Chapter XIII: Part 13

Genoa had offended the king by giving assistance to the Algerines. He seized, by a _lettre de cachet_, the Genoese ambassador, and plunging him into one of the dungeons of the Bastile, sent a fleet of fifty vessels to chastise those who had offended him, with terrible severity. On the 19th of May, 1684, the ships entered the harbor of Genoa, and immediately opened upon the city a terrific fire, so that in a few hours, a large portion of those marble edifices, which had given to the city the name of “Genoa the Superb,” were crumbled into powder. The city was threatened with total destruction, and in terror the authorities implored the clemency of the conqueror. Haughtily the _Grand Monarque_ demanded that the doge of Genoa, and four of his principal ministers, should repair to the palace of Versailles, and humbly implore his pardon. Utterly powerless, the doge was compelled to submit to these humiliating terms.

On the 15th of May, 1685, Louis ordered his throne to be placed at the end of the grand gallery, by the side of the “Salon of Peace.” The doge entered with four senators Genoa had sent to accompany him. He was dressed in red velvet, with a cap of the same. In order to preserve all the dignity his misfortune allowed him, the doge remained covered until he entered the presence of the king. The king allowed the princes to remain covered during the audience. The doge discharged his sad mission with a firmness that created astonishment. His bearing was more impressive than his discourse. A few days after he attended the levee, dined with the king, was shown the park and all the fountains, and was present at a ball given in the grand apartment. Afterwards he had his audience of leave-taking, and when one of the senators asked him what surprised him most at Versailles, he replied with an air of more chagrin than usual, “At seeing myself there.” The doge and senators did not stay long in France. They saw in haste the wonders shown them, and then returned to Genoa. Arrived at home, they talked over the things they had seen. One senator spoke of the dazzling spectacles, the vast apartments, the sumptuous ornaments; and said no mind was powerful enough to carry away the remembrance of all the riches of the palace, its paintings, its statues, its tapestry, its ceilings, its gold, and its marble. The doge replied, there was more than its exterior magnificence, and luxury of its interior; that the palace was the whole French monarchy. You read the origin of the monarchy in the chateau built by Louis XIII. The architects wished to pull it down; the king replied, that, if it would not last, they must take it down, but reconstruct it on its first plan. He wished the work of his father to remain, to contrast with the edifice he was going to erect. One part of the building only projects immensely in the long outline, that is where the master dwells. The king walks alone in the first rank, the courtiers follow, and support the train of the royal mantle. If you mount by the grand staircase, you find a suite of immense _salons_, covered with beautiful paintings. The Salon of Plenty, then Venus, then Diana, then Mars, then Mercury, and then Apollo. Of what use are they? The master does not inhabit them. But go on farther, pass through empty galleries, you will at length find his apartments. All this suite of magnificent _salons_, all these galleries, serve as an ante-chamber only to the place in which he dwells. Mars and Apollo, gods formerly, are nothing now but lackeys to the king of France.

In the year 1598, King Henry IV., feeling the need of the support of the Protestants to protect his kingdom from the perils by which it was surrounded, and having himself been educated a Protestant, had granted to the Protestants the world-renowned edict of Nantes. By this edict, Protestants were allowed liberty of conscience; were permitted, in certain designated places, to hold public worship; were declared to be eligible to offices of state, and in certain places, were allowed to publish books. Louis XIV. was a Catholic, a bigoted Catholic; hoping in some measure to atone for his sins, by his supreme devotion to the interests of the church, and while assuring the Protestant powers of Europe that he would continue to respect the edict of Nantes, he commenced issuing a series of ordinances in direct opposition to that contract. In 1680 he excluded Protestants from all public offices, whatsoever. A Protestant could not be employed as a physician, lawyer, apothecary, bookseller, printer, or even as a nurse.

In some parts of the kingdom, the Protestants composed nearly the entire population. Here it was impossible to enforce the atrocious decree. Riots and bloodshed followed. Affairs went from bad to worse, and on the 18th of October, 1685, the king, yielding to the wishes of his confessor and other high dignitaries of the Church, signed the _Revocation of the Edict of Nantes_. In this act of revocation, it was declared that, “the exercise of the Protestant worship should nowhere be tolerated in the realm of France. All Protestant pastors were ordered to leave the kingdom within fifteen days, under pain of being sent to the galleys. Parents were forbidden to instruct their children in the Protestant religion. Every child in the kingdom was to be baptized and educated by a Catholic priest. All Protestants who had left France, were ordered to return within four months, under penalty of confiscation of their possessions. Any Protestant man or woman who should attempt to emigrate, incurred the penalty of imprisonment for life.”

This infamous ordinance caused an amount of misery which can never be gauged, and inflicted upon the prosperity of France the most terrible blow it had ever received. Only one year after the revocation, Marshal Vauban wrote, “France has lost one hundred thousand inhabitants, sixty millions of coined money, nine thousand sailors, twelve thousand disciplined soldiers, six hundred officers, and her most flourishing manufactures.”

The Revocation of the Edict of Nantes was the great blot upon the reign of Louis XIV. From that hour the fortunes of the _Grand Monarque_ began manifestly to decline.

Louvois, minister of war, had for a long time been all-powerful at court. Through his influence, the king had been induced to revoke the Edict of Nantes, and to order the utter devastation of the Palatinate. But that influence was upon the wane. The king had become weary of his haughty assumptions, and the conflagration of the Palatinate had raised a cry of indignation that even he could not fail to hear. Treves had escaped the flames. Louvois solicited an order to burn it. The king refused. Louvois insolently gave the order himself, and entering the royal presence, exclaimed calmly, “Sire, I have commanded the burning of Treves, in order that I might spare your Majesty the pain of issuing such an edict.”

Louis was furious; and springing up, with flashing eyes, forgetful of all the restraints of etiquette, he seized the tongs from the fireplace, and would have broken the head of his minister, had not Madame de Maintenon rushed between them. The king despatched a messenger to countermand the order, and declared that if but a single house were burned, the head of the minister should be the forfeit. Treves was saved.

On one occasion, when Louis XIV. went to examine the progress of the building of the Trianon, accompanied by Louvois, he remarked that a particular window was out of proportion, and did not harmonize with the rest; but the minister, jealous of his dignity as controller of the royal works, would not admit the objection, but maintained that it was similar to the others.

The king desired Le Notre to declare his opinion as to the size of the disputed window. Le Notre, fearful of offending either the monarch or his minister, endeavored to give an evasive answer. Upon which, Louis commanded him to measure it carefully, and he was reluctantly compelled to obey. The result of the trial proved that the king was right, the window was too small; and the monarch had no sooner ascertained the fact, than he turned angrily to his minister, exclaiming, “M. Louvois, I am weary of your obstinacy. It is fortunate that I myself have superintended the work of building, or the façade would have been ruined.”

As this scene had taken place not only in the presence of the workmen, but of all the courtiers who followed the king upon his promenade, Louvois was stung to the quick; and on entering his own house, he exclaimed furiously, “I am lost if I do not find some occupation for a man who can interest himself in such trifles. There is nothing but a war which can divert him from his building, and war he shall have. I will soon make him abandon his trowel.”

He kept his word: and Europe was once more plunged into a general war, because a window had been made a few inches too narrow, and a king had convicted a minister of error.

In 1691, the French were besieging Mons. The haughty minister, unintimidated even by the menace of the tongs, ventured to countermand an order which the king had issued. The lowering brow of the monarch convinced him that his ministerial reign was soon to close. The health of the minister began rapidly to fail. A few subsequent interviews with the king satisfied him that his disgrace and ruin were decided upon; and about the middle of June, meeting the monarch in his council-chamber, although he was unusually complaisant, Louvois so thoroughly understood him, that he retired to his residence in utter despair. He ordered that his son, the Marquis de Barbesieux, might be requested to follow him to his chamber. In five minutes the summons was obeyed, but it was too late; for when the marquis entered the room, his father had already expired. Louvois had judged rightly, for the king had already drawn up the _lettre de cachet_ which was to consign him to the _oubliettes_ of the Bastile.

“Civil war was now also desolating unhappy France. The Protestants, bereft of their children, robbed of their property, driven from their homes, dragged to the gallows, plunged into dungeons, broken upon the wheel, hanged upon scaffolds, rose in several places in insurrectionary bands; and the man who was thus crushing beneath the iron heel of his armies the quivering hearts of the Palatinate, and who was drenching his own realms with tears and blood, was clothed in purple, and faring sumptuously, and reclining upon the silken sofas of Marly and Versailles.”

On the 1st of November, 1700, Charles II. of Spain died, having no heirs. Urged by the Pope, he left the throne to the children of the dauphin of France. As the duke de Bourgoyne was direct heir to the throne of France, the dauphin’s second son, the duke d’Anjou, was proclaimed king of Spain, under the title of Philip V. On the 14th of the month, Louis XIV. summoned the Spanish ambassador to an audience at Versailles. The king presented his grandson to the minister, saying, “This, sir, is the duke d’Anjou, whom you may salute as your king.” Then, contrary to his custom, he ordered the folding doors of his cabinet to be thrown back, and the crowd of courtiers assembled in the grand gallery poured into the apartment.

The Spanish ambassador dropped upon his knee before the young prince with expressions of profound homage; while the king, embracing the neck of his grandson with his left arm, and pointing to him with his right hand, presented him to the assembled court, exclaiming, “Gentlemen, this is the king of Spain. His birth calls him to the crown. The late king has recognized his right by his will. All the nation desires his succession, and has entreated it at my hands. It is the will of heaven, to which I conform with satisfaction.”

To his grandson he added, “Be a good Spaniard, but never forget that you were born a Frenchman. Carefully maintain the union of the two nations. Thus only can you render them both happy.”

Preparations were immediately made for the departure of the boy-king to take possession of the Spanish throne. The _Grand Monarque_ regarded it as a signal stroke of policy, and a great victory on his part, that notwithstanding the remonstrances of other nations, he had placed a French Bourbon prince upon the throne of Spain. He saw the domain of France extending far southward to the Straits of Gibraltar.

“Henceforth,” exclaimed Louis XIV., exultingly, “there are no more Pyrenees!”

Louis XIV. reigned everywhere,—over his people, over his age, often over Europe,—but nowhere did he reign so completely as over his court. Never were the wishes, the defects, and the vices of a man so completely a law to other men, as at the court of Louis XIV. during the whole period of his long life. When near to him in the palace at Versailles, men lived, hoped, trembled, everywhere else in France, even at Paris, men vegetated. The existence of the nobles was concentrated in the court about the person of the king; and so abject was their submission, that Louis XIV. looked on all sides for a great lord, and found about him only courtiers.

When the king learned that certain of the nobility affected to despise the plebian genius of the great dramatist, Molière, he invited the comedian to his table; and when at the _grande entrée_ the nobles thronged the apartment, he turned to them haughtily, exclaiming, “Gentlemen of the court, you see me breakfasting with Molière, whom my nobles do not consider worthy of their notice.” It was enough. From that moment the great dramatist found all the nobility of France at his feet.

Never did man give with better grace than Louis XIV., or augment so much in this way the price of his benefits. Never did man sell to better profit his words, even his smiles,—nay, his looks.

Never did disobliging words escape him; and if he had to blame, to reprimand, or correct, which was very rare, it was nearly always with goodness, never with anger or severity. Never was man so naturally polite, or of a politeness so measured, so graduated, so adapted, to person, time, and place. Towards women his politeness was without parallel. Never did he pass the humblest petticoat without raising his hat. For ladies he took his hat off completely, but to a greater or less extent; for titled people half off, holding it in his hand, or against his ear, some instants. He took it off for the princes of the blood as for the ladies. If he accosted ladies, he did not cover himself until he had quitted them. His reverences, more or less marked, but always light, were incomparable for their grace and manner. As, after the battle of Seneff, fought Aug. 11, 1674, against William of Orange, Monsieur le Prince, le Grand Condé, was walking slowly, from the effects of gout, up the grand staircase at Versailles, he exclaimed to the king, who awaited him upon the landing above, “Sire, I crave your majesty’s pardon, if I keep you waiting;” to which Louis replied, “Do not hurry, my cousin; no one could move more quickly who was so loaded with laurels as you are.” It was the language of the court; and again, when in May, 1706, Marshal Villeroi returned worsted at the battle of Ramillies, in his encounter with Marlborough and Prince Eugene, the _Grand Monarque_ gave utterance to one of those delicate remarks he knew so well how to make, and which sounded almost like a compliment: “Ah, Monsieur le Marshal,” exclaimed the king, when he presented himself at Versailles, “at our age one is no longer fortunate.”

“The king loved air and exercise very much, as long as he could make use of them. He had excelled at dancing, at tennis, and at mall. On horseback he was admirable, even at a late age. He liked to see everything done with grace and address. To acquit yourself well or ill before him was a merit or a fault. He was very fond of shooting, and there was not a better or more graceful shot than he. He was very fond, also, of stag-hunting, but in a _caléche_, since he broke his arm while hunting at Fontainebleau, immediately after the death of the Queen. He rode alone in a species of “box,” drawn by four little horses, and drove himself with an accuracy and address unknown to the best coachmen. He liked splendor, magnificence, and profusion in everything; you pleased him if you shone through the brilliancy of your houses, your clothes, your table, and your equipages. As for the king himself, nobody ever approached his magnificence.”

Old age had crept fast upon Louis XIV. For seventy-two years he had proudly sat upon the throne of his ancestors; but the time was near at hand when he must lay aside his sceptre and his crown. Still the more deeply he became conscious of his physical weakness, the more determined and extraordinary were his efforts to preserve intact the interests of the state.

Richard, in his war-tent on the bloody field of Bosworth, never contemplated a train of more appalling shadows than those evoked by the memory of Louis XIV., as he sat, supported by cushions and pillowed upon velvet, in his sumptuous apartment. Maria Theresa, the Queen; the grand-dauphin; his son, the duke de Bourgoyne; and last of all, the duke de Berri, the sole prop to that throne which must soon be empty, dead, all dead, save a frail infant,—such were the thoughts that crowded upon his last reveries; and well might the poor old man in his solitary moments bend down that proud head which had no longer strength to bear a crown, and laying aside the arrogance of those years in which he had assumed the bearing of a demi-god, confess to his own heart that he was but human.

On the third of May, 1715, the king rose at an early hour, to witness an eclipse of the sun. Strange coincidence that he, who had taken for his emblem a rising sun, should witness the eclipse of that brilliant orb, while he himself was sinking toward the grave. In the evening he retired early, complaining of extreme fatigue. The advanced age of the king and his many infirmities rendered even a slight indisposition alarming. The report spread rapidly that the king was dangerously sick. The foreign ambassadors promptly despatched the news to their respective courts,—a circumstance which soon reached the ears of the monarch, who, indignant at such indecent precipitancy, and to prove, not only to the court, but to all Europe, that he was still every inch a king, commanded that preparations should forthwith be commenced for a grand review of the household troops at Marly. On the twentieth of June this magnificent exhibition took place, when for the last time the troops of gendarmes and light-horse, in their splendid uniforms, defiled before the terrace of Marly; which they had no sooner done, than the monarch appeared at the principal entrance of the palace, habited in the costume of his earlier years; and, descending the marble steps, mounted his horse, and for four long hours sat proudly in his saddle, under the eyes of those foreign envoys who had announced his approaching death to their sovereigns. It was the expiring effort of his pride. During the whole of the last year of his life, it had been the study of Louis XIV. to deceive himself, and, above all, to deceive others, as to the extent of the physical debility induced by his great age. He rose at a late hour, in order to curtail the fatigues of the day; received his ministers, and even dined, in his bed; and once, having prevailed upon himself to leave it, passed several hours in succession in his cushioned chair. In vain his physician urged upon him the necessity of exercise, in order to counteract his tendency to revery and somnolency; the swollen state of his feet and ankles rendered it impossible for him to rise from his chair without severe pain, and he never attempted to do so until all his attendants had left the room, lest they should perceive the state of weakness to which he was reduced. Great, therefore, had been the effort we have described, when the monarch had for a time conquered the man, and where pride had supplied the place of strength. The only exercise which he ultimately consented to take was in the magnificent gardens of Versailles, where he was wheeled through the stately avenues, which he had himself planted, in a bath-chair; a prey to pain, which was visibly depicted upon his countenance, but which he supported with cold and silent dignity, too haughty to complain. The king grew daily worse. The disease was mortal, and he felt he was beyond the power of human aid. Bitterly Louis XIV. upon his death-bed expiated the faults and excesses of his past life. He wept over the profligacy of his youth, deplored the madness of his ambition, by which he had brought mourning into every corner of his kingdom. On the twenty-sixth of August, the king commanded all the great dignitaries and officers of the household to meet in his apartment, and addressed them in a firm voice, saying, “Gentlemen, I die in the faith and obedience of the Church. I desire your pardon for the bad example which I have set you. I have greatly to thank you for the manner in which you have served me, and request from you the same zeal and the same fidelity toward the dauphin. Farewell, gentlemen; I feel that this parting has affected not only myself, but you also. Forgive me. I trust that you will sometimes think of me when I am gone.”

How sad the scene! “The gray-haired king, half-sitting, half-lying, in his gorgeous bed, whose velvet hangings, looped back with their heavy ropes and tassels of gold, were the laborious offering of the pupils of St. Cyr; the groups of princes in their gorgeous costumes, dispersed over the vast apartment; the gilded cornices, the priceless, the tapestried hangings, the richly-carpeted floor, the waste of luxury on every side, the pride of man’s intellect and of man’s strength; and in the midst, decay and death, a palsied hand and a dimmed eye.” For a few moments there was unbroken silence. The king then requested his great-grandchild, who was to be his successor, to be brought to him. A cushion was placed at the bedside, and the little prince, clinging to the hand of his governess, knelt upon it. Louis XIV. gazed for a moment upon him with mingled anxiety and tenderness, and then said impressively, “My child, you are about to become a great king; do not imitate me, either in my taste for building, or in my love of war. Endeavor, on the contrary, to live in peace with the neighboring nations; render to God all that you owe him, and cause his name to be honored by your subjects. Strive to relieve the burdens of your people, in which I have been unfortunate enough to fail; and never forget the gratitude that you owe to Madame de Ventadour.”

Louis XV. caused these last words, addressed to him by his grandfather, to be inscribed on vellum, and attached to the head-cloth of his bed. Words to which his life for fifty years was but a hollow mockery. The following days were ones of agony to the expiring king. His intervals of consciousness were rare and brief. Mortification extended rapidly, and toward midday, on the 31st of August, his condition became so much exasperated that it was found necessary to perform the service for the dying without further delay. The mournful ceremony aroused him from his lethargy, and his voice was heard, audibly and clearly, mingled with those of the priests. At the termination of the prayers, he recognized the Cardinal de Rohan, and said calmly, “These are the last favors of the Church.” He then repeated several times, “_Nunc et in hora mortis_”; and finally he exclaimed, with earnest fervor, “O, my God, come to my aid, and hasten to help me!” He never spoke again; his head fell back upon the pillow, one long-drawn sigh, and all was over. The spirit of Louis XIV. had passed the earthly veil, and entered the vast unknown. An immense concourse had assembled in the marble court at Versailles, anticipating the announcement of his death. The moment he breathed his last, the captain of the body-guard approached the great balcony, threw open the massive windows, and, looking down upon the multitude below, raised his truncheon above his head, broke it in the centre, and, throwing the fragments down into the court-yard, he cried sadly, “The king is dead!” Then, instantly seizing another staff from the hands of an attendant, he waved it joyfully above his head, and shouted triumphantly, “Long live the king, Louis XV.!” And a multitudinous echo from the depths of the lately-deserted apartment answered as buoyantly, “Long live the king!”

Thus, on the 1st of September, 1715, in his palace, at Versailles, died “one of the world’s most powerful monarchs, Louis of Bourbon, Louis the Great, Louis the God-given, Louis the _Grand Monarque_, Louis the worn-out, unloving, and unloved old man, of magnificent Versailles.” And when Massillon, called to preach the funeral sermon of Louis XIV., as he looked upon the magnificent draperies and insignia of royalty around him, and thought of the title the deceased king had borne during his life, he began his discourse, with the simple and striking words, which amazed the pleasure-loving courtiers of Versailles, “God alone is great, my brothers.” And now, after two hundred years have rolled away, at this present time, in this nineteenth century, after the scaffold of Louis XVI., after the downfall of Napoleon, after the exile of Charles X., after the flight of Louis Philippe, after the French Revolution,—in a word, that is to say, after this renewal, complete, absolute, prodigious, of principles, opinions, situations, influences, and facts; standing upon the terrace of magnificent Versailles, and looking upon those scenes, where, for so many years, he was the central light and figure,—we bid a last adieu to Louis XIV., the _Grand Monarque_, greatest of all the Bourbons.

PETER THE GREAT.

A.D. 1672-1725.

“No true and permanent fame can be founded, except in labors
which promote the happiness of mankind.”
CHARLES SUMNER.

ONE thousand years ago, Russia was inhabited by disunited, Slavonic tribes, who were frequently at war with each other. Then Scandinavian tribes were called in, and the Russian nation grew from the two centres of Novgorod and Kíef. Christianity was introduced from Constantinople. Trade had been commenced with the west of Europe, when the whole country was over-run by the Mongols and Tartars, and the people were obliged to submit to their yoke. The country had been divided into various Russian states, which were not ruled directly by the Mongols, but became vassals. These states were each governed by its own prince, who were all subject to Tartary. One state after another was at length swallowed up by the Grand Duchy of Moscow, and the autocracy was established; which, after freeing Russia from the Mongol yoke, reached its highest development, under Iván the Terrible, in 1533. The death of Iván gave a blow to autocracy, and brought the nobility into power. In 1598, nearly the whole of the Russian people were reduced to serfdom, which was an institution then first legally established. Then came a period, called the Troublous Time, when pretender vied with pretender, and the son of the king of Poland was crowned Czar of Moscow. Finally, the Poles were turned out, and young Michael Románof was elected Czar. Then followed continual wars with Poland and Sweden. In the reign of Alexis, in 1645-76, an arbitrary government was formed. Henceforth, the Czar managed all matters, both great and small, according to his own will and pleasure. The Czar Alexis was of a gentle and amiable nature, and was called by his subjects, “The most Debonnair.” But his good qualities, in the end, rendered him one of the worst sovereigns of Russia; for he was entirely in the hands of wicked men, who, as his favorites, exercised all the power, and, in reality, governed the country.

Then arose the dissent in the Russian Church. The Patriarch, Nikon, undertook the correction of all the printed and manuscript copies of the liturgy; and by a decree of an Ecclesiastical Council, the corrected books were ordered to be the only ones used, and the command was given that all others should be destroyed. This measure excited the greatest hostility. It seems strange that passions should be roused, and people be found willing to suffer martyrdom, for such seemingly unimportant questions,—as to whether the name of Jesus should be pronounced, “Isus,” or “Yisus”; whether, in a certain portion of the morning service, the word “Hallelujah” should be repeated twice or thrice; and whether the sign of the cross should be made with the two fore-fingers extended, or with the fore-fingers and the thumb, as denoting the Trinity. But such was the case; and so great was the commotion, that arms were resorted to by the Court, at Moscow, to enforce these innovations; and some of the most obstinate opposers were even executed. In the east of Russia, the inhabitants of whole villages shut themselves up in their houses, and setting fire to them, perished in the flames, rather than accept a new, and what they called a diabolical, religion. The government was at length successful, however, and revised service-books were introduced into the churches.

At the present day, nearly one-half of the Russians belong in spirit, if not openly, to the Dissenters; and the reconciliation between them and the official church has only been accomplished by relaxing the rigor of the laws of persecution. During the reign of Alexis, the father of Peter the Great, much importance was attached to the length and fulness of the Czar’s title. An accidental omission of a single word or letter from this long and cumbrous official title was considered an act of personal disrespect to the prince, almost equal to high treason, and was punished far more severely than many terrible crimes. The shortest title of the Czar that could possibly be used, and which it was necessary to repeat every time that the Czar’s name was mentioned in document, petition, or discourse, was “The Great Lord Czar and Grand Duke Alexis Micháilovitch, of all Great and Little and White Russia Autocrat.” The complete title contained one hundred and twenty-three words, which we have not space to give. Alexis, having lost his first wife, in 1669, married for his second wife Natalia Narýshkin, who was a ward of Matvéief, the chief minister of the Czar. Their meeting was in this manner: One evening, when the Czar was at Matvéief’s house, the wife and pretty ward of the prime minister came into the room, bringing the usual refreshments of cups of _vodka_, the caviare, and smoked fish, which are eaten by the Russians before dinner or supper. The widowed Czar was struck by the pretty face of the tall, shapely, black-eyed girl, and, on going away, said to Matvéief that he would find a bridegroom for his pretty ward. It was the custom, when the Czar was in want of a bride, for all the Russian maidens, of suitable position and beauty, to assemble at the palace on a certain day, that a bride might be chosen from their number for the prince. Word was now sent to Natalia Narýshkin to appear with the other maidens, and it was soon reported that she was the chosen bride. The daughters of the Czar objected to so young a step-mother; but, in spite of opposition, both political and from his family, Alexis was married to Natalia, on the 1st of February, 1671. The Czar had several daughters of his first wife still living, and two sons, Theodore, who was very infirm and sickly, and John, or Iván, who was almost blind, and had a defect of speech, and was nearly an idiot. But his favorite child was Peter, the son of his second wife, Natalia, who was born June 9, 1672. The birth of Peter was hailed with great joy, and Alexis ordered a most splendid ceremonial in honor of the event. Then came the christening. The ceremony was performed at the Cathedral of the Annunciation; and the infant Peter was borne to the church in a cradle placed on wheels, while the priest most venerated for his sanctity sprinkled the path with holy water. The next day after the christening the feast occurred. The expense and account books, which have been preserved, show that on this occasion the tables were loaded with large pieces of sugar-work, representing eagles, swans, and other birds, larger than life; also representations of the Muscovite arms and a model of the Krémlin, the palace of the Czar, and also a large fortress with cannon. One of the first ceremonies after the birth of a Russian prince was what was called “taking his measure.” The measure of Peter was taken on the third day after his birth, and was performed in this manner: a board of either cypress or linden-wood was cut the exact length and breadth of the child, which in his case was nineteen and a quarter inches long and five and a quarter inches broad. Upon this board a picture, representing the Holy Trinity, together with the Apostle Peter, was painted by a famous artist. This birth-measure of Peter was carefully preserved, and now hangs over his tomb in the Cathedral of Saints Peter and Paul, in the fortress at St. Petersburg. A nurse and governess were then selected for the infant Peter; and he had a special staff of dwarfs who should be his companions and servants. The infant prince had his own apartments, some of which were hung with leather, stamped with silver, and others with fine red cloth; while the furniture was covered with crimson, embroidered with blue and yellow, and the walls and ceilings were decorated with paintings.

The curious books of accounts enumerate some of the articles ordered for him in the first years of his childhood. Among them were “cradles covered with gold-embroidered Turkish velvet; sheets and pillows of white silk; coverlets of gold and silver stuffs; coats, caps, stockings, and shoes of velvet, silk, and satin, embroidered with gold and pearls; buttons and tassels of pearls and emeralds; a chest for his clothes, covered with dark blue velvet, ornamented with mother-of-pearl; and a miniature carriage, drawn by ponies, in which he was taken out to drive. Among his toys were musical instruments of various kinds, and all sorts of military equipments.” Peter grew rapidly. He was able to walk when six months old. Being the pet of his parents, he accompanied them in all their excursions and visits. When he was three years of age, he was presented with a small carriage drawn by four ponies, in which he was driven by the court dwarfs, and he began to take part in the public processions of the court. One scene is thus described: “Immediately after the carriage of the Czar, there appeared from another gate of the palace the carriage of the Czarina. In front went the chamberlains with two hundred runners, after which twelve large snow-white horses, covered with silk housings, drew the Czarina. Then followed the small carriage of the youngest prince, all glittering with gold, drawn by four dwarf ponies. At the side of it rode four dwarfs on ponies, and another one behind.” The presentation of Peter at court is thus described:—

“The door on one side suddenly opened, and Peter, three years old, a curly-headed boy, was seen for a moment, holding his mother’s hand, and looking at the reception.”

At this time, there were a dozen princesses living at the palace,—the sisters and the aunts and the six daughters of the Czar Alexis. All were unmarried. They were forbidden to marry any below their own rank; and since the Tartar invasion, only two attempts had been made to marry a Russian princess to a foreigner. None of these princesses, except Sophia, who had shared the lessons of her brother Theodore, had more than the rudiments of an education. Most of the princesses were disposed of by placing them in convents. Natalia, the mother of Peter, having been brought up by a Scotchwoman, had seen more of society than the other royal ladies; and she was allowed a greater degree of freedom than had been vouchsafed to her predecessors, who had been rigidly secluded within their own apartments.

In 1676, the Czar Alexis died, and the throne descended to his eldest son, Theodore. It was the custom in Russia for the relations of the Czar’s wife to have great power at court; and when Theodore came to the throne, the Miloslávsky family, who were his mother’s relations, assumed great power, while the family of Peter’s mother, the Czarina Natalia, lost their influence for the time.

Both Theodore and Iván were feeble and sickly children, while Peter was strong and robust. But the law of descent was inexorable, and on the death of Alexis, Theodore became Czar. As he was only fourteen years of age, the administration of the government was left to the ministers of state. Now his sister, the Princess Sophia, who was very ambitious, formed schemes for getting the power into her own hands. She therefore so devoted herself to the care of Theodore, who was sick most of the time, that she gained complete ascendency over him; and she met all the courtiers, who came to visit the sick Czar, with such affable manners, and showed such intelligence, that she won a strong party of the nobles over to her support. There was in Russia, at this time, a very powerful body of troops, which had been organized by the emperors as an imperial guard. These troops were called the Streltsi. The Princess Sophia paid great attention to the officers of these guards, and thus gained their good-will. Theodore soon after died, and named Peter as his successor, passing over his brother Iván, as his many infirmities rendered it impossible for him to reign. It is probable that it was through the influence of some of the nobles who were opposed to Sophia, that Theodore was induced to name Peter as his successor. Peter, although but ten years of age, was proclaimed emperor by the nobles, immediately after Theodore’s death. Sophia now determined to resist the transfer of the supreme power to Peter. She secretly engaged the Streltsi, or guards, on her side. She caused a report to be spread, that the late emperor had been poisoned, and that the Narýshkins had murdered the Czarewitz Iván, and that the Narýshkins wished to kill all the royal family. Thus were the relations of the Czarina Natalia, the mother of Peter, accused of desiring the death of all the children of the first wife of Alexis, that Peter might gain the throne. Such was the falsehood that the Princess Sophia is said to have originated in order to secure the power. The cry then arose, “To arms! Punish the traitors! To the Krémlin! Save the Czar!” A general alarm was sounded. The Streltsi, fully armed, advanced from all sides towards the Krémlin, and surrounded the palace, demanding the Czarewitz Iván. The Czarina Natalia was advised to go out on the red staircase with the Czar Peter and the Czarewitz Iván, that the Streltsi might be convinced of the falsity of the rumor. Trembling with terror, Natalia took by the hand her son and stepson, and accompanied by the nobles, went out upon the red staircase. “Here is the Czar Peter and the Czarewitz Iván!” cried the nobles, to the mob below. “There are no traitors in the royal family!” The Streltsi placed ladders against the rails, and some of them climbed up to the platform where the little Czar stood. Peter looked at them without blanching, or showing any signs of fear. But even this did not quiet the disturbance, and the Streltsi burst into the palace. Natalia took Peter and fled for safety to the monastery of the Trinity. The soldiers pursued her even into the sanctuary, and to the foot of the altar; but there the sacredness of the spot arrested their vengeance, and they left their victims with sullen oaths. In the meantime, the commotion in the city continued for several days, and the brother of the Empress Natalia, and others of her friends, were slain. At last a compromise was effected, and it was agreed that Iván should be proclaimed Czar in conjunction with his brother Peter, and that the Princess Sophia should be regent. Sophia, knowing that Iván, the poor idiot, would be but a tool in her hands, endeavored in every way possible to prevent her half-brother Peter from becoming so intelligent and energetic that he would take the power away from her. She therefore caused his teacher to be dismissed, and commenced to carry out her plan to ruin the bright and talented boy, by taking away from him all restraint, and indulging him in every pleasure and whim. Peter was now established in a household of his own, at a palace in a small village some distance from Moscow, and Sophia selected fifty boys to live with him as playmates. These boys were provided with every possible means of indulgence, subject to little restraint. It was the intention of Sophia that they should do just as they chose, so that they would all grow up idle, vicious, and good-for-nothing; and she had also the hope that Peter might so impair his health as to bring him to an early grave.

But Peter had already been too well instructed, or possessed too much native good sense, to fall into this snare, and instead of giving up his studies, he even contrived to turn his companions into scholars also. He organized a kind of military school, where they practised the evolutions and discipline necessary in a camp. He caused himself to be taught to drum, so that he could execute all the signals used in camp and on the battle-field. He studied fortification, and set the boys to work with him to construct a battery in a regular and scientific manner. He learned the use of tools, and the wheelbarrow he used in making the fortification was one he made himself.

As he grew older, he continued to introduce higher branches of military art into the school, and he adopted the uniforms and equipments for the pupils, such as were used in the military schools of other nations of Europe. The result was, that when he was eighteen years of age, and the time came for him to leave the place, the institution had become a well-organized and well-appointed military school, and it continued in successful operation for a long time afterwards. So this wicked plan of the ambitious Sophia had completely failed. The energy and talent that Peter had displayed caused many of the leading nobles to attach themselves to his cause, by which means he was finally enabled to depose Sophia from her regency, and to take the power into his own hands. But before this took place, we must note a still more wicked and evil design of the ambitious princess.

The party of nobles who now espoused Peter’s cause thought it expedient that he should marry, and the councillors accordingly chose for his wife, Eudoxia Lopúkhin, a young lady of noble birth. The Princess Sophia did all in her power to prevent this match, but she was unsuccessful, and the marriage took place in February, 1689. It was thought that a good stay-at-home wife would be likely to keep him from taking his long excursions for military manœuvres, and for ship-building, of which he was so fond. But he had scarcely been married two months before he started off again for his boat-building on Lake Plestchéief. Here he immediately set to work with his carpenters to complete the boats, and he wrote to his mother as follows:—

“To my most beloved and, while bodily life endures, my dearest little mother, Lady Tsaritsa and Grand Duchess Natalia Kirílovna. Thy little son, now here at work. Petrúshka, I ask thy blessing, and desire to hear about thy health; and we, through thy prayers, are all well, and the lake is all got clear from the ice to-day, and all the boats, except the big ship, are finished, only we are waiting for ropes; and therefore I beg your kindness that these ropes, seven hundred fathoms long, be sent from the artillery department without delaying, for the work is waiting for them, and our sojourn here is being prolonged.”

And again he writes:—

“Hey! I wish to hear about thy health, and beg thy blessing. We are all well, and about the boats, I say again that they are mighty good, and Tíkhon Nikítitch will tell you about all this himself. Thy unworthy Petrus.”

Peter with his young wife resided in a country palace a few miles from Moscow. This place was called Obrogensko. Meanwhile, the Russian government had been engaged in the Crimean War.

The Poles, having become involved in a war with the Turks, proposed to the Russians, or Muscovites as they were often called, that they should aid them in an attempt to conquer the Crimea. In this war occurred the incident relating to the famous Mazeppa, whose frightful ride through the tangled thickets of a wild country, bound naked to an untamed horse, was so graphically described by the poet Byron. Mazeppa was a Polish gentleman, and having offended a Polish nobleman, he was thus cruelly punished by his enemy. Some Cossack peasants rescued the poor Mazeppa from his terrible position, and he afterwards became a chieftain amongst them. He distinguished himself in these campaigns in the Crimean war, fought by the Muscovites against the Turks and Tartars during the regency of the Princess Sophia. This war was not successful, and Prince Golítsyn, who led the Russian forces, was obliged to retreat; but fearing to have the state of the case known, he sent word to Moscow that he had been successful, and was received by Sophia upon his return with great honors. But the young Peter, who had been studying military tactics, was so displeased and disgusted with the military operations of Golítsyn that, when that general was received by Sophia at Moscow with great state, the rewards could not then be read, as Peter had refused to sign them. He, however, was afterwards persuaded to grant them. But this unfortunate campaign of Golítsyn’s was the turning point in the struggle between the aristocratic party which espoused the side of Peter, and the government of Sophia. Now there was formed a dark and wicked plot, and some historians accuse Sophia of being a party to it, if she did not even propose it. This was the assassination of the young Czar Peter.

The commander of the Streltsi selected a band of six hundred of the imperial guards to go with him to Obrogensko. Their plan was to seize Peter at night while in his bed. This plot was, however, frustrated by two of the soldiers who revealed it to Peter. He could not at first believe that Sophia would resort to such a terrible crime, and messengers were sent to the city to learn the truth of the matter. These messengers met the imperial guards when they had gone half-way to Moscow; and, concealing themselves by the wayside until the troops had passed, they hastened back by a shorter route to inform Peter of his impending danger. Peter had just time to flee with his wife and mother to the monastery of the Trinity, when the Streltsi reached his palace, and sought him in vain. They returned, discomfited and alarmed, to the Princess Sophia, and reported that Peter had escaped. From his retreat in the monastery, Peter sent a message to Sophia, charging her with having sent the imperial guards to take his life. The princess, greatly alarmed, denied her guilt. The excitement increased. The leading nobles flocked to the monastery to declare their adherence to Peter. Sophia endeavored to keep the Streltsi upon her side, but they at last went over to Peter, and he demanded that the leader of the band who attempted his assassination should be delivered into his hands. This Sophia was obliged to do; and the man was put to the torture, and revealed the plot. He said that the design had been to kill Peter himself, his mother, and several other near relations. The Princess Sophia was accused of being the originator of the plot, and many other persons were also implicated, including Prince Golítsyn, the commander of the Russian forces in the Crimean War. The leader of the band of guards who thus attempted the life of Peter was beheaded, Prince Golítsyn and his family were banished to Siberia, and many others implicated were put to death, imprisoned for life, or banished. Thus ended this conspiracy against the young Czar Peter. The Princess Sophia was shut up in a convent, where she was imprisoned for fifteen years, when she died. Iván, the brother-Czar with Peter, was too feeble and inefficient to take any part in the government, and he died about seven years after this time. The aristocratic party now filled the offices of state, and administered the government.