wine would remain. "We are
playing the devil here," writes Goethe to Merck; "we hold together, the
Duke and I, and go our own way. Of course, in doing so we knock against
the wicked, and also against the good; but we shall succeed; for the
gods are evidently on our side." Soon Herder was to join them there,
unfortunately not always satisfied with the results of his teaching
about absolute liberty of genius.

The whole generation bore with impatience the yoke of the established
order, of authority under whatever form, whether the fetters were those
of literary convention or social prejudice, of the state or the church.
The _ego_ affirmed its absolute, inalienable right; it strove to
manifest itself according to its caprices, and refused to acknowledge
any check. Individual inspiration was a sacred thing, which reality with
its rules and prejudices could only spoil and deflower. Now, according
to the temperament of each, they rose violently against society and its
laws, or resigned themselves silently to a dire necessity. The one in
Titanic effort climbed Olympus, heaving Pelion on Ossa; the other wiped
a furtive tear out of his eye, and, aspiring to deliverance, dreamed of
an ideal happiness. Sometimes in the same poet the two dispositions
succeed each other.

"Cover thy sky with vapor and clouds, O Zeus," exclaims Goethe's
Prometheus, "and practise thy strength on tops of oaks and summits of
mountains like the child who beheads thistles. Thou must, nevertheless,
leave me my earth and my hut, which thou hast not built, and my hearth,
whose flame thou enviest. Is it not my heart, burning with a sacred
ardor, which alone has accomplished all? And should I thank thee, who
wast sleeping whilst I worked?"

The same young man who had put into the mouth of the rebellious Titan
this haughty and defiant outburst, at other moments, when he was
discouraged and weary of the struggle, took refuge within himself. Like
Werther, "finding his world within himself, he spoils and caresses his
tender heart, like a sickly child, all whose caprices we indulge." One
or the other of those attitudes toward reality, the active and the
passive, were soon taken by the whole youth of the time; and just as
Schiller's _Brigands_ gave birth to a whole series of wild dramas,
_Werther_ left in the novels of the time a long line of tears. More than
that, even in reality Karl Moor found imitators who engaged in an open
struggle against society, and one met at every corner languishing
Siegwarts, whose delicate soul was hurt by the cruel contact of the
world.

What strikes us most in this morbid sentimentality is the eternal
melancholy sighing after nature. Ossian's cloudy sadness and Young's
dark Nights veil every brow. They fly into the solitudes of the forests
in order to dream freely of a less brutal world. They must, indeed, have
been very far from nature to seek for it with such avidity. Many, in
fact, of these ardent, feverish young men became in the end a prey, some
to madness, others to suicide. A species of moral epidemic, like that
which followed upon the apparent failure of the Revolution in 1799, had
broken out. The germ of Byronism may be clearly detected already in the
Wertherism of those times. Exaggerated and overstrained imaginations
found insufficient breathing-room in the world, and met on all sides
with boundaries to their unlimited demands. Hearts, accustomed to follow
the dictates of their own inspiration alone, bruised themselves against
the sharp angles of reality. The thirst for action which consumed their
ardent youth could not be quenched, in fact, in the narrow limits of
domestic life; and public life did not exist. Frederick had done great
things, but only, like the three hundred other German governments, to
exclude the youth of the middle classes from active life. Thence the
general uneasiness. _Werther_ was as much an effect as a cause of this
endemic disease; above all, it was the expression of a general state of
mind. It is this which constitutes its historical importance, while the
secret of its lasting value is to be found in its artistic form.

Besides, if I may say so without paradox, the disease was but an excess
of health, a juvenile crisis through which Herder, young Goethe,
Schiller, and indeed the whole generation had to pass.

"Oh," exclaimed old Goethe fifty years later in a conversation with
young Felix Mendelssohn, "oh, if I could but write a fourth volume of my
life! It should be a history of the year 1775, which no one knows or can
write better than I. How the nobility, feeling itself outrun by the
middle classes, began to do all it could not to be left behind in the
race; how liberalism, Jacobinism, and all that devilry awoke; how a new
life began; how we studied and poetized, made love and wasted our time;
how we young folk, full of life and activity, but awkward as we could
be, scoffed at the aristocratic propensities of Messrs. Nicolai and Co.,
in Berlin, who at that time reigned supreme." "Ah, yes, that was a
spring, when everything was budding and shooting, when more than one
tree was yet bare, while others were already full of leaves. All that in
the year 1775!"

Old pedantic Nicholai, at whom he scoffed thus, foresaw, with his prosy
common-sense, what would happen "with all those confounded striplings,"
as Wieland called them, "who gave themselves airs as if they were
accustomed to play at blind-man's buff with Shakespeare." "In four or
five years," said he in 1776, "this fine enthusiasm will have passed
away like smoke; a few drops of spirit will be found in the empty
helmet, and a big _caput mortuum_ in the crucible." This proved true
certainly for the great majority, but not so as regards the two coursers
which then broke loose, and for him who had cut their traces and
released them. Goethe, indeed, modified, or at least cleared up, his
early views under the influence of a deeper study of nature and the
sight of ancient and Renaissance art in Italy (1786-1788); Schiller put
himself to school under Kant (1790), and went out of it with a
completely altered philosophy: Kant himself became another after, if not
in consequence of, the great King's death (1786); Herder alone remained
faithful throughout to the creed he had himself preached.

The way opened by Herder, although partly and temporarily abandoned
during the classical period which intervened, was followed again by the
third generation of the founders of German culture, the so-called
Romanticists, and by all the great scholars, who, in the first half of
this century, revived the historical sciences in Germany. Herder's ideas
have, indeed, penetrated our whole thought to such a degree, while his
works are so unfinished and disconnected, that it is hardly possible for
us to account for the extraordinary effect these ideas and works
produced in their day, except by marking the contrast which they present
with the then reigning methods and habits as well as the surprising
influence exercised by Herder personally. From his twenty-fifth year,
indeed, he was a sovereign. His actual and uncontested sway was not, it
is true, prolonged beyond a period of about sixteen years, albeit his
name figured to a much later time on the list of living potentates. It
is also true that when the seeds thrown by him had grown luxuriantly,
and were bearing fruit, the sower was almost entirely forgotten or
wilfully ignored. The generation, however, of the "_Stuermer und
Draenger_,"[58] or, as they were pleased to denominate themselves, the
"original geniuses," looked up to Herder as their leader and prophet.
Some of them turned from him later on and went back to the exclusive
worship of classical antiquity; but their very manner of doing homage to
it bore witness to Herder's influence. The following generation threw
itself no less exclusively into the Middle Ages; but what, after all,
was it doing if not following Herder's example, when it raked up Dantes
and Calderons out of the dust in order to confront them with and oppose
them to Vergils and Racines? However they might repudiate, nay, even
forget, their teacher, his doctrines already pervaded the whole
intellectual atmosphere of Germany, and men's minds breathed them in
with the very air they inhaled. To-day they belong to Europe.

Herder, I repeat, is certainly neither a classical nor a finished
writer. He has no doubt gone out of fashion, because his style is
pompous and diffuse, his composition loose or fragmentary; because his
reasoning lacks firmness and his erudition solidity. Still, no other
German writer of note exercised the important indirect influence which
was exercised by Herder. In this I do not allude to Schelling and his
philosophy, which received more than one impulse from Herder's ideas;
nor to Hegel, who reduced them to a metaphysical system and defended
them with his wonderful dialectics. But F.A. Wolf, when he points out to
us in Homer the process of epic poetry; Niebuhr, in revealing to us the
growth of Rome, the birth of her religious and national legends, the
slow, gradual formation of her marvellous constitution; Savigny, when
he proves that the Roman civil law, that masterpiece of human ingenuity,
was not the work of a wise legislator, but rather the wisdom of
generations and of centuries; Eichhorn, when he wrote the history of
German law and created thereby a new branch of historical science which
has proved one of the most fertile; A.W. Schlegel and his school, when
they transplanted all the poetry of other nations to Germany by means of
imitations which are real wonders of assimilation; Frederick Schlegel,
when, in the _Wisdom of the Hindoos_ he opened out that vast field of
comparative linguistic science, which Bopp and so many others have since
cultivated with such success; Alexander von Humboldt and Karl Ritter,
when they gave a new life to geography by showing the earth in its
growth and development and coherence; W. von Humboldt, when he
established the laws of language as well as those of self-government;
Jacob Grimm, when he brought German philology into existence, while his
brother Wilhelm made a science of Northern mythology; still later on,
D.F. Strauss, when, in the days of our own youth, he placed the myth and
the legend, with their unconscious origin and growth, not alone in
opposition to the idea of Deity intervening to interrupt established
order, but also to that of imposture and conscious fraud; Otfr. Mueller,
when he proved that Greek mythology, far from containing moral
abstractions or historical facts, is the involuntary personification of
surrounding nature, subsequently developed by imagination; Max Mueller,
even, when he creates the new science of comparative mythology--what
else are they doing but applying and working out Herder's ideas? And if
we turn our eyes to other nations, what else were Burke and Coleridge,
B. Constant and A. Thierry, Guizot and A. de Tocqueville--what are Renan
and Taine, Carlyle and Darwin doing, each in his own branch, but
applying and developing Herder's two fundamental principles, that of
organic evolution and that of the entireness of the individual? For it
was Herder who discovered the true spirit of history, and in this sense
it is that Goethe was justified in saying of him:

"A noble mind, desirous of fathoming man's soul in whatever direction it
may shoot forth, searcheth throughout the universe for sound and word
which flow through the lands in a thousand sources and brooks; wanders
through the oldest as the newest regions and listens in every zone."
"He knew how to find this soul wherever it lay hid, whether robed in
grave disguise, or lightly clothed in the garb of play, in order to
found for the future this lofty rule: Humanity be our eternal aim!"

Among the young literary rebels who, under Herder's guidance, attempted,
toward and after 1775, to overthrow all conventionalism, all authority,
even all law and rule, in order to put in their stead the absolute
self-government of genius, freed from all tutorship--the foremost were
the two greatest German poets, Goethe and Schiller. Goethe's _Goetz_ and
_Werther_, Schiller's _Brigands_ and _Cabal and Love_, were greeted as
the promising forerunners of the national literature to come. Their
subjects were German and modern, not French or classic; in their plan
they affected Shakespearean liberty; in their language they were at once
familiar, strong, and original; in their inspiration they were protests
against the social prejudices and political abuses of the time, vehement
outbursts of individuality against convention.

Not twenty years had passed away, when both the revolutionists had
become calm and resigned liberal conservatives, who understood and
taught that liberty is possible only under the empire of law; that the
real world with all its limits had a right as well as the inner world,
which knows no frontiers; that to be completely free man must fly into
the ideal sphere of art, science, or formless religion. Not that they
abjured "the dreams of their youth." The nucleus of their new creed was
contained in their first belief; but it had been developed into a system
of social views more in harmony with society and its exigencies, of
æsthetic opinions more independent of reality and its accidents, of
philosophical ideas more speculative and methodical. In other words,
Goethe and Schiller never ceased to believe, as they had done at twenty,
that all vital creations in nature as in society are the result of
growth and organic development, not of intentional, self-conscious
planning, and that individuals on their part act powerfully only through
their nature in its entirety, not through one faculty alone, such as
reason or will, separated from instinct, imagination, temperament,
passion, etc. Only they came to the conviction that here existed general
laws which presided over organic development, and that there was a means
of furthering in the individual the harmony between temperament,
character, understanding, and imagination, without sacrificing one to
the others. Hence they shaped for themselves a general view of nature
and mankind, society and history, which may not have become the
permanent view of the whole nation; but which for a time was
predominant, which even now is still held by many, and which in some
respects will always be the ideal of the best men in Germany, even when
circumstances have wrought a change in the intellectual and social
conditions of their country, so as to necessitate a total transformation
and accommodation of those views.

We cannot regard it merely as the natural effect of advancing years if
Goethe and Schiller modified and cleared their views; if Kant, whose
great emancipating act, the _Critique of Pure Reason_, falls
chronologically in the same period (1781), corrected what seemed to him
too absolute in his system, and reconstructed from the basis of the
conscience that metaphysical world which he had destroyed by his
analysis of the intellect. The world just then was undergoing profound
changes. The great "Philosopher-king" had descended to the tomb (1786),
and with him the absolute liberty of thought which had reigned for
forty-six years. The French Revolution, after having exalted all
generous souls, and seemingly confirmed the triumph of liberty and
justice which the generation had witnessed in America, took a direction
and drifted into excesses which undeceived, sobered, and saddened even
the most hopeful believers. As regards personal circumstances, the
Italian journey of Goethe (1786-1788) and his scientific investigations
into nature, the study of Kant's new philosophy to which Schiller
submitted his undisciplined mind (1790 and 1791), were the high-schools
out of which their genius came strengthened and purified, although their
æsthetic and moral doctrines did not remain quite unimpaired by them. I
shall endeavor to give an idea of this double process and its results at
the risk of being still more abstract and dry than before.

Man is the last and highest link in nature; his task is to understand
what she aims at in him and then to fulfil her intentions. This view of
Herder's was Goethe's starting-point in the formation of his
_Weltanschauung_ (or general view of things).

"All the world," says one of the characters in _Wilhelm Meister_,
"lies before us, like a vast quarry before the architect. He does not
deserve the name if he does not compose with these accidental natural
materials an image whose source is in his mind, and if he does not do it
with the greatest possible economy, solidity, and perfection. All that
we find outside of us, nay, within us, is object-matter; but deep within
us lives also a power capable of giving an ideal form to this matter.
This creative power allows us no rest till we have produced that ideal
form in one or the other way, either without us in finished works or in
our own life."

Here we already have in germ Schiller's idea that life ought to be a
work of art. But how do we achieve this task, continually impeded as we
are by circumstances and by our fellow-creatures, who will not always
leave us in peace to develop our individual characters in perfect
conformity with nature? In our relations with our neighbor, Goethe--like
Lessing and Wieland, Kant and Herder, and all the great men of his and
the preceding age, in England and France as well as in Germany--recommended
absolute toleration, not only of opinions, but also of individualities,
particularly those in which Nature manifests herself "undefiled." As
to circumstances, which is only another name for fate, he preached
and practised resignation. At every turn of our life, in fact, we
meet with limits; our intelligence has its frontiers which bar its
way; our senses are limited and can only embrace an infinitely small
part of nature; few of our wishes can be fulfilled; privation and
sufferings await us at every moment. "Privation is thy lot, privation!
That is the eternal song which resounds at every moment, which, our
whole life through, each hour sings hoarsely to our ears!" laments
Faust. What remains, then, for man? "Everything cries to us that we must
_resign_ ourselves." "There are few men, however, who, conscious of the
privations and sufferings in store for them in life, and desirous to
avoid the necessity of resigning themselves anew in each particular
case, have the courage to perform the act of resignation once for all;"
who say to themselves that there are eternal and necessary laws to which
we must submit, and that we had better do it without grumbling; who
"endeavor to form principles which are not liable to be destroyed, but
are rather confirmed by contact with reality." In other words, when man
has discovered the laws of nature, both moral and physical, he must
accept them as the limits of his actions and desires; he must not wish
for eternity of life or inexhaustible capacities of enjoyment,
understanding, and acting, any more than he wishes for the moon. For
rebellion against these laws must needs be an act of impotency as well
as of deceptive folly. By resignation, on the contrary, serene
resignation, the human soul is purified; for thereby it becomes free of
selfish passions and arrives at that intellectual superiority in which
the contemplation and understanding of things give sufficient
contentment, without making it needful for man to stretch out his hands
to take possession of them; a thought which Goethe's friend, Schiller,
has magnificently developed in his grand philosophical poems. Optimism
and pessimism disappear at once, as well as fatalism; the highest and
most refined intellect again accepts the world, as children and ignorant
toilers do: as a given necessity. He does not even think the world could
be otherwise, and within its limits he not only enjoys and suffers, but
also works gayly, trying like Horace, to subject things to himself, but
resigned to submit to them when they are invincible. Thus the simple
Hellenic existence which, contrary to Christianity, but according to
nature, accepted the present without ceaselessly thinking of death and
another world, and acted in that present and in the circumstances
allotted to each by fate, without wanting to overstep the boundaries of
nature, would revive again in our modern world and free us forever from
the torment of unaccomplished wishes and of vain terrors.

The sojourn in Italy, during which Goethe lived outside the struggle for
life, outside the competition and contact of practical activity, in the
contemplation of nature and art, developed this view--the spectator's
view--which will always be that of the artist and of the thinker,
strongly opposed to that of the actor on the stage of human life.
_Iphigenie_, _Torquato Tasso_, _Wilhelm Meister_, are the fruits and the
interpreters of this conception of the moral world. What ripened and
perfected it so as to raise it into a general view, not only of
morality, but also of the great philosophical questions which man is
called upon to answer, was his study of nature, greatly furthered during
his stay in Italy. The problem which lay at the bottom of all the vague
longing of his generation for nature _he_ was to solve. It became his
incessant endeavor to understand the coherence and unity of nature.

"You are forever searching for what is necessary in nature," Schiller
wrote to him once, "but you search for it by the most difficult way. You
take the whole of nature in order to obtain light on the particular
case; you look into the totality for the explanation of the individual
existence. From the simplest organism (in nature) you ascend step by
step to the more complicated, and finally construct the most complicated
of all--man--out of the materials of the whole of nature. In thus
creating man anew under the guidance of nature, you penetrate into his
mysterious organism."

And, indeed, as there is a wonderful harmony with nature in Goethe the
poet and the man, so there is the same harmony in Goethe the savant and
the thinker; nay, even science he practised as a poet. As one of the
greatest physicists of our days, Helmholtz, has said of him, "He did not
try to translate nature into abstract conceptions, but takes it as a
complete work of art, which must reveal its contents spontaneously to an
intelligent observer." Goethe never became a thorough experimentalist;
he did not want "to extort the secret from nature by pumps and retorts."
He waited patiently for a voluntary revelation, _i.e._, until he could
surprise that secret by an intuitive glance; for it was his conviction
that if you live intimately with Nature she will sooner or later
disclose her mysteries to you. If you read his _Songs_, his _Werther_,
his _Wahlverwandtschaften_, you feel that extraordinary intimacy--I had
almost said identification--with nature, present everywhere. Werther's
love springs up with the blossom of all nature; he begins to sink and
nears his self-made tomb while autumn, the death of nature, is in the
fields and woods. So does the moon spread her mellow light over his
garden, as "the mild eye of a true friend over his destiny." Never was
there a poet who humanized nature or naturalized human feeling, if I
might say so, to the same degree as Goethe. Now, this same love of
nature he brought into his scientific researches.

He began his studies of nature early, and he began them as he was to
finish them--with geology. Buffon's great views on the revolutions of
the earth had made a deep impression upon him, although he was to end as
the declared adversary of that vulcanism which we can trace already at
the bottom of Buffon's theory--naturally enough, when we think how
uncongenial all violence in society and nature was to him, how he looked
everywhere for slow, uninterrupted evolution. From theoretical study he
had early turned to direct observation; and when his administrative
functions obliged him to survey the mines of the little dukedom, ample
opportunity was offered for positive studies. As early as 1778, in a
paper, _Granite_, he wrote: "I do not fear the reproach that a spirit of
contradiction draws me from the contemplation of the human heart--this
most mobile, most mutable and fickle part of the creation--to the
observation of (granite) the oldest, firmest, deepest, most immovable
son of nature. For all natural things are in connection with each
other." It was his life's task to search for the links of this coherence
in order to find that unity which he knew to be in the moral as well as
material universe.

From those "first and most solid beginnings of our existence" he turned
to the history of plants and to the anatomy of the animals which cover
this crust of the earth. The study of Spinoza confirmed him in the
direction thus taken. "There I am on and under the mountains, seeking
the divine _in herbis et lapidibus_," says he, in Spinoza's own words;
and again: "Pardon me if I like to remain silent when people speak of a
divine being which I can know only in _rebus singularibus_." This
pantheistic view grew stronger and stronger with years; but it became a
pantheism very different from that of Parmenides, for whom being and
thinking are one, or from that of Giordano Bruno, which rests on the
analogy of a universal soul with the human soul, or even from that of
Spinoza himself, which takes its start from the relations of the
physical world with the conceptive world, and of both with the divine
one. Goethe's pantheism always tends to discover the cohesion of the
members of nature, of which man is one: if once he has discovered this
universal unity, where there are no gaps in space nor leaps in time, he
need not search further for the divine.

It is analogy which helps us to form these intuitive or platonic ideas.
It was through analogy that Goethe arrived at his great discoveries in
natural science, and I only repeat what such men as Johannes Mueller,
Baer, and Helmholtz have been willing to acknowledge, when I say that
the poet's eye has been as keen as that of any naturalist. Kant had
contended that there might be a superior intelligence, which, contrary
to human intelligence, goes from the general to the particular; and
Goethe thought--he proved, I might say--that in man too some of this
divine intelligence can operate and shine, if only in isolated sparks.
It was a spark of this kind which, first at Padua on the sight of a
fanpalm-tree, then again, on the eve of his departure from Palermo,
during a walk in the public garden amid the Southern vegetation,
revealed to him the law of the metamorphosis of plants. He found an
analogy between the different parts of the same plant which seemed to
repeat themselves: unity and evolution were revealed to him at once.

Three years later the sight of a half-broken sheep-skull, which he found
by chance on the sand of the Venetian Lido, taught him that the same
law, as he had suspected, applied also to vertebrate animals, and that
the skull might be considered as a series of strongly modified vertebræ.
He had, in fact, already hinted at the principle, shortly after put
forward by Lamarck, and long afterward developed and firmly established
by Darwin. He considered the difference in the anatomical structure of
animal species as modifications of a type or planned structure,
modifications brought about by the difference of life, food, and
dwellings. He had discovered as early as 1786 the intermaxillary bone in
man, i.e., the remnant of a part which had had to be adapted to the
exigencies of the changed structure; and proved thereby that there had
been a primitive similarity of structure, which had been transformed by
development of some parts and atrophy of others. Goethe's sketch of an
_Introduction into Comparative Anatomy_, which he wrote in 1795, urged
by A. von Humboldt, has remained, if I may believe those competent to
judge, a fundamental stone of modern science. And I may be allowed, as I
am unversed in such matters, to invoke the authority of one of the most
eminent living physiologists, Helmholtz, who says of Goethe's anatomical
essay, that in it the poet "teaches, with the greatest clearness and
decision, that all differences in the structure of animal species are to
be considered as changes of one fundamental type, which have been
brought about by fusion, transformation, aggrandizement, diminution, or
total annihilation of several parts. This has, indeed, become, in the
present state of comparative anatomy, the leading idea of this science.
It has never since been expressed better or more clearly than by Goethe:
and after-times have made few essential modifications."[59]

Now, the same may be said, I am told, in spite of some differences as to
details, of his metamorphosis of plants. I do not mean by this to say
that Goethe is the real author of the theory of evolution. There is
between him and Mr. Darwin the difference which there is between Vico
and Niebuhr, Herder and F.A. Wolf. In the one case we have a fertile
hint, in the other a well-established system, worked out by proofs and
convincing arguments. Nevertheless, when a man like Johannes Mueller
sees in Goethe's views "the presentiment of a distant ideal of natural
history," we may be allowed to see in Goethe one of the fathers of the
doctrine of evolution, which, after all, is only an application of
Herder's principle of _fieri_ to the material world.

After having thus gone through the whole series of organisms, from the
simplest to the most complicated, Goethe finds that he has laid, as it
were the last crowning stone of the universal pyramid, raised from the
materials of the whole quarry of nature; that he has reconstructed man.
And here begins a new domain; for after all for mankind the _highest_
study must be man himself. The social problems of property, education,
marriage, occupied Goethe's mind all his life through, although more
particularly in the last thirty years. The relations of man with nature,
the question how far he is free from the laws of necessity, how far
subject to them, are always haunting him. If you read the
_Wahlverwandtschaften_, the _Wanderjahre_, the second _Faust_, you will
find those grave questions approached from all sides. I shall not,
however, enter here into an exposition of Goethe's political, social,
and educational views, not only because they mostly belong to a later
period, but especially because they have never found a wide echo, nor
determined the opinions of an important portion of the nation, nor
entered as integrating principles into its lay creed. Not so with the
metaphysical conclusion which he reached by this path, and which is
somewhat different from the pantheism of his youth, inasmuch as he
combines with it somewhat of the fundamental ideas of Leibnitz, which
were also Lessing's, and which, after all, form a sort of return to
Christianity, as understood in its widest sense, in the sense in which
it harmonizes with Plato's idealism. "Thinking is not to be severed from
what is thought, nor will from movement." Nature consequently is God,
and God is nature, but in this God-nature man lives as an imperishable
monad, capable of going through thousands of metamorphoses, but destined
to rest on each stage of this unlimited existence, in full possession of
the present, in which he has to expand his whole being by action or
enjoyment. This conception of life was not, as you will see, the
creation of an imagination longing to pass beyond the conditions of
human existence--which is the idealism of the "general"--but the highest
result of the poet's insight into the order of nature.

I have said that there was an antagonism between Kant's views and those
of Herder and Goethe, and that this antagonism has been ever since
sensibly felt in the intellectual history of Germany. Some efforts were
made to reconcile them, as for instance by Schiller. Sometimes a sort of
alliance took place, as in 1813, when the Romanticists, who were quite
under the spell of the Herder-Goethe ideas, invoked the aid of the moral
energy, which was a special characteristic of Kant's disciples; but the
antagonism lives on not the less even now in the German nation, as the
antagonism between Hume and Burke, Locke and Berkeley, Fielding and
Richardson, Shakespeare and Milton, nay, between Renaissance and
Puritanism in spite of their apparent death, is still living in the
English nation. This difference is, as will happen in this world, much
more the difference between two dispositions of mind, character, and
temperament, than between two opposite theories; or at least the
conflicting opinions are much more the result of our moral and
intellectual dispositions than of objective observation and abstract
argumentation. Germany owes much to the stern unflinching moral
principles of Kant; she owes still more, however, to the serene and
large views of Goethe. The misfortune of both ideals is that they
cannot and will never be accessible save to a small _élite_, that of
Kant to a moral, that of Goethe to an intellectual, élite. But are not
all ideals of an essentially aristocratic nature? The German ideals,
however, are so more than others, and the consequence has been a wide
gap between the mass of the nation and the minority which has been true
to those ideals. The numerical majority, indeed, of the German nation
has either remained faithful to the Church, though without fanaticism,
or has become materialistic and rationalistic. It is a great misfortune
for a nation when its greatest writer in his greatest works is only
understood by the happy few, and when its greatest moralist preaches a
moral which is above the common force of human nature. The only means of
union between the nation and the intellectual and moral aristocracy,
which has kept and guarded that treasure, as well as the only link
between these two aristocratic views of life themselves, would be
furnished by religion, a religion such as Lessing, Mendelssohn, and
above all Schleiermacher, propounded, such as reigned all over Germany
forty or fifty years ago, before party spirit had set to work, and the
flattest of rationalisms had again invaded the nation--a religion
corresponding, for the mass, to what Goethe's and Kant's philosophy,
which is neither materialism nor spiritualism, is for the few--a
religion based on feeling and intuition, on conscience and reverence,
but a religion without dogmas, without ritual, without forms, above all
without exclusiveness and without intolerance. I doubt whether this mild
and noble spirit, which is by no means indifferentism, will soon revive,
as I doubt whether Germany will quickly get over the conflict between
the traditional and the rationalistic spirit which mars her public life;
whether too she will soon reach that political ideal which England
realized most fully in the first half of this century, and which
consists in a perfect equilibrium between the spirit of tradition and
that of rationalism. However, although Kant's lofty and Goethe's deep
philosophy of life is now the treasure of a small minority only, it has
none the less pervaded all the great scientific and literary work done
up to the middle of this century. It has presided over the birth of our
new state; and the day will certainly come when public opinion in
Germany will turn away from the tendency of her present literature,
science, and politics--a somewhat narrow patriotism, a rather shallow
materialism, and a thoroughly false parliamentary _régime_--and come
back to the spirit of the generations to whom, after all, she owes her
intellectual, though not perhaps her political and material,
civilization.

FOOTNOTES:

[58] "Storm and stress," the period of intellectual revolt, struggle,
and emancipation in Germany.--ED.

[59] Written in 1853, five years before the appearance of Mr. Darwin's
great work.

PESTALOZZI'S METHOD OF EDUCATION

A.D. 1775

GEORGE RIPLEY

Modern education began when Johann Heinrich Pestalozzi established
his experimental school at Neuhof in 1775. Comenius had shown the
true path of teaching. Pestalozzi was the enthusiast who felt with
burning passion the injustice done to the child in the schoolhouses
of his day. He protested that the old education was all wrong, and
he proved this by his achievements, establishing a little school in
his own home at Neuhof, and then in 1800 a larger one at Burgdorf.

The Swiss Government adopted his ideas. Teachers were sent to learn
of him. From Burgdorf is sprung the whole school system of to-day.
As a practical school-teacher Pestalozzi was nevertheless a failure
in the end, because he relied on no force but that of personal
affection to control his pupils. This divinest of methods succeeded
remarkably while his schools were so small as to bring him into
close paternal contact with every child. But at the large
institution at Yverdon, of which he was master in his later years,
the method broke down badly. Hence there were not wanting in his own
times critics who pronounced him a failure. They did not see that
beside his insistence on love as the "way," the reformer had an even
more important message for the world. "The grand change advocated by
Pestalozzi," says Mr. Quick, "was a change of object. The main
object of the school should not be to teach, but to develop." In
this sentence we have the key to all modern education, though not
every teacher even to-day has digested fully the idea that his duty
is less that of stuffing a child full of facts than of developing
its character and abilities, encouraging whatever of value exists
within itself.

The full importance of Pestalozzi's work was recognized by keener
intellects even in his own lifetime. Queen Louise, the heroine of
Prussia, wished she could fly to Switzerland to grasp Pestalozzi's
hand. His system was introduced throughout Northern Germany and did
wonders for the development of the German people. To-day it is the
system of the world.

After completing the usual course of education, Pestalozzi continued his
studies, with a view to engaging in the ministry of the gospel, to which
the wishes of his friends, as well as his own deep religious feelings,
had early destined him. This course, however, was soon abandoned. He
appeared for the first and only time in the pulpit as a candidate, and
then, discouraged by the ill-success of the experiment, renounced all
aspirations to the sacred office. Soon after, he applied himself to the
law, but with a strong predilection for political studies. At this time
his inquiries seem to have taken the direction which ultimately led him
to the discoveries that characterize his name. He saw clearly the great
abuses in society which prevailed in his native country; and by dwelling
on their enormity his active mind suggested means of relief which could
be realized only by a more thorough and judicious education of the
people at large. His first publication, issued while a student at law,
contained his views on this subject. It was an essay on the bearing
which education ought to have upon our respective callings.

It was not for a mind like Pestalozzi's to behold the evils which had
been brought to his notice without deep and painful emotion. This was
experienced to such a degree that he was thrown into a state of morbid
excitement; and, at length, a dangerous illness broke off his ardent
researches. Still his mind was not quieted. His thoughts could not be
prevented from dwelling on the painful subjects to which he had given
his whole soul. Prostrate on the bed of sickness, he continued to
indulge himself in dark musings; and his fancy represented the prospects
of the future, both for society and for himself, in gloomy colors. The
strength of his constitution, however, carried him through the disorder;
and from the moment of his recovery he resolved to follow the leadings
of Providence, and, setting aside all human considerations, to act up to
the full extent of his conceptions, and if possible to put his views to
the test of experience.

He now abandoned all his former studies, committed his papers to the
flames, and believing that the evils into which society was plunged were
mainly owing to a departure from the straight and simple path of nature,
to the school of nature he resolved to go. Accordingly he quitted Zurich
and went to Kirchberg, in the Canton of Bern, where he became an
apprentice to a farmer of the name of Tschiffeli.

After qualifying himself under the direction of Tschiffeli for the
charge of a farm, he purchased a tract of waste land in the neighborhood
of Lensburg, in the Canton of Bern, on which he erected a
dwelling-house, with suitable buildings, and gave it the name of Neuhof.
The work of his hands here was prospered. He soon brought himself into
comfortable circumstances, and saw his prospects as bright and happy as
could be wished. At this time he formed a connection in marriage with
Ann Schulthess, the daughter of one of the wealthiest merchants in
Zurich, a young lady of a refined education and great dignity of
character. This marriage, while it increased the happiness of his
domestic circle, offered him a new sphere of useful exertion, by giving
him an interest in a flourishing cotton manufactory.

After eight years of successful industry at Neuhof, Pestalozzi resolved
to make a fair trial of the plan, which he had long had at heart, of
giving the lower orders such an education as should raise them to a
condition more consistent with the capacities of their nature and with
the spirit of Christianity.

To avoid the interference of others as much as possible, and to place
the beneficial results of his system in a clearer light, he selected the
objects of his experiment from the very dregs of the people. If he found
a child who was left in destitute circumstances from the death of its
parents or from their incompetency and vice, he immediately took him
home, so that, in a short time, his house was converted into an asylum,
in which fifty orphan or pauper children were fed, clothed, and
instructed in the different employments from which they might afterward
be able to gain a livelihood, and for the exercise of which his farm and
the cotton manufactory, in which he was a partner, afforded an ample
opportunity.

But this experiment, so happily conceived by Pestalozzi, was destined to
prove unsuccessful. He possessed few of the means necessary to bring it
to a prosperous issue. His zeal, which led him to undertake the most
magnificent enterprises, was not combined with sufficient patience,
practical knowledge of human nature, and fixed habits of order and
economy to enable him to realize the plans which he proposed; and at
length he was obliged to abandon his experiment in despair. It was not,
however, altogether useless. He had the satisfaction of knowing that he
had rescued more than a hundred children from the degrading influences
under which they were born, and planted the seeds of virtue and religion
in their hearts; and, in addition to this, his qualifications for the
task to which his life was now devoted were greatly increased by this
insight he had acquired into its real nature, and the means of its
accomplishment. The results of his experience at Neuhof, from the time
of opening his asylum in 1775, to its close in 1790, are left on record
in the valuable works which he published during that interval. The first
of these, entitled _Leonard and Gertrude_, is a popular novel, under
which form he chose to convey his ideas respecting the condition of the
lower classes, and the means of their improvement. The success of this
work was not what he expected. Though universally popular as a novel,
there were few who entered into the spirit of the deep wisdom which it
contained. This was published in 1781, and, in order to draw the
attention of its readers to the great object which he had in view, he
published another work in the following year, entitled _Christopher and
Eliza_. But this also failed of the purpose for which it was principally
intended. Still Pestalozzi was not discouraged in his attempts to make
the public acquainted with his new ideas. He now addressed himself to
the literary world, as he had before written expressly for the common
people. In a journal published at Basel, under the direction of Iselin,
a distinguished philanthropist, he inserted a series of essays, entitled
_Evening Hours of a Hermit_, which contained a more systematic account
of his mode of instruction and his plans for national improvement. But
the current of public thought was in an opposite direction, and little
attention could be gained to the plans which he labored to introduce.
His success was somewhat better in a weekly publication, which he
undertook at the beginning of 1782, under the title of the _Swiss
Journal_. This was continued for one year, and forms two octavo volumes
in which a great variety of subjects is discussed, connected with his
favorite purpose of national improvement.

Soon after the breaking up of his establishment at Neuhof, the country
began to be agitated with the excesses of the French Revolution, and
Pestalozzi, disappointed in the sanguine hopes which he had formed at
the commencement of that event, and disgusted with the scenes of
brutality and lawlessness which it had occasioned, wrote his _Inquiry
into the Course of Nature in the Developement of the Human Species_.
This work, published in 1797, marks a new epoch in the development of
his views. It was written at a moment when his mind was covered with
the deepest gloom, and he was almost ready to sink under the struggle
between the bright conceptions of improvement which he had formed and
the darkness which hung over the existing institutions of society. The
following questions, which he proposes to himself at the commencement of
the work, will give some idea of its plan and of the spirit in which it
was composed:

"What am I? What is the human species? What have I done? What is the
human species doing?

"I want to know what the course of my life, such as it has been, has
made of me? and I want to know what the course of life, such as it has
been, has made of the human species?

"I want to know on what ground the volition of the human species and its
opinions rest under the circumstances in which it is placed?"

The following portrait of himself, which he draws at the close of the
volume, is highly characteristic of his feelings at this time:

"Thousands pass away, as nature gave them birth, in the conception of
sensual gratification, and they seek no more. Tens of thousands are
overwhelmed by the burdens of craft and trade; by the weight of the
hammer, the ell, or the crane, and they are no more. But I know a man,
who did seek more; the joy of simplicity dwelt in his heart, and he had
faith in mankind such as few men have; his soul was made for friendship;
love was his element, and fidelity his strongest tie. But he was not
made by this world nor for it; and wherever he was placed in it he was
found unfit.

"And the world that found him thus, asked not whether it was his fault
or the fault of another; but it bruised him with an iron hammer, as the
bricklayers break an old brick to fill up crevices. But though bruised,
he yet trusted in mankind more than in himself; and he proposed to
himself a great purpose, which to attain he suffered agonies and learned
lessons such as few mortals had learned before.

"He could not, nor would he, become generally useful, but for his
purpose he was more useful than most men are for theirs; and he expected
justice at the hands of mankind, whom he still loved with an innocent
love. But he found none. Those that made themselves his judges, without
further examination confirmed the former sentence, that he was generally
and absolutely useless. This was the grain of sand which decided the
doubtful balance of his wretched destinies.

"He is no more; thou mayest know him no more; all that remains of him is
the decayed remnants of his destroyed existence. He fell as a fruit that
falls before it is ripe, whose blossom has been nipped by the northern
gale, or whose core is eaten out by the gnawing worm.

"Stranger that passest by, refuse not a tear of sympathy; even in
falling, this fruit turned itself toward the trunk, on the branches of
which it lingered through the summer, and it whispered to the tree:
'Verily, even in my death will I nourish thy roots.'

"Stranger that passest by, spare the perishing fruit, and allow the dust
of its corruption to nourish the roots of the tree, on whose branches it
lived, sickened, and died."

But a brighter day for Pestalozzi was about to dawn. He now became
sensible of the great error of his former plans, which made too much
account of external circumstances, without exerting sufficient influence
on the inward nature, which it was his object to elevate. His mind
gradually arrived at the important truth, which is the keystone of the
system he afterward matured: "That the amelioration of outward
circumstances will be the effect, but can never be the means, of mental
and moral improvement."

He had now succeeded in awakening the attention of the Swiss Government
to the importance of his plans for national education, and was invited
to take charge of an asylum for orphans and other destitute children,
which should be formed under his own direction and supported at the
public expense. The place selected for this experiment was Stanz, the
capital of the Canton of Underwalden, which had been recently burned and
depopulated by the French Revolutionary troops. A new Ursuline convent,
which was then building, was assigned to Pestalozzi as the scene of his
future operations. On his arrival there he found only one apartment
finished, a room about twenty-four feet square, and that unfurnished.
The rest of the building was occupied by the carpenters and masons; and
even had there been rooms, the want of beds and kitchen furniture would
have made them useless. In the mean time, it having been announced that
an asylum was to be opened, crowds of children came forward, some of
them orphans, and others without protection or shelter, whom it was
impossible, under such circumstances, to send away. The one room was
devoted to all manner of purposes. In the day it served as a schoolroom,
and at night, furnished with some scanty bedding, was occupied by
Pestalozzi with as many of the scholars as it would hold. The remainder
were quartered out for the night in some of the neighboring houses and
came to the asylum only in the day. Of course, under such circumstances,
anything like order or regularity was out of the question. Even personal
cleanliness was impossible; and this, added to the dust occasioned by
the workmen, the dampness of the new walls, and the closeness of the
atmosphere in a small and crowded apartment, made the asylum an
unhealthy abode.

The character of the children, too, was a great obstacle to Pestalozzi's
success. Many of them were the offspring of beggars and outlaws and had
long been inured to wretchedness and vice; others had seen better days,
and, oppressed by disappointment and suffering, had lost all disposition
to exert themselves; while a few, who were from the higher classes of
society, had been spoiled by indulgence and luxury, and were now
conceited, petulant, and full of scornful airs toward their companions.

The whole charge of the establishment thus composed devolved upon
Pestalozzi. From motives of economy and from the difficulty of procuring
suitable assistants, he employed no one but a housekeeper. The burden of
this task was increased by the caprice and folly of many of the parents,
whose children had been sent to the asylum. They were prejudiced against
him as a Protestant and an agent of the Helvetic Government, and spared
no complaints which their unreasonableness or ignorance could suggest.
Mothers who were in the daily practice of begging from door to door
would come on some silly pretext and take away their children because
they would be no worse off at home. On Sundays especially the whole
family circle, from parents to the remotest cousin, would assemble in a
body at the asylum, and, after filling the minds of the children with
their idle whims, would either take them home or leave them peevish and
unhappy.

Sometimes children were brought to the asylum merely to obtain clothing,
which being done they were soon removed and no reasons given. In many
instances, parents required payment for leaving their children, to
compensate for the loss occasioned by taking them off from their
begging. In others, they desired to make an agreement for a certain
number of days in the week, in which they could have permission to send
them out to beg; and this being refused, they indignantly declared that
they would remove them forthwith--a threat which was not unfrequently
executed.

Such was the character of the materials on which Pestalozzi was obliged
to commence his great experiments. He was deprived of the ordinary means
of instruction and authority; and thus thrown entirely upon his own
resources, the inventive genius, for which he was afterward
distinguished, was awakened within him, and the spirit of humanity
received a fresh impulse. One of the first benefits which he derived
from his apparently untoward circumstances was the necessity of
resorting to the power of love in the child's heart as the only source
of obedience. There was nothing either in the disposition of the parents
or the children to aid him in his efforts; on the contrary, a spirit of
contempt on the one side and of open hostility on the other placed those
obstacles in his way which a less original and energetic mind than his
would not have been able to surmount. The usual methods of punishment
could not be applied with any success; accordingly, he discarded them
all. He made no attempt to frighten his refractory troop into order and
obedience, but used only the instrument of an all-forbearing kindness.
Even when obliged to apply coercive measures, he employed them with such
a spirit as showed the children that he did not have recourse to them
through anger, but that their use occasioned no less distress to him
than to themselves.

His mode of instruction partook of the character of his discipline. Both
were marked with the simplicity of nature. He had none of the ordinary
apparatus of teaching, not even books. Himself and his pupils were all.
The result was that he abandoned the common artificial systems of
instruction and gave his whole attention to the original elements of
knowledge which exist in every mind. He taught numbers instead of
ciphers, living sounds instead of dead characters, deeds of faith and
love instead of abstruse creeds, substances instead of shadows,
realities instead of signs. He led the intellect of his children to the
discovery of truths which, in the nature of things, they could never
understand.

In the midst of his children he forgot that there was any world beside
his asylum. And as their circle was a universe to him, so was he to them
all in all. From morning till night he was the centre of their
existence. To him they owed every comfort and every enjoyment; and,
whatever hardships they had to endure, he was their fellow-sufferer. He
partook of their meals and slept among them. In the evening he prayed
with them before they went to bed; and from his conversation they
dropped into the arms of slumber. At the first dawn of day it was his
voice that called them to the light of the rising sun and to the praise
of their heavenly Father. All day he stood among them, teaching the
ignorant and assisting the helpless; encouraging the weak and
admonishing the transgressor. His hand was daily with them, joined in
theirs; his eye, beaming with benevolence, rested on theirs. He wept
when they wept, and rejoiced when they rejoiced. He was to them a
father, and they were to him as children. Seventy or eighty children,
whose dispositions were of the most unpromising character, were
converted, in a short time, into a peaceful and happy family circle.
Their tempers were meliorated, their manners softened, their health
improved, and their whole appearance so changed that it was almost
impossible to recognize them as the same persons whose haggard and
stupid faces had formerly been noticed by every visitor at the asylum.

He wished to give to his establishment the character of a family, rather
than of a public school. He often related to his pupils narratives of a
happy and well-regulated household; and endeavored to awaken their
hearts to a sense of the blessings which men may bestow upon each other
by the exercise of Christian love. He taught this, whenever he could, by
examples taken from real life. Thus when Altorf, the capital of the
Canton of Uri, was laid in ashes, having informed them of the event he
suggested the idea of receiving some of the sufferers into the asylum.
"Hundreds of children," said he, "are at this moment wandering about as
you were last year, without a home, perhaps without food or clothing.
What would you say of applying to the Government, which has so kindly
provided for you, for leave to receive about twenty of these poor
children among you?"

"Oh, yes," exclaimed his pupils; "yes, dear Mr. Pestalozzi, do apply if
you please."

"Nay, my children," replied he, "consider it well first. You must know I
cannot get as much money as I please for our house-keeping; and if you
invite twenty children among us, I shall, very likely, not get any more
for that. You must, therefore, make up your minds to share your bedding
and clothing with them, and to eat less and work more than before; and
if you think you cannot do that readily and cheerfully, you had better
not invite them!"

"Never mind," said the children; "though we should not be so well off
ourselves, we should be very glad to have these poor children among us."

But the prosperity which Pestalozzi here enjoyed proved to be of short
duration. Before the expiration of a year from the commencement of his
undertaking, Stanz was taken by the Austrians, and he was obliged to
abandon his experiment at the very moment of its greatest success. This
took place in the summer of 1799. He was now exposed to the ridicule of
many, who had always derided his plan as visionary and enthusiastic, and
to whom he was prevented, by this untimely removal, from giving the
evidence of facts in demonstration of its excellence. His disappointment
and sufferings on this account were severe. Depressed and unhappy, he
retired into the solitude of the Alps, and amid the rocks and the steeps
of the Gurnigal sought rest for his weary soul, and health for his
exhausted nerves. But he could not long remain inactive. The enjoyment
of the majestic scenes of nature among which he was placed, and the
kindness and sympathy of a friend named Zehender, soon restored him to a
cheerful state of mind; and he descended from the mountains, determined
to resume his experiment from the point where it had been cut short at
Stanz.

The Helvetic Government at this time made him a grant of about thirty
pounds a year, which in 1801 was raised to one hundred, but was stopped
entirely in 1803, by the dissolution of the Government. This was barely
sufficient for his own subsistence, and the small remains of his private
fortune were absorbed in the maintenance of his family.

In the autumn of 1799, by the advice of his friends, Pestalozzi removed
to Burgdorf, an ancient Swiss city, in the Canton of Bern, where after
several unsatisfactory attempts, on a small scale, to carry his plans
into execution, he at last succeeded by the end of the year in opening
an establishment which in 1800 numbered twenty-six pupils, and in 1801
thirty-seven. About one-third of these were sons of representatives of
different cantons in Switzerland, and a part belonged to wealthy
tradesmen and agriculturists, and the rest were children of respectable
families reduced in their circumstances, who were placed by their
friends under the care of Pestalozzi. The expenses of this undertaking
were defrayed, at first, by a loan, which he was afterward enabled, but
with great difficulty, to repay. But it would have been impossible to
continue the institution had not the Helvetic Government voted him, in
addition to the grant before mentioned, an annual supply of fuel, and a
salary of twenty-five pounds each to two of his assistants, Kruesi and
Buss, who, however, generously declined receiving it themselves, but
devoted it to the general funds of the institution, from which they
received nothing but their board and lodging.

At this time Pestalozzi published a work at the request of his friend
Gessner, of Zurich, under the title of _How Gertrude Teaches her
Children_, in which he gave a historical account of his experiments up
to that period, and a general outline of his principles of education.
This book made a very favorable impression upon the public; it excited a
greater attention to his plans, confirmed the hopes of his friends, and
convinced many of the soundness of his ideas who had heretofore regarded
them as wild speculations.

The current of popularity now set so strong in his favor that he was
chosen in 1802 as one of the deputies to Paris, pursuant to a
proclamation of the French Consul, to frame a new constitution for
Switzerland. He now made his appearance again as a political writer, and
presented his views on the state of the country and the means of
improving it, in a pamphlet entitled _View of the Objects to which the
Legislature of Switzerland has chiefly to direct its Attention_. The
moderate and liberal opinions expressed in this publication, and the
wisdom of the proposals which it suggested, conciliated the best men of
all parties, and offended none but the few who cherished an extravagant
and bigoted attachment to the ancient order of things.

In all his labors Pestalozzi had a most efficient assistant in his wife,
who interested herself especially in cultivating the affections of the
younger pupils; while the different branches of domestic economy fell
upon his daughter-in-law and an old housekeeper who had been in his
family for more than thirty years and lived in it rather as a friend
than a servant. The domestic arrangements had for their object to form
habits of order, and to insure the enjoyment of good health to the
children. In the morning, half an hour before six, the signal was given
for getting up: six o'clock found the pupils ready for their first
lesson, after which they were assembled for morning prayer. Between this
and breakfast, the children had time left them for preparing themselves
for the day; and at eight o'clock they were again called to their
lessons, which continued, with the interruption of from five to seven
minutes' recreation between every two hours, till twelve o'clock. Half
an hour later, dinner was served up; and afterward the children were
allowed to take moderate exercise till half-past two, when the afternoon
lessons began, and were continued till half-past four. From half-past
four till five there was another interval of recreation, during which
the children had fruit and bread distributed to them. At five, the
lessons were resumed till the time of supper at eight o'clock, after
which, the evening prayer having been held, they were conducted to bed
about nine. The hours of recreation were mostly spent in innocent games
on a fine common situated between the castle and the lake and crossed in
different directions by beautiful avenues of chestnut and poplar trees.

On Wednesday and Sunday afternoons, if the weather permitted, excursions
of several miles were made through the beautiful scenery of the
surrounding country. In summer the children went frequently to bathe in
the lake, the borders of which offered, in winter, fine opportunities
for skating. In bad weather they resorted to gymnastic exercises in a
large hall expressly fitted up for that purpose. This constant attention
to regular bodily exercise, together with the excellent climate of
Yverdon, and the simplicity of their mode of living, proved so effectual
in preserving the health of the children that illness of any kind made
its appearance but very rarely, notwithstanding that the number of
pupils amounted at one time to upward of one hundred eighty. Such was
the care bestowed upon physical education in Pestalozzi's establishment;
and an equal degree of solicitude was evinced for the intellectual and
moral well-being of the children.

Successful, however, as the purposes of Pestalozzi were at Yverdon, the
scene which is most intimately associated with his name, and which was
the theatre of his brightest and most useful achievements, he was
destined again to meet with bitter disappointment, and finally to go
down to his grave in sorrow. After a series of embarrassments,
occasioned principally by the artifices of an unprincipled and
intriguing adventurer among his teachers, and having suffered in his
property, his happiness, and to a certain extent in his character, and
witnessed the gradual destruction of his establishment, he died at
Brugg, in the Canton of Basel, on February 17, 1827, at the advanced age
of eighty-two years.

CHRONOLOGY OF UNIVERSAL HISTORY

EMBRACING THE PERIOD COVERED IN THIS VOLUME

A.D. 1716-1775

JOHN RUDD, LL.D.

CHRONOLOGY OF UNIVERSAL HISTORY

EMBRACING THE PERIOD COVERED IN THIS VOLUME

A.D. 1716-1775

JOHN RUDD, LL.D.

Events treated at length are here indicated in large type; the numerals
following give volume and page.

Separate chronologies of the various nations, and of the careers of
famous persons, will be found in the INDEX VOLUME, with volume and page
references showing where the several events are fully treated.

A.D.

1716. Establishment of Law's bank in Paris in connection with the
Mississippi Scheme. See "JOHN LAW PROMOTES THE MISSISSIPPI SCHEME,"
xiii, 1.

Parliament passes the Septennial Act limiting the duration of a
parliament to seven years.

Unsuccessful invasion of Norway by Charles XII.

War on Turkey by Austria; Battle of Peterwardein; victory of Prince
Eugene.

1717. Occupation of Sardinia by Philip V of Spain.

Walpole resigns the English ministry.

A triple alliance formed between Britain, Holland, and France.

Battle of Belgrad; defeat of the Turks by Prince Eugene. See "PRINCE
EUGENE VANQUISHES THE TURKS," xiii, 16.

1718. Foundation of New Orleans, Louisiana, by the French.

Invasion of Sicily by the Spaniards; Austria joins the Triple Alliance;
the Spanish fleet defeated off Cape Passaro.

Another attempt on Norway by Charles XII; he is killed while besieging
Frederikshald.

St. Petersburg becomes the capital of Russia.

1719. Philip V submits to the alliance; the Spaniards evacuate Sicily
and Sardinia.

Ravaging of the coast of Sweden by the Russian fleet.

Great speculative craze in England.

1720. "BURSTING OF THE SOUTH SEA BUBBLE." See xiii, 22.

Disastrous end of Law's financial schemes in France.

Sweden and Prussia arrange the Treaty of Stockholm; Prussia acquires a
large portion of Hither Pomerania.

Sardinia becomes a kingdom, raised out of the Savoy dominions.

1721. Walpole again First Lord of the Treasury (prime minister) of
England.

France becomes financially bankrupt.

1722. A patent granted Wood for the coinage of copper coin for Ireland;
this led Swift to write of the "wooden halfpence."

Persia conquered by the Afghans.

A Jacobite plot against George I of England discovered.

Founding of a Moravian brotherhood at Herrnhut, Saxony.

War on Persia by Peter the Great.

1723. Majority of Louis XV of France.

Large territories secured from Persia by Peter the Great.

"BACH LAYS THE FOUNDATION OF MODERN MUSIC." See xiii, 31.

1724. A professorship of modern history founded by George I at Oxford
and at Cambridge university.

Resignation of the Spanish crown by Philip V in favor of his son, Louis;
the latter dies after a short reign, and his father reassumes the
government.

1725. Treaty of Vienna between Austria and Spain, assenting to the
Pragmatic Sanction of Charles VI.

Treaty of Hanover between Great Britain, France, and Prussia.

Death of Peter the Great; his widow, Catharine I, succeeds to the throne
of Russia.

1726. Russia joins in the Treaty of Vienna.

1727. Spain makes an unsuccessful attempt to blockade and fails in her
siege of Gibraltar.

Death of George I; George II succeeds to the throne of England.

Persia freed from the Afghans by Nadir Kuli, Shah of Persia.

For having published the proceedings in the British House of Commons
Edward Cane is taken into custody by the sergeant-at-arms.

1728. Assembling at Soissons of a congress of the great powers.

Discovery of the strait bearing his name by Bering.

1729. Great Britain, France, and Spain arrange the Treaty of Seville.

Purchase of Carolina by the crown; two royal provinces instituted, North
and South Carolina; plot of the negroes in the latter to murder their
masters.

Revolt of Corsica against the Genoese.

1730. Introduction by Réaumur of his thermometer.

Baltimore, Maryland, founded.

Opening of the first railway, between Manchester and Liverpool, England.

1731. An earthquake convulses Chile for twenty-seven days; Santiago
nearly engulfed.

Origin of Methodism by the preaching of Wesley and Whitefield.

1732. Oglethorpe founds a settlement in Georgia. See "SETTLEMENT OF
GEORGIA," xiii, 44.

Franklin establishes the first subscription library in the United
Colonies.

Expulsion of the Protestants from Salzburg.

1733. Death of Augustus II of Poland; War of the Polish Succession
between Austria and France.

Invention in England of the fly-shuttle for weaving, by John Kay, aided
by Arkwright.

1734. Austrian campaign against France and Sardinia in Northern Italy;
Philip V enters Naples and proclaims himself king. Battle of Bitonto;
defeat of the Austrians, May 25; Capua falls in November.

Siege of Philippsburg by the French under Berwick; the fortress taken,
Berwick slain.

Trial of Zenger in New York, establishing the principle of freedom of
the English colonial press.

1735. First settlement of the Moravians in America, made at Georgia.

Don Carlos conquers Sicily; is crowned king as Charles III.

1736. Issue of a papal bull against freemasonry.

Glass lamps used in the streets of London.

War of Russia against Turkey; capture of Azov by the former.

Nadir Shah (Kuli Khan) succeeds to the Persian throne.

1737. War on Turkey by Charles VI.

End of the Medici line in Tuscany; Francis Stephen becomes grand duke.

English theatres are placed under control of the lord chamberlain.

Birth of Edward Gibbon, historian.

1738. Conquest of Afghanistan by Nadir (Kuli) Shah.

At Vienna is signed the definitive treaty between Charles VI of Germany
and Louis XV of France.

Forming of the first Methodist Society in England, by John Wesley. See
"RISE OF METHODISM," xiii, 57.

1739. War of Jenkins's Ear between England and Spain; in 1731 an English
merchant-vessel was boarded by a Spanish guardship, and the captain,
Robert Jenkins, cruelly used, an ear being torn off.

Nadir Shah captures Delhi; he sacks the city and massacres the people.
See "CONQUESTS OF NADIR SHAH," xiii, 72.

Recovery of Belgrad and Servian territory by the Turks, arranged by
treaty between Austria and Turkey.

1740. Death of Frederick William I; accession of Frederick the Great to
the Prussian throne. Treachery of the powers which had guaranteed the
succession of the Austrian throne to Maria Theresa. See "FREDERICK THE
GREAT SEIZES SILESIA," xiii, 108.

A Moravian settlement formed at Bethlehem, Pennsylvania.

"FIRST MODERN NOVEL." See xiii, 100.

1741. A revolution places Elizabeth, daughter of Peter the Great, on the
throne of Russia; Ivan, an infant, and his parents are imprisoned.

Alliance between England and Austria.

War between Sweden and Russia.

Unsuccessful attack of Admiral Vernon on Cartagena, New Granada.

Final separation of New Hampshire from Massachusetts.

Pretended negro plot in New York.

1742. Election and coronation of the Elector of Bavaria as Emperor
Charles VII of Germany.

Silesia and Glatz ceded to Frederick the Great.

The French are expelled Bohemia.

1743. Second Bourbon Family Compact between the kings of France and
Spain.

Great Britain supports the cause of Maria Theresa. Battle of Dettingen;
victory of the English and Hanoverian army.

1744. War renewed with Austria by Frederick the Great; he invades
Bohemia, captures Prague, but is forced to retreat.

Beginning of King George's War in America.

1745. Last Jacobite rebellion in Britain; Scotland rises for the Young
Pretender, Charles Edward; Battle of Prestonpans; he is victorious and
advances into England, but is compelled to retreat.

Capture of Louisburg by British-American colonists.

Death of Emperor Charles VII; Maximilian Joseph, his successor in
Bavaria, makes peace with Maria Theresa. Battle of Fontenoy; victory of
the French, under Marshal Saxe, over the allies under the Duke of
Cumberland. Victories of the Prussians at Hohenfriedberg, Sohr,
Hennersdorf, and Kesseldorf. Francis I, husband of Maria Theresa,
elected to the imperial throne. Peace between Austria and Prussia.

Invention of the Leyden jar, named from the city where first used.

1746. Battle of Falkirk; victory of the Young Pretender; he is
overthrown at the Battle of Culloden. See "DEFEAT OF THE YOUNG PRETENDER
AT CULLODEN," xiii, 117.

Conquest of the Austrian Netherlands by the French.

Madras, India, surrenders to the French.

Genoa surrenders to the Austrians; they are expelled by a popular
rising.

1747. Naval victory of the English, off Cape Finisterre, under Anson and
Warren, over the French. They suffer another defeat at the hand of
Admiral Hawke at Belle-Isle. Battle of Rocourt; Marshal Saxe defeats the
allies under the Duke of Cumberland, at Lawfeld. Russia supports the
cause of Maria Theresa.

"FRANKLIN EXPERIMENTS WITH ELECTRICITY." See xiii, 130.

1748. Marshal Saxe captures Maestricht; Treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle,
ending the War of the Austrian Succession.

Excavations begin at Pompeii.

Pompadour's ascendency over the French King.

Pondicherry successfully defended by Dupleix against the English under
Boscawen and Lawrence.

1749. George II grants a charter to the Ohio Company.

1750. Bounties granted and a company formed in England to encourage the
herring and cod fisheries.

1751. Clive begins his successful career in India.

1752. Change from the Old to the New (or Gregorian) style of calendar in
England.

1753. Founding of the British Museum, due to the legacy of Sir Hans
Sloane, who bequeaths his library, antiquities, and collection of
natural curiosities for that purpose.

1754. Encroachments of the French in North America; Washington, colonel
of a provincial regiment, sent from Virginia to drive them from the
Ohio, is defeated and made prisoner.

King's College, now Columbia, founded at New York.

A congress of the American colonies at Albany; union discussed.

1755. Braddock defeated and slain near Fort Duquesne. See "BRADDOCK'S
DEFEAT," xiii, 163.

Great earthquake at Lisbon, Portugal, November 1st.

"VOLTAIRE DIRECTS EUROPEAN THOUGHT." See xiii, 144.

Dispersion of the French colonists of Acadia. See "EXILE OF THE ACADIAN
NEUTRALS," xiii, 181.

1756. Treaty of Defence between England and Prussia. Treaty of alliance
between France and Austria against Prussia. Beginning of the Seven
Years' War. See "SEVEN YEARS' WAR," xiii, 204.

Calcutta captured by Surajah Dowlah; he throws the English prisoners
into the Black Hole. See "CLIVE ESTABLISHES BRITISH SUPREMACY IN INDIA,"
xiii, 185.

Conquest of Minorca by the French from the English.

Fort Oswego, New York, captured by Montcalm's troops.

1757. Calcutta retaken by Watson and Clive. Capture by the English of
the French fort Charlemagne, on the Ganges.

An army levied by the German Diet against Frederick the Great.[60]
France and Sweden declare war against Prussia. Battle of Prague; the
Austrians defeated by Frederick. His army beaten by the Austrians under
Daun, at Kolin; a Russian army overruns East Prussia. The Duke of
Cumberland defeated by the French at Hastenbeck. Defeat of the Prussian
general Lehwald by the Russians. The French and Imperialists, under
Soubise, defeated by Frederick at Rossbach. After occupying Silesia the
Austrians are defeated at Leuthen.

Capture of Fort William Henry, at the south end of Lake George, by
Montcalm.

Mission by Franklin to England in behalf of the Pennsylvanians.

1758. Expulsion of the French from Hanover, by Ferdinand of Brunswick.
Frederick defeats the Russians at Zorndorf; Daun defeats him at
Hochkirchen.

Arcot, India, taken by the French, who then besiege Madras.

Battle of Ticonderoga; victory of Montcalm over Abercrombie, July 8.
Louisburg reduced and occupied by Amherst and Boscawen; loss to the
French of forts Frontenac and Duquesne.

The French fleet is driven out of the Indian seas by the English
admiral, Peacocke.

1759. Battle of Minden; defeat of the French by Ferdinand of Brunswick.
Kunersdorf: overwhelming defeat of Frederick the Great by the Austrians
and Russians. Boscawen, the English Admiral, defeats the French off
Lagos; Admiral Hawke gains a naval victory over them, under Conflans, in
Quiberon Bay. Fink, the Prussian General, surrenders at Maxen. Havre de
Grace bombarded by Rodney, the British Admiral.

Quebec captured by the British under Wolfe. See "CONQUEST OF CANADA,"
xiii, 229.

Opening of the British Museum.

Expulsion of the Jesuits from Portugal by King John.

Guadelupe taken from the French by the English.

1760. George III succeeds to the English throne on the death of his
grandfather, George II.

Montreal captured by the English; completion of the conquest of Canada.

Battles of Liegnitz, Torgau, and Warburg; Berlin occupied by Austrians
and Russians.

Destructive eruption of Vesuvius, February 21st.

Battle of Wandiwash, India; the English defeat the French.

1761. Pitt resigns from the British ministry.

Third Family Compact of the Bourbons of France, Spain, Naples, and
Parma.

Belle-Isle captured from the French by the English.

Pondicherry surrendered to the English by the French.

Otis, at Boston, speaks against the Writs of Assistance.

1762. Declaration of war against Spain by England; Havana conquered.

Martinique captured from the French by the English: restored the year
following.

Death of Elizabeth, Empress of Russia; deposition and murder of her
successor, Peter III; Catharine II usurps the throne. See "USURPATION OF
CATHARINE II IN RUSSIA," xiii, 250.

1763. Peace of Paris, ending of the Seven Years' War: Canada, Nova
Scotia, Cape Breton ceded to England by France, and Florida by Spain;
Louisiana to France by Spain.

Peace of Hubertsburg: Silesia confirmed to Frederick the Great.

Indians unsuccessfully besiege the English at Fort Detroit. See
"CONSPIRACY OF PONTIAC," xiii, 267.

1764. Catharine II secures the election of Stanislas Poniatowski as king
of Poland.

Mason and Dixon begin the survey of the line determining the boundary
between Maryland and Pennsylvania.

1765. Parliament passes the Stamp Act; formation of the Sons of Liberty;
convening of the Stamp Act Congress. See "AMERICAN COLONIES OPPOSE THE
STAMP ACT," xiii, 289.

Formal ceding of Bengal, Behar, and Orissa by the Mogul Emperor to the
English.

1766. Repeal of the Stamp Act by the British Parliament.

Hydrogen discovered by Henry Cavendish.

Protestants refused concessions by the Diet of Poland; Russia and
Prussia intervene; first step toward the partition of Poland.

1767. Parliament imposes duties on imports into the American colonies.

Beginning of the war between the English and the rajah of Mysore, Hyder
Ali.

Hargreaves invents the spinning-jenny for cotton-weaving.

1768. Elections in England; repeated expulsion and reëlection of Wilkes.

A military force stationed at Boston by the British; a circular-letter
of Massachusetts to the other American colonies.

Corsica, in revolt, is ceded by Genoa to France.

Cook sails on his first voyage around the world.

James Bruce sets out on his expedition to discover the sources of the
Nile.

Foundation of the Royal Academy, London; Sir Joshua Reynolds first
president.

1769. "WATT IMPROVES THE STEAM-ENGINE." See xiii, 302.

The _Letters of Junius_ begin to appear.

Patent issued in England to Richard Arkwright for his roller-spinning
"water-frame."

Daniel Boone migrates from North Carolina into Kentucky.

1770. Lord North's ministry succeeds that of Grafton in England; Burke
introduces resolutions condemning the course adopted in America.

Boston Massacre, March 5.

Military and naval successes of the Russians against Turkey.

1771. Parliament concedes the freedom of reporting its proceedings.

Battle of the Alamance; insurrection of the North Carolina Regulators.

Russia conquers the Crimea.

1772. "FIRST PARTITION OF POLAND." See xiii, 313.

Appointment of Warren Hastings as president of the Supreme Council of
Bengal.

A revenue cutter burned by the populace of Rhode Island while it was
attempting to suppress smuggling.

Lord Mansfield, in the case of the negro Somerset, decides that a slave
cannot be held in England.

The Watauga Association, from which grew the State of Tennessee,
founded.

1773. "THE BOSTON TEA PARTY." See xiii, 333.

A pseudo Peter III, Pugatcheff, raises a rebellion against Catharine II
of Russia.

1774. Passing by the British Parliament of the Boston Port Bill, closing
the port; meeting of the first Continental Congress at Philadelphia,
September 5th.

John Howard, the philanthropist, receives the thanks of Parliament for
his attention to the condition of prisons.

"COTTON MANUFACTURE DEVELOPED." See xiii, 341.

Oxygen discovered by Joseph Priestley, England.

1775. "INTELLECTUAL REVOLT OF GERMANY." See xiii, 347.

Outrages of the Whiteboys in Ireland.

Execution in Russia of Pugatcheff, pseudo Peter III.

Stereotype printing first attempted at Philadelphia by Benjamin Mecon,
Franklin's nephew.

FOOTNOTES:

[60] It should be remembered that the German empire of those days was
not the same as the German Empire of to-day. Austria was formerly the
paramount state.

END OF VOLUME XIII

*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Great Events by Famous Historians, Volume 13" ***

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