Chapter XV: Part 15

We have not space to give the pictures of the family broils in this unhappy household. Now the crabbed old man would snatch the plates from the table at dinner and fling them at the heads of his children, usually at hapless Wilhelmina or Fritz; then, angered at Wilhelmina because she refused to take whatever husband her cruel father might select, irrespective of her inclination or wishes, he shut the poor princess up in her apartment, and tried to starve her into submission; for, as she writes, “I was really dying of hunger, having nothing to eat but soup made with salt and water and a ragout of old bones, full of hairs and other dirt.” At last she yielded to her father’s demands; but then she incurred the anger of her mother, who had set her heart upon the match with the prince of Wales.

So the poor princess’ days were full of bitterness. But, fortunately, the prince of Baireuth, whom she married, turned out to be a kind husband; but as he was absent most of the time on regimental duty, and had but his small salary, and the old marquis of Baireuth, her husband’s father, was penurious, irascible, and an inebriate, she often suffered for the necessaries of life. The home of her step-parents was unendurable, and the home of her childhood was still more so. Unhappy princess! and yet, in the midst of all this misery, her bright and graphic letters form one of the greatest delights to students of history, and give true pictures of the home of Frederick the Great, which can be found nowhere else.

Fritz had now so seriously offended his father, that the king openly exposed him to contempt. He even flogged the prince with his rattan in the presence of others; and the young heir-apparent to the throne of Prussia, beautiful in person, high-spirited, and of superior genius, was treated by his father with studied insult, even in the presence of monarchs, of lords and ladies, of the highest dignitaries of Europe; and after raining blows upon his head, he exclaimed in diabolical wrath, as if desirous of goading his son to suicide: “Had I been so treated by my father, I would have blown my brains out. But this fellow has no honor. He takes all that comes.”

But at last Fritz decided not to take longer all that came, and so he prepared for flight. On the 15th of July, 1730, the king of Prussia set out with a small train, accompanied by Fritz, to take a journey to the Rhine. When near Augsburg, Fritz wrote to Lieutenant Katte, one of his profligate friends, stating that he should embrace the first opportunity to escape to the Hague; that there he should assume the name of the Count of Alberville. He wished Katte to join him there, and to bring with him the overcoat and the one thousand ducats which he had left in his hands. Just after midnight the prince stole out to meet his valet, who had been commanded to bring some horses to the village green. But as Keith, the valet, appeared with the horses, he was accosted by one of the king’s guard; and the prince, although disguised with a red overcoat, was recognized and forced to withdraw to his own quarters and give up the attempt for that time. The king was informed of these things, and now the poor prince was put in the care of three of the guard, and they were informed if the prince was allowed to escape, death would be their doom. Upon the king’s arrival at Wesel, he ordered his culprit son to be brought before him. A terrible scene ensued. As the king would give no assurance that his friends who had aided him should be pardoned, the crown prince evaded all attempts to extort from him confessions which would implicate them. “Why,” asked the king, furiously, “did you attempt to desert?”

“I wished to escape,” the prince boldly replied, “because you did not treat me like a son, but like an abject slave.”

“You are a cowardly deserter,” the father exclaimed, “devoid of all feelings of honor.”

“I have as much honor as you have,” the son replied; “and I have only done that which I have heard you say a hundred times you would have done yourself, had you been treated as I have been.”

The infuriated king was now beside himself with rage. He drew his sword and seemed upon the point of thrusting it through the heart of his son, when General Mosel threw himself before the king, exclaiming, “Sire, you may kill me, but spare your son.” The prince was then placed in a room where two sentries watched over him with fixed bayonets. As the prince had held the rank of colonel in the army, his unjust father declared he was a deserter, and merited death. Frederick William, whose brutal cruelty exceeds our powers of belief, then sent a courier with the following despatch to his wife:—

“I have arrested the rascal Fritz. I shall treat him as his crime and his cowardice merit. He has dishonored me and all my family. So great a wretch is no longer worthy to live.”

His Majesty is in a flaming rage. He arrests, punishes, and banishes where there is trace of co-operation with deserter Fritz and his schemes. It is dangerous to have spoken kindly to the crown prince, or even to have been spoken to by him. Doris Ritter, a young girl who was a good musician, and whom the unfortunate Fritz had presented with music and sometimes joined in her singing in the presence of the girl’s mother, is condemned to be publicly whipped through the streets by the beadle, and to be imprisoned for three years, forced to the hard labor of beating hemp. The excellent tutor of the crown prince is banished, the accusation against him being that he had introduced French literature to the prince, which had caused him to imbibe infidel notions. The wicked old king never seemed to think that his own brutal conduct might have influenced the prince to be indifferent to the religion which he hypocritically professed to believe, but so poorly practised.

Meanwhile the crown prince was conveyed from Wesel to the castle of Mittenwalde, where he was imprisoned in a room without furniture or bed. Here Grumkow, one of the king’s ministers, was sent to interrogate him. Though the cruel old minister threatened the rack of torture to force him to confess, Fritz had the nerve to reply:—

“A hangman, such as you, naturally takes pleasure in talking of his tools and of his trade, but on me they will produce no effect. I have owned everything, and almost regret to have done so. I ought not to degrade myself by answering the questions of a scoundrel such as you are.”

The next day the crown prince was sent to the fortress of Cüstrin, about seventy miles from Berlin.

“The strong, dungeon-like room in which he was incarcerated consisted of bare walls, without any furniture, the light being admitted by a single aperture so high that the prince could not look out of it. He was divested of his uniform, of his sword, of every mark of dignity. Coarse brown clothes of plainest cut were furnished him. His flute was taken from him, and he was deprived of all books but the Bible and a few devotional treatises. He was allowed a daily sum amounting to twelve cents for his food,—eight cents for his dinner and four for his supper. His food was purchased at a cook-shop near by and cut for him. He was not permitted the use of a knife. The door was opened three times a day for ventilation,—morning, noon, and night,—but not for more than four minutes each time. A single tallow candle was allowed him; but that was to be extinguished at seven o’clock in the evening.”

For long months this prince of nineteen was imprisoned in absolute solitude, awaiting the doom of his merciless father. But the savage king had reserved still greater torture for the unfortunate Fritz. By the order of the king, Fritz, who also had been condemned to die, was brought down into a lower room of the fortress, and there compelled to witness the execution of Lieutenant Katte, his friend, whom the king had condemned as guilty of high treason. As Fritz was led into the lower apartment of the fortress, the curtains which concealed the window were drawn back, and Fritz, to his horror, beheld the scaffold draped in black placed directly before the window. The frantic young prince was in an agony of despair, and exclaimed, with eyes full of tears, “In the name of God, I beg you to stop the execution till I write to the king! I am ready to renounce all my rights to the crown if he will pardon Katte.” But the attendants knew the iron will of the merciless monarch, and his cries and tears were unheeded. As the condemned was led by the window to ascend the scaffold, Fritz cried out to him, in tones of deepest anguish, “Pardon me, my dear Katte, pardon me! Oh, that this should be what I have done for you!”

“Death is sweet for a prince I love so well,” replied the heroic Katte with calm fortitude, and ascending the scaffold, the bloody execution was performed, while four grenadiers held Fritz with his face to the window so that he must perforce look upon the ghastly scene. But as Katte’s gory head rolled upon the scaffold, the prince fainted.

When the poor tortured prince regained his consciousness, his misery plunged him into a fever, and in his wild delirium he sought to take his life. When the fever abated, he sank into hopeless despair, looking forward to nothing but a like horrible death.

With strange inconsistency, the ferocious king, who could thus torture the body and mind of the prince, expressed the greatest anxiety for the salvation of his soul. It is not strange that the example of such a father staggered the faith of his son, and failing to see that the religion professed by his father was bigoted fanaticism instead of the religion of the pure and saving truths inculcated by a sinless Christ, the crown prince became in after-life an infidel.

In accordance with a promise made by the king that his life should be spared if he would acknowledge his guilt, which word was brought to the lonely captive by Chaplain Müller, the crown prince took an oath of submission to the king, and soon after wrote this letter to his father:—

“All-serenest and All-graciousest Father,—To your royal majesty, my all-graciousest father, I have, by my disobedience as their subject and soldier, not less than by my undutifulness as their son, given occasion to a just wrath and aversion against me. With the all-obedientest respect I submit myself wholly to the grace of my most all-gracious father, and beg him most all-graciously to pardon me, as it is not so much the withdrawal of my liberty in a sad arrest as my own thoughts of the fault I have committed that have brought me to reason, who, with all-obedientest respect and submission, continue till my end my all-graciousest king’s and father’s faithfully-obedient servant and son, Frederick.”

Though the prince had been brought by his terrors and sorrows to make such an humble appeal, his father’s anger was not entirely removed. The prince was still forced to dwell in the town of Cüstrin, in a house poorly furnished; and though allowed to wear his sword, his uniform was forbidden him. He was debarred all amusements, and was forbidden to read, write, or speak French, and was denied his flute, of which he was exceedingly fond. Three persons were appointed constantly to watch him. His only recreation was the order to attend the sittings of the Chamber of Counsellors in that district. At last, through the intercession of his sister Wilhelmina, the king consented to allow Fritz to come home.

In March, 1732, the crown prince was betrothed to Princess Elizabeth, the daughter of the duke of Bevern. The sufferings of this unhappy princess cannot now be related. The queen of Prussia received her with bitter hatred because this match would crush her cherished plans of marrying her son to Princess Amelia of England; and Fritz himself, forced to be betrothed against his will, treated her with utter neglect.

In June, 1733, the crown prince was married to Elizabeth, she being eighteen, and he twenty-one years of age.

Frederick I. of Prussia had reared a very magnificent palace in Berlin; and in spite of all his stinginess in his household, Frederick William added masses of silver to the ornamentation of this palace, for he prided himself on his army and his money, as giving him power and influence in Europe. He had stored away many barrels of money in the vaults of his palace, and as there do not seem to have been banking institutions in his realms in those days, he ordered vast quantities of silver to be wrought into chandeliers, mirror-frames, and balconies, which gave him a great reputation for wealth, and could at any time be converted into money. This hoarded wealth saved his son from ruin, when involved in after wars which exhausted his treasury.

The crown prince having married a niece of the emperor of Germany, and being also of age, his father lost much of his control over him. Frederick was now the rising sun, and his father the setting luminary. All the courts of Europe were anxious to gain the favor of the coming king of Prussia. The king allowed his son a petty income, but the crown prince borrowed large sums of money from the empress of Germany, from Russia, and from England, who were quite ready to supply his wants, being assured of payment when he should receive the throne. Fritz did not forget his sister Wilhelmina, but gave her money to relieve her wants. War now broke out between France and Germany, and Frederick William became an ally of the emperor.

The crown prince accompanied the king of Prussia to the siege of Philipsburg. The campaign continued for some time, but the prince saw little of active service. The king of Prussia being broken down in health by gout and intemperance, now became very ill, and was obliged to return home.

Though Frederick returned from this campaign neither socially nor morally improved, he had become very ambitious of high intellectual culture and of literary renown. He was now living at the village of Reinsburg, in a castle which the king had purchased and assigned to his son. He here gathered around him a number of scholarly men, and commenced and persevered in a severe course of study, devoting his mornings to his books, and the remainder of the day to recreation and music. The old king grumbled at his son’s studies and his recreations, but Frederick was now a full-grown man, whose heirship to the crown made him a power in Europe; and the snarling old king was confined to his room with dropsy and gout, growling away his last hours. The companions of Frederick’s hours of recreation were gay and profligate young men, who scoffed at religion and every virtue. No wonder that with such godless companions, and with such an inconsistent and irreligious example in his father, even while professing the most fanatical devotion to the church and religion, the mind of the talented young prince should have been turned into the wandering wilds of unbelief. Voltaire was at this time about forty years of age. His renown as a man of genius already filled Europe. Frederick became an ardent admirer of Voltaire, and a correspondence was commenced between them.

But now the grim old king of Prussia is forced to meet a still grimmer antagonist, who will not take “no” for an answer. He has fought the world, fought all human affections, fought all feelings of humanity, fought every good spirit within his heart except a brutal fanaticism, which he ignorantly and superstitiously called religion; fought gout, dropsy, and manifold complaints of the flesh; fought his wife, fought his children, tried to fight the devil, but ended in being his slave; but he cannot fight grim Death, which now clutches him in his ghastly grasp. But not to be outdone, even by _this enemy_, while the death-gurgle was even rattling in his throat, he solemnly _abdicated_ in favor of his son Frederick, and with his fingers trembling with the chill of the grave, he signed the deed, and falling back, expired. So the obstinate old king was determined that _his will_, not _death_, should hand over the crown of Prussia, which he could no longer clutch with his own cruel hands.

Voltaire said of his reign, “It must be owned Turkey is a republic in comparison to the despotism exercised by Frederick William.”

Frederick the Great was twenty-eight years of age when he became king of Prussia. He was very handsome and of graceful presence. In rapid succession the young king announced certain sentiments which were so amazing in the eyes of the rulers of that age as to be considered phenomena. The day after his accession to the throne he summoned his ministers and declared, “Our grand care will be to further the country’s well-being, and to make every one of our subjects contented and happy.”

Strange ideas! when all sovereigns had hitherto thought only of their own contentment. Next, he abolished the use of _torture_ in criminal trials. More wonderful still, the world said. Soon he issued this marvellous edict, which struck consternation in the midst of the upholders of bigotry and fanatical superstition:—

“All religions must be tolerated, and the king’s solicitor must have an eye that none of them make unjust encroachments on the other; for in this country every man must get to heaven his own way.”

Europe was electrified, priests trembled, bigotry and religious persecution hung their heads and slunk away. But more surprises! “The press is free!” thundered forth this powerful young Frederick the Great; and all these phenomena accomplished in the first year of his reign. No wonder Europe turned their eyes to the rising monarch. Sad pity that he did not continue in this line of action, bringing blessings instead of woes upon mankind. But the angel of wise reform was soon driven from his heart and mind by the subtle and poisonous demon of selfish ambition.

The young king soon abolished the Giant Guards. He no longer coveted fine clothes, no longer indulged in the luxury of slippers and French dressing-gown, which had raised the ire of his ease-hating father. His hours were rigidly counted, and various duties assigned them, in regular routine.

Though he treated his nominal wife, Queen Elizabeth, politely in company, he utterly neglected her in his domestic life, and in later years rarely ever addressed a word to her.

On the south-west frontier of Prussia was an Austrian realm, Silesia. For more than a century it had been a portion of the Austrian kingdom. Maria Theresa had inherited the crown of Austria. Frederick, wishing to enlarge his own domains, determined to invade Silesia. History has severely condemned this unprovoked invasion. In January, 1741, the Prussian army were encamped before Neisse. On Sunday morning, Jan. 15, the deadly fire of shot and shell was opened upon the crowded city, where women and children, wounded and bleeding, ran to and fro, frantic with terror. For five days the deadly missiles rained down upon the city almost without intermission.

Not wishing entirely to destroy the city, Frederick then converted the siege into a blockade, and leaving his troops before the place, returned to Berlin. Frederick, in this six weeks’ campaign, had let loose the dogs of war, and he must now meet the consequences. The chivalry of Europe were in sympathy with the young and beautiful Austrian queen. Every court in Europe was aware of the fact that it was owing to the intervention of the father of Maria Theresa that the life of Frederick was spared, and that he was rescued from the scaffold, when the exasperated and ferocious Frederick William had condemned his own son to death. France had no fear of Prussia, but France did fear the supremacy of Austria over Europe; therefore, France was leaning towards the side of Frederick. England was the foe of France, therefore England sympathized with Austria. The puerile king of England, George II., hated his nephew, Frederick of Prussia, which hatred Frederick vigorously returned. Spain was at war with England and ready for alliance with her foes. The father of the infant czar of Russia was the brother of Frederick’s neglected wife Elizabeth. Russia had not yet displayed her partisanship to either side. Minor powers might be constrained by terror or led by bribes.

Meanwhile the heroic Maria Theresa was resolved not to part with one inch of her territory, and the patriotism of the Austrian court, inspired by her, determined them to seek to drive the Prussians out of Silesia. A rumor comes that England, Poland, and Russia are contemplating invasion of the Prussian realms. Frederick immediately despatched a force to Hanover to seize upon that continental possession of the king of England upon the slightest indication of hostility. This menace alarmed George II. Young Prince Leopold had assaulted and captured Glogau from the Austrians, which Frederick considered an important achievement, and sent Prince Leopold a present of ten thousand dollars.

Frederick next proceeded to push the siege of Neisse, but upon nearing that place, he found that General Neipperg, with a large force of Austrians, were coming against him. The siege of Neisse was abandoned, and the entire Prussian army gathered around the king. The night before the contemplated battle, Frederick wrote to his brother, Augustus William,—who, as Frederick had no children, was heir to the throne and crown prince of Prussia,—informing him of his danger, of the coming battle, and bidding farewell to himself and his mother in case of his death. No word of affectionate remembrance was sent to his neglected wife.

On the morrow, which was Sunday, a snow-storm raged so furiously that neither army could move. On Monday the battle began. The Prussians advanced boldly with waving banners and martial music, and valiantly charged the enemy. But the Austrians returned the charge with such fury that the Prussian right wing, where Frederick himself commanded, was routed and put to flight. Frederick, struck with terror, lost his presence of mind, and ingloriously fled with the rest. As with his little band of fugitives he rushed into the gloom of night, he exclaimed in despair, “O my God, my God, this is too much!”

But as the crestfallen king waits under the shelter of a mill, a courier rides up and cries, _“The Prussian army has gained the victory!”_ Thus the Prussian king had been galloping from the battle-field in fear and terror, while his valiant troops were achieving the victory. This incident caused unlimited merriment amongst the sarcastic foes of Frederick, and he himself was never known to allude to this humiliating adventure. The picture of the heroic and intrepid Maria Theresa encouraging her troops to patriotism and valor in the very face of her foes, and that of the terror-stricken Frederick rushing from the field of battle, do not form a comparison very flattering to the bravery of the young Prussian king. But as some actors on the stage who have had the worst stage-frights have afterwards made the most brilliant stars, so the ignominious flight of the king did not prevent him from becoming one of the greatest generals of the world. Gradually the secret alliance of France, Bavaria, and Prussia was made known. Under the threatening danger which menaced ruin, Maria Theresa, urged by her council and by the English court, consented to propose terms of compromise to Frederick. To the English ministers, sent from Vienna to offer a million dollars to the Prussian king if he would consent to relinquish this enterprise and retire from Silesia, Frederick answered: “Retire from Silesia, and for money? Do you take me for a beggar? Retire from Silesia in the conquest of which I have expended so much blood and treasure! No, sir, no! I am at the head of an army which has already vanquished the enemy, and which is ready to meet the enemy again. The country which alone I desire is already conquered and securely held. If the queen do not now grant me all I require, I shall in four weeks demand four principalities more. I now demand the whole of Lower Silesia, Breslau included. With that answer you can return to Vienna.”

These tidings caused consternation in the Austrian council. Again the high-spirited queen was forced by her circumstances and influenced by her council and England to accede to the compromise, and she agreed to surrender the whole of Lower Silesia to Frederick. But when such word was brought to the Prussian camp, the king replied, “I will not see the minister; the time has past. I will not now listen to a compromise.” Now followed a dark and deceitful manœuvre on the part of Frederick, which even the stratagems of war cannot warrant. He entered into secret negotiations with Austria that if Silesia was delivered to him, he would form an alliance with them against the French, whose armies were already joined with his own; at the same time apparently keeping faith with the French, but promising to betray them to the Austrians, meanwhile stating that he must keep up sham attacks to deceive the French.

Frederick now invested Neisse, and pretending a sham attack, he really so vigorously assaulted it that it surrendered, and having thus obtained the last fortress in Silesia, he caused himself to be crowned sovereign duke of Lower Silesia, and returned to Berlin in triumph.

Having by this stratagem obtained Silesia, he assured the French of his unchanging fidelity, and denied that he had ever entered into any arrangements with Austria. In commencing this war he had said, “Ambition, interest, and the desire to make the world speak of me vanquished all, and war was determined on.” He had indeed made the world speak of him. All Europe spoke of him. Some extolled him, others denounced his amazing perfidy. Admiration for his sagacity and fear of his power made many courts of Europe seek his alliance. Carlyle thus comments on these events:—

“Of the political morality of this game of fast-and-loose, what have we to say, except that the dice on both sides seem to be loaded; that logic might be chopped upon it forever; that a candid mind will settle what degree of wisdom (which is always essential veracity) and what of folly (which is always falsity) there was in Frederick and the others; and, in fine, it will have to be granted that you cannot work in pitch and keep hands evidently clean. Frederick has got into the enchanted wilderness populous with devils and their work. Alas! it will be long before he get out of it again; his life waning toward night before he get victoriously out.”

This selfish rapacity of the Prussian king set the example to others. The whole world sprang to arms. Macaulay says: “On the head of Frederick is all the blood which was shed in a war which raged during many years, and in every quarter of the globe,—the blood of the column of Fontenoy, the blood of the brave mountaineers who were slaughtered at Culloden. The evils produced by this wickedness were felt in lands where the name of Prussia was unknown. In order that he might rob a neighbor whom he had promised to defend, black men fought on the coast of Coromandel, and red men scalped each other by the great lakes of North America.”

In the winter of 1742 Frederick was engaged in a campaign to deliver Moravia, which was overrun by the Austrians. But in this he was not successful. On the morning of the 17th of May, 1742, Frederick again faced the Austrians at the battle of Chotusitz. In this famous battle Frederick was victorious, and the Austrians, under Prince Charles, were obliged to retreat. It required nine acres of ground to bury the dead after this bloody conflict.

Frederick did not pursue the Austrians after this victory, and on the 11th of June the treaty of Breslau was signed. By this treaty Silesia was ceded to Frederick, and he agreed to withdraw from the French alliance and enter into friendly relations with Maria Theresa. In 1744, however, Maria Theresa, having been joined by England, had been achieving so many victories on the field, that Frederick, deciding that she was gathering her forces to reconquer Silesia, again entered into an alliance with France and took the field against the Austrians. But in this campaign Frederick himself narrowly escaped being taken prisoner, and returned a defeated monarch, leaving a shattered army behind him. He had already exhausted nearly all the resources which his father had accumulated. Already the sumptuous chandeliers and silver balconies had been melted up. His disastrous Bohemian campaign had cost him three hundred and fifty thousand dollars a month. The least sum with which he could commence a new campaign for the protection of Silesia was four million five hundred thousand dollars. In spite of these apparently insurmountable difficulties, the administrative genius of Frederick made a way by which he succeeded in raising another army. On the 4th of June, 1745, the battle of Hohenfriedberg was fought, by which victory Frederick escaped utter destruction, and the Austrians were forced sullenly to retire. All Europe was now in war, caused by the personal ambition of one man, who did not pretend that it involved any question of human rights. Frederick had openly avowed that he drew his sword and led his hundred thousand soldiers to death and destruction that he might enlarge his territories and achieve renown. All the nations of Europe wished to borrow. None but England had money to lend, and England was fighting Frederick, and supplying his foes with aid and money. Frederick realized that Maria Theresa, whom he had despised as a woman, was fully his equal in ability to raise and direct armies and in diplomatic intrigue. Berlin was almost defenceless. All Saxony was rising behind Frederick. In this hour of peril, with an army of twenty-six thousand men, Frederick was obliged to meet his foes at Sohr. Defeat to Frederick would have been utter ruin; but the brave determination of the Prussian king animated his troops with desperate valor to conquer or die. And conquer they did, and the victory of Frederick was complete.

On the 25th of December, 1745, the peace of Dresden was signed. The demands of Frederick were acceded to. Augustus III. of Saxony, Maria Theresa of Austria, and George II. of England became parties to the treaty. Frederick now entered upon a period of ten years of peace. The Prussian king now constructed for himself a beautiful villa, on a pleasant hilltop near Potsdam, which he called _Sans Souci_, which Carlyle quaintly translates “No Bother.” He had three other palaces, far surpassing Sans Souci in magnificence,—Charlottenburg, at Berlin, the new palace at Potsdam, and his palace at Reinsberg.

Voltaire made a long visit to the Prussian king. Frederick had been for many years greatly fascinated with that talented writer, but gradually Voltaire lost favor with the king. Frederick prided himself upon his literary abilities, and at first Voltaire flattered him; but on one occasion, when the king had sent him a manuscript to revise, he sarcastically exclaimed to the royal messenger, “When will his Majesty be done with sending me his dirty linen to wash?”

This speech was repeated to the king. Frederick did not lose his revenge. Voltaire had been made chamberlain. His duties were to give an hour a day to the Prussian king, and, as Voltaire said, “to touch up a bit his works in prose and verse.”

But Voltaire used his sarcastic pen against the king, and especially against the president of the academy founded by the king at Berlin. A bitter pamphlet, entitled _La Diatribe du Docteur Akakia_, appeared, and the satire was so scathing that the Prussian king ordered all copies to be burned. Voltaire, though allowing the whole edition to be destroyed before his eyes, managed to send a copy to some safe place, where it was again published, and arrived at Berlin by post from Dresden. People fought for the pamphlet. Everybody laughed; the satire was spread over all Europe. Frederick was enraged, and Voltaire thought it safe to leave Prussia. The king had previously presented him with a copy of his own poems, and fearing that Voltaire had him now in his power—as this volume contained some very wicked and licentious burlesques, in which Frederick had scoffed at everything and everybody—he ordered Voltaire to be arrested at Frankfort, and the book of poems recovered. Either by Frederick’s malice or the stupidity of his agent, Freytag, Voltaire and his friends were subjected to an imprisonment for twelve days in a miserable hostelry. The intimacy between Frederick and Voltaire was thus destroyed, and a lasting friendship made impossible.

In 1756 Frederick invaded Saxony. Thus was commenced the Seven Years’ War, which proved to be one of the most bloody and cruel strifes ever waged. It gave Frederick the renown of being one of the ablest generals of the world. In 1757 France, Russia, Austria, Poland, and Sweden were combined against Frederick. The entire force of the Prussian king did not exceed eighty thousand men. There were marching against him combined armies amounting to four hundred thousand men. On the battle-field of Leuthen Frederick met and conquered his foes.

But still, peace was out of the question without further fighting. England, at last alarmed at the growing power of France, came to the aid of Frederick. But France, Austria, Sweden, and Russia prepared for a campaign against him.

On Aug. 25, 1758, occurred the bloody battle of Zorndorf, between the Russians and the Prussians. It was an awful massacre. The stolid Russians refused to fly. The Prussians sabred them and trampled them beneath their horses’ feet. It is considered the most bloody battle of the Seven Years’ War, and some claim it was the most furious ever fought. Frederick was again victorious. But in October, 1758, on the field of Hochkirch, Frederick was defeated by the Austrians. Just after the dreadful defeat came the tidings of the death of his sister Wilhelmina. Thus ended the third campaign in clouds and darkness for the Prussian king.

The destinies of Europe were now held in the hands of three women: Maria Theresa, who by common consent had good cause for war, and was fighting in self-defence; Madame de Pompadour, who, virtually sovereign of France, by reason of her supreme control of the infamous Louis XV., as Frederick had stung her by some insult, did not hesitate to deluge Europe in blood; and Catherine II., empress of Russia, who was also Frederick’s foe on account of personal pique.

Frederick himself was undeniably an unscrupulous aggressor, and some call him “a highway robber.”

The cause of Maria Theresa alone could have been called honorable. In the fourth campaign of 1759 the terrible battle of Kunersdorf was fought in August. At first the Prussians were victorious, but the Russians at length routed them with fearful loss. So great was the despair of Frederick that it is said he contemplated suicide.

For a year the struggle continued. The Prussian army left in Silesia was utterly destroyed by the Austrians. But at length the tide turned, and Frederick routed the Austrians at the battle of Liegnitz. But the position of Frederick was still most hazardous. He was in the heart of Silesia, surrounded by hostile armies, three times larger than his own. Weary weeks of marching, fighting, blood, and woe, passed on. Sieges, skirmishes, battles innumerable, ensued.

At length the allies captured Berlin; whereupon Frederick marched quickly to the rescue of his capital. At his dread approach the allies fled. Frederick followed the Austrians.

We have no space to give details of the end of the bloody war. Frederick attacked the Austrians, under Marshal Daun, at Torgan, saying to his soldiers:—

“This war has become tedious. If I beat him, all his army must be taken prisoners or drowned in the Elbe. If we are beaten we must all perish.”

After a day of hard fighting the Prussians held the field. Frederick, who was a very profane man, replied to a soldier, who inquired if they should go into winter quarters, “By all the devils I shall not till we have taken Dresden.” But Dresden he did not take at that time, and went into winter quarters at Leipsic. The fifth campaign of the Seven Years’ War closed with the winter of 1760.

The Russians and Austrians had concentrated in Bohemia. The summer and autumn wore away with little accomplished; the allies feared to attack Frederick, and the Russians retreated for winter quarters. But the Austrians captured Schweidnitz and so could winter in Silesia. This was a terrible blow to Frederick, but no word betrayed the anguish of the hard-pressed Prussian king. Taking his weary, suffering troops to Breslau, Frederick sought shelter for the winter of 1761-62. At this dark time he wrote:—

“The school of patience I am at is hard, long-continued, cruel; nay, barbarous. I have not been able to escape my lot. All that human foresight could suggest has been employed, and nothing has succeeded. If Fortune continues to pursue me, doubtless I shall sink. It is only she that can extricate me from the situation I am in. I escape out of it by looking at the universe on the great scale like an observer from some distant planet. All then seems to me so infinitely small, and I could almost pity my enemies for giving themselves such trouble about so very little.”

Poor blinded Frederick! He could not even see that his own selfish ambition had tempted him to commence an unjust war, and thus to bring upon his own head all these sorrows.

On the 24th of November, 1762, the belligerents entered into an armistice until the 1st of March. All were exhausted. On the 15th of February, 1763, peace was concluded. The bloody Seven Years’ War was over, and its immense result was, _Frederick the Great had captured and retained Silesia_.

The expense of the war had been eight hundred and fifty-three thousand lives, which had perished on the battle-field. Of the hundreds of thousands of men, women, and children who had died from exposure, famine, and pestilence, no note is taken. The population of Prussia had diminished five hundred thousand. The world had run red with blood. The air had resounded with wails and cries and groans. Prussia was laid waste by the ravages of the war; and what had been accomplished? Frederick had achieved his renown; he had made himself _talked of_. Silesia had been captured, and Frederick the Great had been placed in the foremost ranks of the world’s generals.

Compared with the achievements of Gustavus Adolphus, whose victories had laid the foundation for the success of the Reformation, how petty had been the prize! One, a Christian king, upholding liberty of conscience and religious freedom; the other, an infidel king fighting in an unjust war for his own glory and aggrandizement. But the world applauded. Berlin blazed with illuminations and rang with the shouts of rejoicing. For twenty-three years Frederick the Great still lived to bear his honors. He must have the credit of endeavoring, during the remainder of his life, to repair the terrible desolation and ruin which his wars had brought upon Prussia.

We have but space to glance at his last hours. Dark was the gloom which shrouded his closing days. His worst enemies were the scoffing devils of unbelief he had let loose within his own soul. No Christian hopes illuminated the vast unknown into which he must so soon pass. To him the grave was but the awful portal to the direful abyss of annihilation.

To his patient, cruelly neglected wife, he penned these last cold words: “Madam, I am much obliged by the wishes you deign to form, but a heavy fever I have taken hinders me from answering you.”

With no companions near him but his servants and his dogs, he awaited the coming of his last despairing end. And thus this lonely, hopeless old man fought his last battle of life; and on the 17th of August, 1786, the fight was ended, the battle lost, and Frederick the Second—Frederick the Great—was carried to the tomb, and laid by the side of his father. What a warning to the world! What a warning to parents! The inconsistent, brutal life of his father made him an infidel.

His own selfish ambition made him more of a curse than a blessing to mankind. In the eyes of the Great and Just Judge of the world, both lives were _terrible failures_.

History has decreed that Frederick the Great gained a foremost place amongst the famous rulers of the world, and that his name stands in the first rank of the world’s conquerors.

But history has also written over his career the verdict,—He was an ambitious aggressor in an unjust war, which plunged all Europe into the horrors of famine, pestilence, bloody conflicts, and desolated battle-fields piled up with heaps of ghastly corpses, above which rose the direful wails of anguished hearts and the relentless flames of ruined homes.

NAPOLEON I.

1769-1821 A.D.

“He doth bestride the narrow world like a Colossus.”
SHAKESPEARE.

“Fame comes only when deserved, and then is as
inevitable as destiny; for it is destiny.”—LONGFELLOW.

IT was not physical force, it was the magnetic majesty of mind, which looked forth from those awe-inspiring eyes, and gave him Jovesque grandeur and dignity and sovereign pre-eminence among mankind. No merely mortal man stands beside him upon the same level on the heights of fame. Upon the highest mountain peak of human achievement and earthly greatness he stands alone, looking with calm, deep eyes and eagle glance upon the rolling centuries which preceded his marvellous career.

In spite of all the contradictory views which have been presented of Napoleon; in spite of hostile historians who have stigmatized him as a usurper; in spite of foes who have denounced him as a tyrant, inexorable as Nero; in spite of calumny which has proclaimed him a blood-thirsty monster; in spite of English literature and English criticism, which have denounced him as a scourge of the race, as a “_cook_ roasting whole continents and populations in the flames of war”; in spite of many a Judas, such as Bourrienne, Augereau, Marmont, Berthier, Bernadotte, Moreau, and others among those whom his own genius had lifted into prominence and power; in spite of obstacles, such as no other mortal man ever conquered, Napoleon the Great stands forth the most amazing phenomenon of human achievement, personal magnetism, and mortal greatness.

“A man who raised himself from obscurity to a throne; who changed the face of the world; who made himself felt through powerful and civilized nations; who sent the terror of his name across seas and oceans; whose will was pronounced and feared as destiny; whose donatives were crowns; whose ante-chamber was thronged by submissive princes; who broke down the awful barrier of the Alps, and made them a highway; and whose fame was spread beyond the boundaries of civilization to the steppes of the Cossack and the deserts of the Arab,—a man who has left this record of himself in history has taken out of our hands the question whether he shall be called great. All must concede to him a sublime power of action, an energy equal to great effects.”

“Whether we think of his amazing genius, his unparalleled power of embracing vast combinations, while he lost sight of none of the details necessary to insure success, his rapidity of thought and equally sudden execution, his tireless energy, his ceaseless activity, his ability to direct the movements of half a million of soldiers in different parts of the world, and at the same time reform the laws, restore the finances, and administer the government of his country, or whether we trace his dazzling career from the time he was a poor, proud charity boy at the military school of Brienne to the hour when he sat down on the most brilliant throne of Europe, he is the same wonderful man,—the same grand theme for human contemplation.”

In this short sketch we have no space for arguments; nor does Napoleon need arguments to substantiate his claims to greatness. Facts only can prove the supremacy of his fame, and _facts_ proclaim him unparalleled in history. _Lies_ only defame him and make him out a tyrant. That he was without fault or blemish we would not maintain; that sad mistakes brought upon him evil consequences which he himself was the first to trace to their source, we do not deny. But that amongst all these famous rulers of the world, his is the greatest name, unprejudiced history has decreed.

Of all these mighty conquerors of the world, Napoleon stands second to none.

“When the sword of Alexander overthrew the Persian throne and subjugated the East as far as the Indus, he did but extend the civilization of Athens. The refinement of the age of Pericles, the acquirements of Attica, the philosophy of the academy and the lyceum, followed in the train of his victories.

“When Cæsar subjugated Parthia and Germany, and carried the Roman eagles from the summit of Caucasus to the hills of Caledonia; when he passed from Gaul to Italy, from Rome to Greece, from the plains of Pharsalia to the shores of Africa, from the ruins of Carthage to the banks of the Nile and the Euxine; when he traversed the Bosphorus and the Rhine, the Taurus and the Alps, the Atlas and the Pyrenees,—in all these triumphal courses lie propagated under the protection of his personal glory, the name, the language, and manners of civilized Rome. If Alexander carried with him the Age of Pericles, and Cæsar that of Augustus, if they were accompanied in their triumphs by the genius of Homer and of Sophocles, of Plato and Aristotle, of Virgil and Horace, Napoleon carried with him an age that the arts, sciences, and philosophy have rendered equally illustrious, and his enterprise is no less than that of his predecessors.”

Though the aristocracy of Europe denounced him as an odious despot and an insatiable conqueror, in the hearts of his people—the artisan, the laborer, and the soldier—he is still cherished as the “Man of the people, as the personification of that spirit of equality which pervaded both his administration and the camp.” His name is still religiously respected by the peasant in his cottage. His tomb is still cherished as the most sacred spot on earth by the French people. Never did mortal man inspire such love and adoration in the hearts of his soldiers. This unprecedented idolatry of a nation is the best refutation of the malign accusations of his enemies, “that Napoleon _usurped_ the sovereignty of France; that having attained the supreme power, he was a tyrant, devoting that power to the promotion of his own selfish aggrandizement; that the wars in which he was incessantly engaged were provoked by his arrogance.”

Should the testimony of disappointed sycophants, whose pens are dipped in the venom of thwarted ambition and vanity, or the accusations of bitter foes, whose opinions are biassed by political intrigues, be believed against the character of Napoleon, rather than his own noble utterances, and the testimony of his incorruptible friends?

That his invasion of Egypt was aggressive and unjust, we will admit; but should England be the one to make the loudest outcry against this expedition, when it was only following her own policy when she increased her possessions by her conquests in India? And even the superiority of English literature and English writers should not make us blind to the unjust prejudices of English critics. Had Napoleon not quelled the insurrection, and given the final death-blow to the Revolution, how can any monarchy in Europe be certain that all thrones in Europe might not have tottered and fallen; that all European kingdoms might not have had to face a revolution? Had Napoleon died upon the throne of France, even his English foes, who feared the lonely exile, whom their duplicity and treachery had banished to the dreary rock of St. Helena, more than they feared any European monarch, would doubtless have joined the plaudits of the world in honor of the _Hero of Success_, irrespective of methods or motives. It is only because Napoleon outlived his marvellous and almost miraculous success that the world condemns, and his enemies malign him. Had our own Washington been unsuccessful, then would he have been hung as a rebel, and our own glorious Revolution would have been called a rebellion, and none would have been so loud in the outcry against us as England.

But our success has compelled her recognition, and our marvellous growth in strength, power, and resources has gained her reluctant admiration. It is hardly to be expected that England should ever forget how Napoleon made her tremble, and how near she came to being the conquered rather than the conqueror.

From an earthly point of view, his was the greatest life of mortal man; but from a heavenly standpoint, even his greatness crumbles into dust, and his own higher nature was true enough to realize and acknowledge the instability of earthly renown, and the failure of even such phenomenal greatness as his own, to satisfy the higher cravings of the immortal soul.

To properly estimate the genius of Napoleon, and his achievements in behalf of France, a glance must be given to the bloody background of the Revolution, which rises up with all its ghastliness and horrors. The rights and liberties of the French people had been trampled under foot by despotic and profligate kings and nobles; and then brute force arose against oppression; and brute force for a time conquered.

Mobs surge like a mighty ocean through the streets of Paris. Men, women, and children are turned into wild beasts of fury, thirsting only for blood. And blood they get—till Paris runs red like a river, and all the demons of hades seem to have been let loose upon the world. Such was the hydra-headed monster of bloody, lawless license and ignorant defiance which confronted the dawning manhood of Napoleon Bonaparte. Such was the ferocious fury which the genius of this small, slender, pale-faced, smooth-cheeked youth of twenty-five encountered with such dauntless courage and quelled by his irresistible foresight and execution.

The monarchy of France had been dethroned. Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette had paid with their lives the forfeit of oppression which was not all their own. The Royalists and the Jacobins had joined the howling mob of insurgents, and all together were rushing onward to attack the Convention, which was the only representative of government then in France. The troops of the Convention had been sent to meet the mob, but retired in fear and panic. The mob advanced with demoniacal shouts of menace. The Convention trembled. In the midst of the terror and confusion one member exclaims,—

“I know the man who can defend us if any can. It is a young Corsican officer, Napoleon Bonaparte.” The Convention immediately sent for him. All expected to see a stalwart soldier, of gigantic frame and imperious bearing. Their surprise was unbounded, when a young slender man of boyish presence appeared before them. The astonished president incredulously inquired,—

“Are you willing to undertake the defence of the Convention?”

“Yes,” was the laconic and calm reply. With half-disdainful contempt the president continued,—

“Are you aware of the magnitude of the undertaking?”

Sweeping the assembly with his magnetic glance, and fixing his eagle eye upon the president, Napoleon replied, “Perfectly; and I am in the habit of accomplishing what I undertake.”

And accomplish he did. But how? By the same measures he had declared should have been taken when, a short time before, he had watched the furious mob rush unrestrained through the palace of the imprisoned monarch. Then he had exclaimed, “They should have swept down the first five hundred with grapeshot, and the rest would have soon taken to flight.” And his own successful quelling of the insurgents proved the correctness of his plans and the marvellous executive force of his genius. So Napoleon established the new government of France called the Directory. We have space only for a glance at his boyhood. He was born upon the island of Corsica, on the 15th of August, 1769. His father died while Napoleon was quite young, and his mother, Madame Letitia Bonaparte, was left with small means to provide for eight children,—Joseph, Napoleon, Lucien, Louis, Jerome, Eliza, Pauline, and Caroline.