Chapter VII: Part 7

Now, it must be admitted that before the tribunal of the ordinary philosophy of the nineteenth century, these miracles would be put down either as inventions or as exaggerations. But let us examine the thoughts and the language of that age, and we shall take a more charitable, and, we believe, a more correct view. Men like Joinville did not distinguish between a general and a special providence, and few who have carefully examined the true import of words would blame him for that. Whatever happened to him and his friends, the smallest as well as the greatest events were taken alike as so many communications from God to man. Nothing could happen to any one of them unless God willed it. “God wills it,” they exclaimed, and put the cross on their breasts, and left house and home, and wife and children, to fight the infidels in the Holy Land. The King was ill and on the point of death, when he made a vow that if he recovered, he would undertake a crusade. In spite of the dangers which threatened him and his country, where every vassal was a rival, in spite of the despair of his excellent mother, the King fulfilled his vow, and risked not only his crown, but his life, without a complaint and without a regret. It may be that the prospect of Eastern booty, or even of an Eastern throne, had some part in exciting the pious zeal of the French chivalry. Yet if we read of Joinville, who was then a young and gay nobleman of twenty-four, with a young wife and a beautiful castle in Champagne, giving up everything, confessing his sins, making reparation, performing pilgrimages, and then starting for the East, there to endure for five years the most horrible hardships; when we read of his sailors singing a _Veni, Creator Spiritus_, before they hoisted their sails; when we see how every day, in the midst of pestilence and battle, the King and his Sénéchal and his knights say their prayers and perform their religious duties; how in every danger they commend themselves to God or to their saints; how for every blessing, for every escape from danger, they return thanks to Heaven,—we easily learn to understand how natural it was that such men should see miracles in every blessing vouchsafed to them, whether great or small, just as the Jews of old, in that sense the true people of God, saw miracles, saw the finger of God in every plague that visited their camp, and in every spring of water that saved them from destruction. When the Egyptians were throwing the Greek fire into the camp of the Crusaders, St. Louis raised himself in his bed at the report of every discharge of those murderous missiles, and, stretching forth his hands towards heaven, he said, crying, “Good Lord God, protect my people.” Joinville, after relating this, remarks, “And I believe truly that his prayers served us well in our need.” And was he not right in this belief, as right as the Israelites were when they saw Moses lifting up his heavy arms, and they prevailed against Amalek? Surely this belief was put to a hard test when a fearful plague broke out in the camp, when nearly the whole French army was massacred, when the King was taken prisoner, when the Queen, in childbed, had to make her old chamberlain swear that he would kill her at the first approach of the enemy, when the small remnant of that mighty French army had to purchase its return to France by a heavy ransom. Yet nothing could shake Joinville’s faith in the ever-ready help of our Lord, of the Virgin, and of the saints. “Be certain,” he writes, “that the Virgin helped us, and she would have helped us more if we had not offended her, her and her Son, as I said before.” Surely, with such faith, credulity ceases to be credulity. Where there is credulity without that living faith which sees the hand of God in everything, man’s indignation is rightly roused. That credulity leads to self-conceit, hypocrisy, and unbelief. But such was not the credulity of Joinville or of his King, or of the Bishop who comforted the great master in theology. A modern historian would not call the rescue of the drowning sailor, nor the favorable wind which brought the Crusaders to Cyprus, nor the opportune arrival of the Comte de Poitiers miracles, because the word “miracle” has a different sense with us from what it had during the Middle Ages, from what it had at the time of the Apostles, and from what it had at the time of Moses. Yet to the drowning sailor his rescue was miraculous; to the despairing King the arrival of his brother was a godsend; and to Joinville and his crew, who were in imminent danger of being carried off as slaves by Moorish pirates, the wind that brought them safe to Cyprus was more than a fortunate accident. Our language differs from the language of Joinville, yet in our heart of hearts we mean the same thing.

And nothing shows better the reality and healthiness of the religion of those brave knights than their cheerful and open countenance, their thorough enjoyment of all the good things of this life, their freedom in thought and speech. You never catch Joinville canting, or with an expression of blank solemnity. When his ship was surrounded by the galleys of the Sultan, and when they held a council as to whether they should surrender themselves to the Sultan’s fleet or to his army on shore, one of his servants objected to all surrender. “Let us all be killed,” he said to Joinville, “and then we shall all go straight to Paradise.” His advice, however, was not followed, because, as Joinville says, “we did not believe it.”

If we bear in mind that Joinville’s History was written after Louis has been raised to the rank of a saint, his way of speaking of the King, though always respectful, strikes us, nevertheless, as it must have struck his contemporaries, as sometimes very plain and familiar. It is well known that an attempt was actually made by the notorious Jesuit, le Père Hardouin, to prove Joinville’s work as spurious, or, at all events, as full of interpolations, inserted by the enemies of the Church. It was an attempt which thoroughly failed, and which was too dangerous to be repeated; but, on reading Joinville after reading the life and miracles of St. Louis, one can easily understand that the soldier’s account of the brave King was not quite palatable or welcome to the authors of the legends of the royal saint. At the time when the King’s bones had begun to work wretched miracles, the following story could hardly have sounded respectful: “When the King was at Acre,” Joinville writes, “some pilgrims on their way to Jerusalem wished to see him. Joinville went to the King, and said, ‘Sire, there is a crowd of people who have asked me to show them the royal saint, though _I_ have no wish as yet to kiss your bones.’ The King laughed loud, and asked me to bring the people.”

In the thick of the battle, in which Joinville received five wounds and his horse fifteen, and when death seemed almost certain, Joinville tells us that the good Count of Soissons rode up to him and chaffed him, saying, “Let those dogs loose, for, _par la quoife Dieu_,”—as he always used to swear,—“we shall still talk of this day in the rooms of our ladies.”

The Crusades and the Crusaders, though they are only five or six centuries removed from us, have assumed a kind of romantic character, which makes it very difficult even for the historian to feel towards them the same human interest which we feel for Cæsar or Pericles. Works like that of Joinville are most useful in dispelling that mist which the chroniclers of old and the romances of Walter Scott and others have raised round the heroes of these holy wars. St. Louis and his companions, as described by Joinville, not only in their glistening armor, but in their everyday attire, are brought nearer to us, become intelligible to us, and teach us lessons of humanity which we can learn from men only, and not from saints and heroes. Here lies the real value of real history. It makes us familiar with the thoughts of men who differ from us in manners and language, in thought and religion, and yet with whom we are able to sympathize, and from whom we are able to learn. It widens our minds and our hearts, and gives us that true knowledge of the world and of human nature in all its phases which but few can gain in the short span of their own life, and in the narrow sphere of their friends and enemies. We can hardly imagine a better book for boys to read or for men to ponder over; and we hope that M. de Wailly’s laudable efforts may be crowned with complete success, and that, whether in France or in England, no student of history will in future imagine that he knows the true spirit of the Crusades and the Crusaders who has not read once, and more than once, the original Memoirs of Joinville, as edited, translated, and explained by the eminent Keeper of the Imperial Library at Paris, M. Natalis de Wailly.

1866.

VIII. THE JOURNAL DES SAVANTS AND THE JOURNAL DE TRÉVOUX.(32)

For a hundred persons who, in this country, read the “Revue des Deux Mondes,” how many are there who read the “Journal des Savants?” In France the authority of that journal is indeed supreme; but its very title frightens the general public, and its blue cover is but seldom seen on the tables of the _salles de lecture_. And yet there is no French periodical so well suited to the tastes of the better class of readers in England. Its contributors are all members of the Institut de France; and, if we may measure the value of a periodical by the honor which it reflects on those who form its staff, no journal in France can vie with the “Journal des Savants.” At the present moment we find on its roll such names as Cousin, Flourens, Villemain, Mignet, Barthélemy Saint-Hilaire, Naudet, Prosper Mérimé, Littré, Vitet—names which, if now and then seen on the covers of the “Revue des Deux Mondes,” the “Revue Contemporaine,” or the “Revue Moderne,” confer an exceptional lustre on these fortnightly or monthly issues. The articles which are admitted into this select periodical may be deficient now and then in those outward charms of diction by which French readers like to be dazzled; but what in France is called _trop savant, trop lourd_, is frequently far more palatable than the highly spiced articles which are no doubt delightful to read, but which, like an excellent French dinner, make you almost doubt whether you have dined or not. If English journalists are bent on taking for their models the fortnightly or monthly contemporaries of France, the “Journal des Savants” might offer a much better chance of success than the more popular _revues_. We should be sorry indeed to see any periodical published under the superintendence of the “Ministre de l’Instruction Publique,” or of any other member of the Cabinet; but, apart from that, a literary tribunal like that formed by the members of the “Bureau du Journal des Savants” would certainly be a great benefit to literary criticism. The general tone that runs through their articles is impartial and dignified. Each writer seems to feel the responsibility which attaches to the bench from which he addresses the public, and we can of late years recall hardly any case where the dictum of “noblesse oblige” has been disregarded in this the most ancient among the purely literary journals of Europe.

The first number of the “Journal des Savants” was published more than two hundred years ago, on the 5th of January, 1655. It was the first small beginning in a branch of literature which has since assumed immense proportions. Voltaire speaks of it as “le père de tous les ouvrages de ce genre, dont l’Europe est aujourd’hui remplie.” It was published at first once a week, every Monday; and the responsible editor was M. de Sallo, who, in order to avoid the retaliations of sensitive authors, adopted the name of Le Sieur de Hedouville, the name, it is said, of his _valet de chambre_. The articles were short, and in many cases they only gave a description of the books, without any critical remarks. The Journal likewise gave an account of important discoveries in science and art, and of other events that might seem of interest to men of letters. Its success must have been considerable, if we may judge by the number of rival publications which soon sprang up in France and in other countries of Europe. In England, a philosophical journal on the same plan was started before the year was over. In Germany, the “Journal des Savants” was translated into Latin by F. Nitzschius in 1668, and before the end of the seventeenth century the “Giornale de’ Letterati” (1668), the “Bibliotheca Volante” (1677), the “Acta Eruditorum” (1682), the “Nouvelles de la République des Lettres” (1684), the “Bibliothèque Universelle et Historique” (1686), the “Histoire des Ouvrages des Savants” (1687), and the “Monatliche Unterredungen” (1689), had been launched in the principal countries of Europe. In the next century it was remarked of the journals published in Germany, “Plura dixeris pullulasse brevi tempore quam fungi nascuntur unâ nocte.”

Most of these journals were published by laymen, and represented the purely intellectual interests of society. It was but natural, therefore, that the clergy also should soon have endeavored to possess a journal of their own. The Jesuits, who at that time were the most active and influential order, were not slow to appreciate this new opportunity for directing public opinion, and they founded in 1701 their famous journal, the “Mémoires de Trévoux.” Famous indeed it might once be called, and yet at present how little is known of that collection! how seldom are its volumes called for in our public libraries! It was for a long time the rival of the “Journal des Savants.” Under the editorship of Le Père Berthier it fought bravely against Diderot, Voltaire, and other heralds of the French Revolution. It weathered even the fatal year of 1762, but, after changing its name, and moderating its pretensions, it ceased to appear in 1782. The long rows of its volumes are now piled up in our libraries likes rows of tombstones, which we pass by without even stopping to examine the names and titles of those who are buried in these vast catacombs of thought.

It was a happy idea that led the Père P. C. Sommervogel, himself a member of the order of the Jesuits, to examine the dusty volumes of the “Journal de Trévoux,” and to do for it the only thing that could be done to make it useful once more, at least to a certain degree, namely, to prepare a general index of the numerous subjects treated in its volumes, on the model of the great index, published in 1753, of the “Journal des Savants.” His work, published at Paris in 1865, consists of three volumes. The first gives an index of the original dissertations; the second and third, of the works criticised in the “Journal de Trévoux.” It is a work of much smaller pretensions than the index to the “Journal des Savants;” yet, such as it is, it is useful, and will amply suffice for the purposes of those few readers who have from time to time to consult the literary annals of the Jesuits in France.

The title of the “Mémoires de Trévoux” was taken from the town of Trévoux, the capital of the principality of Dombes, which Louis XIV. had conferred on the Duc de Maine, with all the privileges of a sovereign. Like Louis XIV., the young prince gloried in the title of a patron of art and science, but, as the pupil of Madame de Maintenon, he devoted himself even more zealously to the defense of religion. A printing-office was founded at Trévoux, and the Jesuits were invited to publish a new journal, “où l’on eût principalement en vûë la défense de la religion.” This was the “Journal de Trévoux,” published for the first time in February, 1701, under the title of “Mémoires pour l’Histoire des Sciences et des Beaux Arts, recueillis par l’ordre de Son Altesse Sérénissime, Monseigneur Prince Souverain de Dombes.” It was entirely and professedly in the hands of the Jesuits, and we find among its earliest contributors such names as Catrou, Tournemine, and Hardouin. The opportunities for collecting literary and other intelligence enjoyed by the members of that order were extraordinary. We doubt whether any paper, even in our days, has so many intelligent correspondents in every part of the world. If any astronomical observation was to be made in China or America, a Jesuit missionary was generally on the spot to make it. If geographical information was wanted, eye-witnesses could write from India or Africa to state what was the exact height of mountains or the real direction of rivers. The architectural monuments of the great nations of antiquity could easily be explored and described, and the literary treasures of India or China or Persia could be ransacked by men ready for any work that required devotion and perseverance, and that promised to throw additional splendor on the order of Loyola. No missionary society has ever understood how to utilize its resources in the interest of science like the Jesuits; and if our own missionaries may on many points take warning from the history of the Jesuits, on that one point at least they might do well to imitate their example.

Scientific interests, however, were by no means the chief motive of the Jesuits in founding their journal, and the controversial character began soon to preponderate in their articles. Protestant writers received but little mercy in the pages of the “Journal de Trévoux,” and the battle was soon raging in every country of Europe between the flying batteries of the Jesuits and the strongholds of Jansenism, of Protestantism, or of liberal thought in general. Le Clerc was attacked for his “Harmonia Evangelica;” Boileau even was censured for his “Epître sur l’Amour de Dieu.” But the old lion was too much for his reverend satirists. The following is a specimen of his reply:—

“Mes Révérends Pères en Dieu, Et mes confrères en Satire. Dans vos Escrits dans plus d’un lieu Je voy qu’à mes dépens vous affectés de rire; Mais ne craignés-vous point, que pour rire de Vous, Relisant Juvénal, refeuilletant Horace, Je ne ranime encor ma satirique audace? Grands Aristarques de Trévoux, N’allés point de nouveau faire courir aux armes, Un athlète tout prest à prendre son congé, Qui par vos traits malins au combat rengagé Peut encore aux Rieurs faire verser des larmes. Apprenés un mot de Régnier, Notre célèbre Devancier, _Corsaires attaquant Corsaires_ _No font pas_, dit-il, _leurs affaires_.”

Even stronger language than this became soon the fashion in journalistic warfare. In reply to an attack on the Marquis Orsi, the “Giornale de’ Letterati d’Italia” accused the “Journal de Trévoux” of _menzogna_ and _impostura_, and in Germany the “Acta Eruditorum Lipsiensium” poured out even more violent invectives against the Jesuitical critics. It is wonderful how well Latin seems to lend itself to the expression of angry abuse. Few modern writers have excelled the following tirade, either in Latin or in German:—

“Quæ mentis stupiditas! At si qua est, Jesuitarum est.... Res est
intoleranda, Trevoltianos Jesuitas, toties contusos, iniquissimum
in suis diariis tribunal erexisse, in eoque non ratione duce, sed
animi impotentia, non æquitatis legibus, sed præjudiciis, non
veritatis lance, sed affectus aut odi pondere, optimis
exquisitissimisque operibus detrahere, pessima ad cœlum usque
laudibus efferre: ignaris auctoribus, modo secum sentiant, aut
sibi faveant, ubique blandiri, doctissimos sibi non plane pleneque
deditos plus quam canino dente mordere.”

What has been said of other journals was said of the “Journal de Trévoux:”—

“Les auteurs de ce journal, qui a son mérite, sont constants à
louer tous les ouvrages de ceux qu’ils affectionnent, et pour
éviter une froide monotonie, ils exercent quelquefois la critique
sur les écrivans à qui rien ne les oblige de faire grâce.”

It took some time before authors became at all reconciled to these new tribunals of literary justice. Even a writer like Voltaire, who braved public opinion more than anybody, looked upon journals, and the influence which they soon gained in France and abroad, as a great evil. “Rien n’a plus nui à la littérature,” he writes, “plus répandu le mauvais goût, et plus confondu le vrai avec le faux.” Before the establishment of literary journals, a learned writer had indeed little to fear. For a few years, at all events, he was allowed to enjoy the reputation of having published a book; and this by itself was considered a great distinction by the world at large. Perhaps his book was never noticed at all, or, if it was, it was only criticised in one of those elaborate letters which the learned men of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries used to write to each other, which might be forwarded indeed to one or two other professors, but which never influenced public opinion. Only in extreme cases a book would be answered by another book, but this would necessarily require a long time; nor would it at all follow that those who had read and admired the original work would have an opportunity of consulting the volume that contained its refutation. This happy state of things came to an end after the year 1655. Since the invention of printing, no more important event had happened in the republic of letters than the introduction of a periodical literature. It was a complete revolution, differing from other revolutions only by the quickness with which the new power was recognized even by its fiercest opponents.

The power of journalism, however, soon found its proper level, and the history of its rise and progress, which has still to be written, teaches the same lesson as the history of political powers. Journals which defended private interests, or the interests of parties, whether religious, political, or literary, never gained that influence which was freely conceded to those who were willing to serve the public at large in pointing out real merit wherever it could be found, and in unmasking pretenders, to whatever rank they might belong. The once all-powerful organ of the Jesuits, the “Journal de Trèvoux,” has long ceased to exist, and even to be remembered; the “Journal des Savants” still holds, after more than two hundred years, that eminent position which was claimed for it by its founder, as the independent advocate of justice and truth.

1866.

IX. CHASOT.(33)

History is generally written _en face_. It reminds us occasionally of certain royal family pictures, where the centre is occupied by the king and queen, while their children are ranged on each side like organ-pipes, and the courtiers and ministers are grouped behind, according to their respective ranks. All the figures seem to stare at some imaginary spectator, who would require at least a hundred eyes to take in the whole of the assemblage. This place of the imaginary spectator falls generally to the lot of the historian, and of those who read great historical works; and perhaps this is inevitable. But it is refreshing for once to change this unsatisfactory position, and, instead of always looking straight in the faces of kings, and queens, and generals, and ministers, to catch, by a side-glance, a view of the times, as they appeared to men occupying a less central and less abstract position than that of the general historian. If we look at the Palace of Versailles from the terrace in front of the edifice, we are impressed with its broad magnificence, but we are soon tired, and all that is left in our memory is a vast expanse of windows, columns, statues, and wall. But let us retire to some of the _bosquets_ on each side of the main avenue, and take a diagonal view of the great mansion of Louis XIV., and though we lose part of the palace, the whole picture gains in color and life, and it brings before our mind the figure of the great monarch himself, so fond of concealing part of his majestic stateliness under the shadow of those very groves where we are sitting.

It was a happy thought of M. Kurd von Schlözer to try a similar experiment with Frederic the Great, and to show him to us, not as the great king, looking history in the face, but as seen near and behind another person, for whom the author has felt so much sympathy as to make him the central figure of a very pretty historical picture. This person is Chasot. Frederic used to say of him, _C’est le matador de ma jeunesse_,—a saying which is not found in Frederic’s works, but which is nevertheless authentic. One of the chief magistrates of the old Hanseatic town of Lübeck, Syndicus Curtius,—the father, we believe, of the two distinguished scholars, Ernst and Georg Curtius,—was at school with the two sons of Chasot, and he remembers these royal words, when they were repeated in all the drawing-rooms of the city where Chasot spent many years of his life. Frederic’s friendship for Chasot is well known, for there are two poems of the king addressed to this young favorite. They do not give a very high idea either of the poetical power of the monarch, or of the moral character of his friend; but they contain some manly and straightforward remarks, which make up for a great deal of shallow declamation. This young Chasot was a French nobleman, a fresh, chivalrous, buoyant nature,—adventurous, careless, extravagant, brave, full of romance, happy with the happy, and galloping through life like a true cavalry officer. He met Frederic in 1734. Louis XV. had taken up the cause of Stanislas Lesczynski, King of Poland, his father-in-law, and Chasot served in the French army which, under the Duke of Berwick, attacked Germany on the Rhine, in order to relieve Poland from the simultaneous pressure of Austria and Russia. He had the misfortune to kill a French officer in a duel, and was obliged to take refuge in the camp of the old Prince Eugène. Here the young Prince of Prussia soon discovered the brilliant parts of the French nobleman, and when his father, Frederic William I., no longer allowed him to serve under Eugène, he asked Chasot to follow him to Prussia. The years from 1735 to 1740 were happy years for the prince, though he, no doubt, would have preferred taking an active part in the campaign. He writes to his sister:—

“J’aurais répondu plus tôt, si je n’avais été très-affligé de ce
que le roi ne veut pas me permettre d’aller en campagne. Je le lui
ai demandé quatre fois, et lui ai rappelé la promesse qu’il m’en
avait faite; mais point de nouvelle; il m’a dit qu’il avait des
raisons très-cachées qui l’en empêchaient. Je le crois, car je
suis persuadé qu’il ne les sait pas lui-même.”

But, as he wished to be on good terms with his father, he stayed at home, and travelled about to inspect his future kingdom. “C’est un peu plus honnête qu’en Sibérie,” he writes, “mais pas de beaucoup.” Frederic, after his marriage, took up his abode in the Castle of Rheinsberg, near Neu-Ruppin, and it was here that he spent the happiest part of his existence. M. de Schlözer has described this period in the life of the king with great art; and he has pointed out how Frederic, while he seemed to live for nothing but pleasure,—shooting, dancing, music, and poetry,—was given at the same time to much more serious occupations,—reading and composing works on history, strategy, and philosophy, and maturing plans which, when the time of their execution came, seemed to spring from his head full-grown and full-armed. He writes to his sister, the Markgravine of Baireuth, in 1737:—

“Nous nous divertissons de rien, et n’avons aucun soin des choses
de la vie, qui la rendent désagréable et qui jettent du dégoût sur
les plaisirs. Nous faisons la tragédie et la comédie, nous avons
bal, mascarade, et musique à toute sauce. Voilà un abrégé de nos
amusements.”

And again, he writes to his friend Suhm, at Petersburg:—

“Nous allons représenter l’_Œdipe_ de Voltaire, dans lequel je
ferai le héros de théâtre; j’ai choisi le rôle de Philoctéte.”

A similar account of the royal household at Rheinsberg is given by Bielfeld:—

“C’est ainsi que les jours s’écoulent ici dans une tranquillité
assaisonneé de tous les plaisirs qui peuvent flatter une âme
raisonnable. Chère de roi, vin des dieux, musique des anges,
promenades délicieuses dans les jardins et dans les bois, parties
sur l’eau, culture des lettres et des beaux-arts, conversation
spirituelle, tout concourt à repandre dans ce palais enchanté des
charmes sur la vie.”

Frederic, however, was not a man to waste his time in mere pleasure. He shared in the revelries of his friends, but he was perhaps the only person at Rheinsberg who spent his evenings in reading Wolff’s “Metaphysics.” And here let us remark, that this German prince, in order to read that work, was obliged to have the German translated into French by his friend Suhm, the Saxon minister at Petersburg. Chasot, who had no very definite duties to perform at Rheinsberg, was commissioned to copy Suhm’s manuscript,—nay, he was nearly driven to despair when he had to copy it a second time, because Frederic’s monkey, Mimi, had set fire to the first copy. We have Frederic’s opinion on Wolff’s “Metaphysics,” in his “Works,” vol. i. p. 263:—

“Les universités prosperaient en même temps. Halle et Francfort
étaient fournies de savants professeurs: Thomasius, Gundling,
Ludewig, Wolff, et Stryke tenaient le premier rang pour la
célébrité et faisaient nombre de disciples. Wolff commenta
l’ingénieux système de Leibnitz sur les monades, et noya dans un
déluge de paroles, d’arguments, de corollaires, et de citations,
quelques problèmes que Leibnitz avait jetées peut-être comme une
amorce aux métaphysiciens. Le professeur de Halle écrivait
laborieusement nombre de volumes, qui, au lieu de pouvoir
instruire des hommes faits, servirent tout au plus de catéchisme
de didactique pour des enfants. Les monades ont mis aux prises les
métaphysiciens et les géomêtres d’Allemagne, et ils disputent
encore sur la divisibilité de la matière.”

In another place, however, he speaks of Wolff with greater respect, and acknowledges his influence in the German universities. Speaking of the reign of his father, he writes:—

“Mais la faveur et les brigues remplissaient les chaires de
professeurs dans les universités; les dévots, qui se mêlent de
tout, acquirent une part à la direction des universités; ils y
persécutaient le bon sens, et surtout la classe des philosophes:
Wolff fut exilé pour avoir dèduit avec un ordre admirable les
preuves sur l’existence de Dieu. La jeune noblesse qui se vouait
aux armes, crût déroger en étudiant, et comme l’esprit humain
donne toujours dans les excès, ils regardèrent l’ignorance comme
un titre de mérite, et le savoir comme une pédanterie absurde.”

During the same time, Frederic composed his “Refutation of Macchiavelli,” which was published in 1740, and read all over Europe; and besides the gay parties of the court, he organized the somewhat mysterious society of the _Ordre de Bayard_, of which his brothers, the Duke Ferdinand of Brunswick, the Duke Wilhelm of Brunswick-Bevern, Keyserling, Fouqué, and Chasot, were members. Their meetings had reference to serious political matters, though Frederic himself was never initiated by his father into the secrets of Prussian policy till almost on his death-bed. The king died in 1740, and Frederic was suddenly called away from his studies and pleasures at Rheinsberg, to govern a rising kingdom which was watched with jealousy by all its neighbors. He describes his state of mind, shortly before the death of his father, in the following words:—

“Vous pouvez bien juger que je suis assez tracassé dans la
situation où je me trouve. On me laisse peu de repos, mais
l’intérieur est tranquille, et je puis vous assurer que je n’ai
jamais été plus philosophe qu’en cette occasion-ci. Je regards
avec des yeux d’indifférence tout ce qui m’attend, sans désirer la
fortune ni la craindre, plein de compassion pour ceux qui
souffrent, d’estime pour les honnêtes gens, et de tendresse pour
mes amis.”

As soon, however as he had mastered his new position, the young king was again the patron of art, of science, of literature, and of social improvements of every kind. Voltaire had been invited to Berlin, to organize a French theatre, when suddenly the news of the death of Charles VI., the Emperor of Germany, arrived at Berlin. How well Frederic understood what was to follow, we learn from a letter to Voltaire:—

“Mon cher Voltaire,—L’événement le moins prévu du monde m’empêche,
pour cette fois, d’ouvrir mon âme à la vôtre comme d’ordinaire, et
de bavarder comme je le voudrais. L’empereur est mort. Cette mort
dérange toutes mes idées pacifiques, et je crois qu’il s’agira, au
mois de juin, plutôt de poudre à canon, de soldats, de tranchées,
que d’actrices, de ballets et de théâtre.”

He was suffering from fever, and he adds:—

“Je vais faire passer ma fièvre, car j’ai besoin de ma machine, et
il en faut tirer à présent tout le parti possible.”

Again he writes to Algarotti:—

“Une bagatelle comme est la mort de l’empereur ne demande pas de
grands mouvements. Tout était prévu, tout était arrangé. Ainsi il
ne s’agit que d’exécuter des desseins que j’ai roulés depuis long
temps dans ma tête.”

We need not enter into the history of the first Silesian war; but we see clearly from these expressions, that the occupation of Silesia, which the house of Brandenburg claimed by right, had formed part of the policy of Prussia long before the death of the emperor; and the peace of Breslau, in 1742, realized a plan which had probably been the subject of many debates at Rheinsberg. During this first war, Chasot obtained the most brilliant success. At Mollwitz, he saved the life of the king; and the following account of this exploit was given to M. de Schlözer by members of Chasot’s family: An Austrian cavalry officer, with some of his men, rode up close to the king. Chasot was near. “Where is the king?” the officer shouted; and Chasot, perceiving the imminent danger, sprang forward, declared himself to be the king, and sustained for some time single-handed the most violent combat with the Austrian soldiers. At last he was rescued by his men, but not without having received a severe wound across his forehead. The king thanked him, and Voltaire afterwards celebrated his bravery in the following lines:—

“Il me souvient encore de ce jour mémorable Où l’illustre Chasot, ce guerrier formidable, Sauva par sa valeur le plus grand de nos rois. O Prusse! élève un temple à ses fameux exploits.”

Chasot soon rose to the rank of major, and received large pecuniary rewards from the king. The brightest event, however, of his life was still to come; and this was the battle of Hohenfriedberg, in 1745. In spite of Frederic’s successes, his position before that engagement was extremely critical. Austria had concluded a treaty with England, Holland and Saxony against Prussia. France declined to assist Frederic, Russia threatened to take part against him. On the 19th of April, the king wrote to his minister:—

“La situation présente est aussi violente que désagréable. Mon
parti est tout pris. S’il s’agit de se battre, nous le ferons en
désespérés. Enfin, jamais crise n’a été plus grande que la mienne.
Il faut laisser au temps de débrouiller cette fusée, et au destin,
s’il y en a un, à décider de l’événement.”

And again:—

“J’ai jeté le bonnet pardessus les moulins; je me prépare à tous
les événements qui peuvent m’arriver. Que la fortune me soit
contraire ou favorable, cela ne m’abaissera ni m’enorgueillira; et
s’il faut périr, ce sera avec gloire et l’épée à la main.”

The decisive day arrived—“le jour le plus décisif de ma fortune.” The night before the battle, the king said to the French ambassador—“Les ennemis sont où je les voulais, et je les attaque demain;” and on the following day the battle of Hohenfriedberg was won. How Chasot distinguished himself, we may learn from Frederic’s own description:—

“Muse dis-moi, comment en ces moments Chasot brilla, faisant voler des têtes, De maints uhlans faisant de vrais squelettes, Et des hussards, devant lui s’echappant, Fandant les uns, les autres transperçant, Et, maniant sa flamberge tranchante, Mettait en fuite, et donnait l’épouvante Aux ennemis effarés et tremblants. Tel Jupiter est peint armé du foudre, Et tel Chasot réduit l’uhlan en poudre.”

In his account of the battle, the king wrote:—

“Action inouie dans l’histoire, et dont le succès est dû aux
Généraux Gessler et Schmettau, au Colonel Schwerin _et au brave
Major Chasot, dont la valeur et la conduite se sont fait connaître
dans trois batailles également_.”

And in his “Histoire de mon Temps,” he wrote:—

“Un fait aussi rare, aussi glorieux, mérite d’être écrit en
lettres d’or dans les fastes prussiens. Le Général Schwerin, _le
Major Chasot_ et beaucoup d’officiers s’y firent un nom immortel.”

How, then, is it that, in the later edition of Frederic’s “Histoire de mon Temps,” the name of Chasot is erased? How is it that, during the whole of the Seven Years’ War, Chasot is never mentioned? M. de Schlözer gives us a complete answer to this question, and we must say that Frederic did not behave well to the _matador de sa jeunesse_. Chasot had a duel with a Major Bronickowsky, in which his opponent was killed. So far as we can judge from the documents which M. de Schlözer has obtained from Chasot’s family, Chasot had been forced to fight; but the king believed that he had sought a quarrel with the Polish officer, and, though a court-martial found him not guilty, Frederic sent him to the fortress of Spandau. This was the first estrangement between Chasot and the king; and though after a time he was received again at court, the friendship between the king and the young nobleman who had saved his life had received a rude shock.

Chasot spent the next few years in garrison at Treptow; and, though he was regularly invited by Frederic to be present at the great festivities at Berlin, he seems to have been a more constant visitor at the small court of the Duchess of Strelitz, not far from his garrison, than at Potsdam. The king employed him on a diplomatic mission, and in this also Chasot was successful. But notwithstanding the continuance of this friendly intercourse, both parties felt chilled, and the least misunderstanding was sure to lead to a rupture. The king, jealous perhaps of Chasot’s frequent visits at Strelitz, and not satisfied with the drill of his regiment, expressed himself in strong terms about Chasot at a review in 1751. The latter asked for leave of absence in order to return to his country and recruit his health. He had received fourteen wounds in the Prussian service, and his application could not be refused. There was another cause of complaint, on which Chasot seems to have expressed himself freely. He imagined that Frederic had not rewarded his services with sufficient liberality. He expressed himself in the following words:—

“Je ne sais quel malheureux guignon poursuit le roi: mais ce
guignon se reproduit dans tout ce que sa majesté entrepend ou
ordonne. Toujours ses vues sont bonnes, ses plans sont sages,
réfléchis et justes; et toujours le succès est nul ou
très-imparfait, et pourquoi? Toujours pour la même cause! parce
qu’il manque un louis à l’exécution! un louis de plus, et tout
irait à merveille. Son guignon veut que partout il retienne ce
maudit louis; et tout se fait mal.”

How far this is just, we are unable to say. Chasot was reckless about money, and whatever the king might have allowed him, he would always have wanted one louis more. But on the other hand, Chasot was not the only person who complained of Frederic’s parsimony; and the French proverb, “On ne peut pas travailler pour le roi de Prusse,” probably owes its origin to the complaints of Frenchmen who flocked to Berlin at that time in great numbers, and returned home disappointed. Chasot went to France, where he was well received, and he soon sent an intimation to the king that he did not mean to return to Berlin. In 1752 his name was struck off the Prussian army-list. Frederic was offended, and the simultaneous loss of many friends, who either died or left his court, made him _de mauvaise humeur_. It is about this time that he writes to his sister:—

“J’étudie beaucoup, et cela me soulage réellement; mais lorsque
mon esprit fait des retours sur les temps passés, alors les plaies
du cœur se rouvrent et je regrette inutilement les pertes que j’ai
faites.”

Chasot, however, soon returned to Germany, and probably in order to be near the court of Strelitz, took up his abode in the old free town of Lübeck. He became a citizen of Lübeck in 1754, and in 1759 was made commander of its militia. Here his life seems to have been very agreeable, and he was treated with great consideration and liberality. Chasot was still young, as he was born in 1716, and he now thought of marriage. This he accomplished in the following manner. There was at that time an artist of some celebrity at Lübeck,—Stefano Torelli. He had a daughter whom he had left at Dresden to be educated, and whose portrait he carried about on his snuff-box. Chasot met him at dinner, saw the snuff-box, fell in love with the picture, and proposed to the father to marry his daughter Camilla. Camilla was sent for. She left Dresden, travelled through the country, which was then occupied by Prussian troops, met the king in his camp, received his protection, arrived safely at Lübeck, and in the same year was married to Chasot. Frederic was then in the thick of the Seven Years’ War, but Chasot, though he was again on friendly terms with the king, did not offer him his sword. He was too happy at Lübeck with his Camilla, and he made himself useful to the king by sending him recruits. One of the recruits he offered was his son, and in a letter, April 8, 1760, we see the king accepting this young recruit in the most gracious terms:—

“J’accepte volontiers, cher de Chasot, la recrue qui vous doit son
être, et je serai parrain de l’enfant qui vous naîtra, au cas que
ce soit un fils. Nous tuons les hommes, tandis que vous en
faites.”

It was a son, and Chasot writes:—

“Si ce garçon me ressemble, Sire, il n’aura pas une goutte de sang
dans ses veines qui ne soit à vous.”

M. de Schlözer, who is himself a native of Lübeck, has described the later years of Chasot’s life in that city with great warmth and truthfulness. The diplomatic relations of the town with Russia and Denmark were not without interest at that time, because Peter III., formerly Duke of Holstein, had declared war against Denmark in order to substantiate his claims to the Danish crown. Chasot had actually the pleasure of fortifying Lübeck, and carrying on preparations for war on a small scale, till Peter was dethroned by his wife, Catherine. All this is told in a very comprehensive and luminous style; and it is not without regret that we find ourselves in the last chapter, where M. de Schlözer describes the last meetings of Chasot and Frederic in 1779, 1784, and 1785. Frederic had lost nearly all his friends, and he was delighted to see the _matador de sa jeunesse_ once more. He writes:—

“Une chose qui n’est presque arrivée qu’à moi est que j’ai perdu
tous mes amis de cœur et mes anciennes connaissances; ce sont des
plaies dont le cœur saigne long-temps, que la philosophie apaise,
mais que sa main ne saurait guérir.”

How pleasant for the king to find at least one man with whom he could talk of the old days of Rheinsberg,—of Fräulein von Schack and Fräulein von Walmoden, of Cæsarion and Jordan, of Mimi and le Tourbillon! Chasot’s two sons entered the Prussian service, though, in the manner in which they are received, we find Frederic again acting more as king than as friend. Chasot in 1784 was still as lively as ever, whereas the king: was in bad health. The latter writes to his old friend, “Si nous ne nous revoyons bientôt, nous ne nous reverrons jamais;” and when Chasot had arrived, Frederic writes to Prince Heinrich, “Chasot est venu ici de Lübeck; il ne parle que de mangeaille, de vins de Champagne, du Rhin, de Madère, de Hongrie, et du faste de messieurs les marchands de la bourse de Lübeck.”

Such was the last meeting of these two knights of the _Ordre de Bayard_. The king died in 1786, without seeing the approach of the revolutionary storm which was soon to upset the throne of the Bourbons. Chasot died in 1797. He began to write his memoirs in 1789, and it is to some of their fragments, which had been preserved by his family, and were handed over to M. Kurd de Schlözer, that we owe this delightful little book. Frederic the Great used to complain that Germans could not write history:—

“Ce siècle ne produisit aucun bon historien. On chargea Teissier
d’écrire l’histoire de Brandebourg: il en fit le panégyrique.
Pufendorf écrivit la vie de Frédéric-Guillaume, et, pour ne rien
omettre, il n’oublia ni ses clercs de chancellerie, ni ses valets
de chambre dont il put recueillir les noms. Nos auteurs ont, ce me
semble, toujours péché, faute de discerner les choses essentielles
des accessoires, d’éclaircir les faits, de reserrer leur prose
traînante et excessivement sujette aux inversions, aux nombreuses
épithètes, et d’écrire en pédants plutôt qu’en hommes de génie.”

We believe that Frederic would not have said this of a work like that of M. de Schlözer; and as to Chasot, it is not too much to say that, after the days of Mollwitz and Hohenfriedberg, the day on which M. de Schlözer undertook to write his biography was perhaps the most fortunate for his fame.

1856.

X. SHAKESPEARE.(34)

The city of Frankfort, the birthplace of Goethe, sends her greeting to the city of Stratford-on-Avon, the birthplace of Shakespeare. The old free town of Frankfort, which, since the days of Frederick Barbarossa, has seen the Emperors of Germany crowned within her walls, might well at all times speak in the name of Germany. But to-day she sends her greeting, not as the proud mother of German Emperors, but as the prouder mother of the greatest among the poets of Germany; and it is from the very house in which Goethe lived, and which has since become the seat of “the Free German Institute for Science and Art,” that this message of the German admirers and lovers of Shakespeare has been sent, which I am asked to present to you, the Mayor and Council of Stratford-on-Avon.

When honor was to be done to the memory of Shakespeare, Germany could not be absent, for next to Goethe and Schiller there is no poet so truly loved by us, so thoroughly our own, as your Shakespeare. He is no stranger with us, no mere classic, like Homer, or Virgil, or Dante, or Corneille, whom we admire as we admire a marble statue. He has become one of ourselves, holding his own place in the history of our literature, applauded in our theatres, read in our cottages, studied, known, loved, “as far as sounds the German tongue.” There is many a student in Germany who has learned English solely in order to read Shakespeare in the original, and yet we possess a translation of Shakespeare with which few translations of any work can vie in any language. What we in Germany owe to Shakespeare must be read in the history of our literature. Goethe was proud to call himself a pupil of Shakespeare. I shall at this moment allude to one debt of gratitude only which Germany owes to the poet of Stratford-on-Avon. I do not speak of the poet only, and of his art, so perfect because so artless; I think of the man with his large, warm heart, with his sympathy for all that is genuine, unselfish, beautiful, and good; with his contempt for all that is petty, mean, vulgar, and false. It is from his plays that our young men in Germany form their first ideas of England and the English nation, and in admiring and loving him we have learned to admire and to love you who may proudly call him your own. And it is right that this should be so. As the height of the Alps is measured by Mont Blanc, let the greatness of England be measured by the greatness of Shakespeare. Great nations make great poets, great poets make great nations. Happy the nation that possesses a poet like Shakespeare. Happy the youth of England whose first ideas of this world in which they are to live are taken from his pages. The silent influence of Shakespeare’s poetry on millions of young hearts in England, in Germany, in all the world, shows the almost superhuman power of human genius. If we look at that small house, in a small street of a small town of a small island, and then think of the world-embracing, world-quickening, world-ennobling spirit that burst forth from that small garret, we have learned a lesson and carried off a blessing for which no pilgrimage would have been too long. Though the great festivals which in former days brought together people from all parts of Europe to worship at the shrine of Canterbury exist no more, let us hope, for the sake of England, more even than for the sake of Shakespeare, that this will not be the last Shakespeare festival in the annals of Stratford-on-Avon. In this cold and critical age of ours the power of worshipping, the art of admiring, the passion of loving what is great and good are fast dying out. May England never be ashamed to show to the world that she can love, that she can admire, that she can worship the greatest of her poets! May Shakespeare live on in the love of each generation that grows up in England! May the youth of England long continue to be nursed, to be fed, to be reproved and judged by his spirit! With that nation—that truly English, because truly Shakespearian nation—the German nation will always be united by the strongest sympathies; for, superadded to their common blood, their common religion, their common battles and victories, they will always have in Shakespeare a common teacher, a common benefactor, and a common friend.

_April, 1864._

XI. BACON IN GERMANY.(35)