Class ^S^_ BookV) 110^ Gojpght N" copyRicHT DEPOsrr. The Lake English Classics General Editor: LINDSAY TODD DAMON, A. B., Professor of English Literature and Rhetoric in Brown University ADDISON— rfte Sir Roger De Coverley Papers— Abbott 30c BROWNING— Se/wr.T>-D> ok« J^OWELI^-Vision of Sir Launfal. ' J 1 vol.-MoODT 25c DE QUINCE Y— Joan of Arc and Selections— UOOVY 35c DE QUINCEY— T/ie Flight of a Tartar Tribe— French J85c DICKENS—^ Christytias Carol, etc.— BlROADVB 30c DICKENS— 4 Tale of Two Cities— Baldwin 40c DICKENS— X>af/d Copper^eW— BALDWIN 50c DRYDEN— PaZawon and Arcite—COOK 35c EMERSON— i:ssa!/s and Addresses— Heydhick 35c FRANKLIN-^ !tJ^o6/oc?rap/i?/—G KIFFIN 30c G ASKELL (Mrs.)— Cm?)/ord— Hancock 35c GEORGE ELIOT— Si7as il/ar?ier— HANCOCK 30c GOLDSMITH— TAe Vicar of Wakefleld-MoUTOf^ 30c HAWTHORNE— TAe iJoMse of the Seven Gabies- Hebrick 35c HAAVTHORNE—Tto ice-ToZd Taies- HeeRICK AND BbXJEBE 40c IRVING— L;/e o/ GoZdsnuY/i- Krapp 40c IRVINCr— TAe Sfcefc/i Boofc— Krapp 40c IRVING— TaZes of a Traveller— and parts of The Sketch Boofc— Krapp 40c LAMB— Sssays of Mm— Benedict 35c LONGFELLOW— i^arrafive Poems— Powell 40c LOWELL— Fisjono/ Sir Laiinfal—See Coleridge. M AC AUL AY— E'ssar/s on Addison aiid Jo/iuson— Newcomer 30c M AC AUL AY— JE'ssays on Clive and Hastings— HEWCOMEti 35c M AC AUL AY— i:ssai/s on Milton and Addison- NEWCOMER 30c MIl.TO'S—L' Allegro, II Penseroso, Comus, and Lj/cidas- Neilson... 3.5c MILTON— Paradise Lost, Books I and II— Farley 35c PALGR AVE— GoWen Treasurj/- Newcomer 40c PARKMAN— r/ie Oregon Tra iJ-MACDONALD 40o POE— Poejns and Tales, Selected— Newcoueb. 30c POPE — Homer's Biad, Books I, VI, XXII, XXIV— Cressy and Moody S5c RUSKIN— Sesame and LiZies— LiNN 35c SCOTT— Jvan/ioe—SiMONDS 45c SCOTT— Quenf in Dunca rd—SlMONDS 45c SCOTT— Lady 0/ ffte Xafce- MoODY 30e SCOTT— Lay of the Last Minstrel— Moody AND Willard 35c SCOTT— AJar?nion— Moody and Willard 30c SHAKSPERE— T/ie Neilson Edition— Edited by W. A. Neilson, As You Like It, Hamlet, Julius Caesar, Macbeth, Twelfth Night, Henry V, Midsummer-Night's Dream, each 35c SHAKSPERE— il/ej-c/janf o/ Fenice— Lovett 35c Shorter Ensrlish Poems— Prom Oray, Goldsmith, Byron, Macaulay, ^rMoZd— ScuDDER 35c STEVENSON— JnZand Voyage and Travels with a Donfcey— Leonaid 35c STEVENSON— Treasure JsZand— BboADUS 35c TENNYSON— Selected Poems— REYNOLDS 35c TENNYSON- The Princess— COPELAND 35c TH ACKER AY— Hejiry Esmond- PHELPS 50c TH ACKER AY— i^ngrhsft JEfitmorisfs- CUNLIFFE AND Watt 30c Three American Poems— r/ie Raven, Snow-Bound, Miles Standish— Greever. S5c Washinsrton, W^ebster, Lincoln— Denney 36c SCOTT, FORESMAN AND COMPANY EDUCATIONAL PUBLISHERS W9i VORK CHICAGO ?IbeXahc Cnglleb Classic© EDITED BY LINDSAY TODD DAMON, A.B. Prof«e807 of English Literature and Rhetoric tn Brown University MACAULAY'S ESSAYS ON OLIVER GOLDSMITH FREDERIC THE GREAT AND MADAME D'ARBLAY EDITED FOR SCHOOL USE BY ALPHONSO G. NEWCOMER PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH IN THE LELAND STANFORD JUNIOR UNIVERSITY SCOTT, FORESMAN AND COMPANY CHICAGO NEW YORK ./1||N4- Copyright 1913 BY SCOTT, FOKESAIAN AND COMPANY (g)CI.A347239 PREFACE ''Twenty years ago," writes 0. W. Firkins in The Forum of November, 1912, "one would have said that the style of Macaulay, except as a qualifying force, had disappeared from English literature — that it belonged with the sackbut and the virginals, with the baldric and the coat-of-mail, among the curiosities of history. But the fact of death is not always estab- lished, in literature at least, by the fact of inquest, and one of the youngest of our later writers has taken the relic from its cabinet, reset and refurbished it, and found its merits preferable to the praise of origi- nality. The old marks of Llacaulay, the short, forcible sentence with the velocity and the impact of a missile, the clash of a word upon its repeated self like jingling castanets, the old readiness, if not quite the old rich- ness and remoteness, of allusion, the controversial zest, the glow of conflict, the impatience of half-truths and half-certainties, the insistence that all assertions shall be sweeping and all demonstrations final, the old and more than the old fertility of comparison and the relish for the homely simile that rivets and clamps the idea, the fearless use of balance, the terse, casual sarcasm which, like the scythe on the chariot, does execution as an incident of transit — all these traits, for the most part unabated and unabashed, reappear today in the style of" No matter whom, since this is not the place to make an excursion into contemporary criticism. The inter- 5 6 PREFACE. esting thing is the assurance that Macaulay has not yet ceased to be a very vital force in our literature. Nor is the fact any occasion for surprise. The style that he cultivated proved to be such a perfect instru- ment for the ready conveyance of thought that it has naturally been imitated by those writers with whom immediateness is of more importance than any other consideration. And in an age of unexampled industry in journalism, most of our writers are of this class. There should be no hesitation, therefore, in setting Macaulay before students as a model ; nor, in doing so, is there any occasion to apologize for putting consid- erations of style in the foreground. The sole point of importance is to remember that style is only a medium. Style itself will not avail much for the man who has little to say, least of all the style of Macaulay, the particular merit of which is its power to communicate and enforce the thing that is said. But when there is behind it an abundance of sub- stance, it becomes a thing of very great value. Much emphasis has therefore been laid upon it in the Intro- duction to the present volume. Another matter in connection with this particular study suggests a counsel of vigilance to the teacher, namely, the practice of requiring students to trace allusions and quotations. The practice has been much abused, and a warning seems especially necessary in dealing with a writer like Macaulay, who crowds his pages with instances and illustrations. It is profitable to follow him in the process of bringing together a dozen things to enforce his point, but it is not profit- able to reverse the process and allow ourselves to be PREFACE. 7 led away from the subject in hand into a multitude of unrelated matters. Such a practice is perilous to the intellect, dissipating attention instead of concentrating it. Only when one fails to catch the full significance of an allusion, should he look it up. Then he should see to it that he brings back from his research just what occasioned the allusion, just what bears on the immediate passage. Other facts may be picked up by the way, to come useful in good time, but for the purpose of his present study he should insist on the vital relation of every fact he acquires. Illustrations of what is here meant may be found on almost any page. For instance, when Macaulay tells us that '*a war began in which Frederic stooped to the part of Harpagon and Voltaire to that of Scapin, ^ ' full comprehension of the passage is scarcely possible unless we find out something more about the parts of Harpagon and Scapin. But when, shortly afterward, we are told that ''D'Arnaud and D'Ar- gens, Guichard and La Metric, might, for the sake of a morsel of bread, be willing to bear the insolence of a master, but Voltaire was of another order, ' ' there is no real necessity to seek for further light. The whole tenor of the passage makes it plain that D'Arnaud and his tribe were unimportant parasitic authors, and consultation of a biographical dictionary would only confirm what we already know; additional facts about their lives would be impertinent. Indeed, the best use to be made of such allusions is not to require the student to look them up, but to see how much he can gather from them without looking them up. It is, in other words, just the sort of passage to stimulate 8 PREFACE. the powers of deductive reasoning rather than the powers of memory. In the Glossary provided with the present text will be found nearly all the proper names and a few of the unusual words that occur in the essays. Excep- tions have been made in cases of names universally known, like Shakespeare and Waterloo; in the case of most of the scenes of Frederic's battles, which should be sought in a map, if anywhere; and in the case of a few references that are either quite trivial or suffi- ciently self-explanatory. In conformity with the specific purpose of the Glossary, the names are accom- panied by only such explanations as have some con- ceivable bearing on the text. A. G. N. Stanford University, California, December, 1912. CONTENTS. Page Preface 5 Introduction 11 Chronology and Bibliography 37 The Essays: Oliver Goldsmith 41 Frederic the Great 61 Madame D 'Arblay 161 Notes • 233 Glossary 245 INTRODUCTION. When, in 1825, Francis Jeffrey, Editor of the Edinburgh Review, searching for ''some clever young 1. Macauiay's Ad- ^^^ ^^^ ^ouM Write for US," laid burgh'"ReJrew.^'"" ^^^ hands upon Thomas Babington ]\Iacaulay, he did not know that he was marking a red-letter day in the calendar of Eng- lish journalism. Through the two decades and more of its existence, the Review had gone on serving its patrons with the respectable dulness of Lord Brougham and the respectable vivacity of its editor, and the patrons had apparently dreamed of nothing better until the momentous August when the young Fellow of Trinity, not yet twenty-five, flashed upon its pages with his essay on Milton. And for the next two decades the essays that followed from the same pen became so far the mainstay of the magazine that book- sellers declared it **sold, or did not sell, according as there were, or were not, articles by Mr. Macaulay." Yet Jeffrey was not without some inkling of the sig- nificance of the event, for upon receipt of the first manuscript he wrote to its author the words so often quoted: "The more I think, the less I can conceive where you picked up that style." Thus early was the finger of criticism pointed toward the one thing that has always been most conspicuously associated with Macauiay's name. 11 12 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. English prose, at this date, was still clinging to the traditions of its measured eighteenth-century stateli- 2. Effect on Prose. ^^^^' ^^^ ^^^ ^^^^ ^^^^ nearly gone out of it, and the formalism, which sat so elegantly upon Addison and not uneasily upon Johnson had stiffened into pedantry, scarcely relieved by the awkward attempts of the younger journalists to give it spirit and freedom. It was this languishing prose which Macaulay, perhaps more than any other one writer, deserves the credit of rejuvenating with that wonderful something which Jeffrey was pleased to call ''style." Macaulay himself would certainly have deprecated the association of his fame with a mere synonym for rhetoric, and we should be wrong- ing him if we did not hasten to add that style, rightly understood, is a very large and significant thing, com- prehending, indeed, a man's whole intellectual and emotional attitude toward those phases of life with which he comes into contact. It is the man's manner of reacting upon the world, his manner of expressing himself to the world ; and the world has little beyond the manner of a man's expression by which to judge of the man himself. A good style, even in the nar- rower sense of a good command of language, of a masterly and individual manner of presenting thought, is no mean accomplishment, and if Macaulay had done nothing else than revivify English prose, which is, just possibly, his most enduring achievement, he would have little reason to complain. What he accomplished in this direction and how, it is our chief purpose here to explain. In the meantime we shall do INTRODUCTION. 13 well to glance at his other achievements and take some note of his equipment. Praed has left this description of him: ''There came up a short, manly figure, marvelously upright, 3. The Man. ^^^^^ ^ ^^^ neckcloth, and one hand in his waistcoat-pocket." We read here, easily enough, brusqueness, precision without fastidiousness, and self-confidence. These are all prominent traits of the man, and they all show in his work. Add kindness and moral rectitude, which scarcely show there, and humor, which shows only in a somewhat unpleasant light, and you have a fair por- trait. Now these are manifestly the attributes of a man who knows what worldly comfort and physical well-being are, a man of good digestive and assimi- lative powers, well-fed, incapable of worry, born to succeed. In truth, IMacaulay was a man of remarkable vital- ity and energy, and though he died too early — at the beginning of his sixtieth year — he began his work young and continued it with almost unabated vigor to the end. But his ''work" (as we are in the habit of naming that which a man leaves behind him), volumi- nous as it is, represents only one side of his activity. There was the early assumed burden of repairing his father's broken fortunes, and providing for the family of younger brothers and sisters. The burden, it is true, was assumed with characteristic cheerfulness — it could not destroy for him the worldly comfort we have spoken of — but it entailed heavy responsibilities for a young man. It forced him to seek salaried posi- 14 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. tions, sueh as the post of commissioner of bankruptcy, when he might have been more congenially employed. Then there were the many years spent in the service of the government as a Whig member of the House of Commons and as Cabinet ]\Iinister during the exciting period of the Reform Bill and the Anti-Corn-Law League, with all that such service involved — study of politics, canvassing, countless dinners, public and pri- vate, speechmaking in Parliament and out, reading and making reports, endless committee meetings, end- less sessions. There were the three years and a half spent in India, drafting a penal code. And there was, first and last, the acquisition of the knowledge that made possible this varied activity, — the years at the University, the study of law and jurisprudence, the reading, not of books, but of entire national litera- tures, the ransacking of libraries and the laborious deciphering of hundreds of manuscripts in the course of historical research. Perhaps this is falling into Macaulay's trick of exaggeration, but it is not easy to exaggerate the mental feats of a man who could carry in his memory works like Paradise Lost and Pilgrim's Progress and who was able to put it on record that in thirteen months he had read thirty classical authors, most of them entire and many of them twice, and among them such voluminous writers as Euripides, Herodotus, Plato, Plutarch, Livy, and Cicero. Nor was the classical literature a special field with him; Italian, Spanish, French, and the wildernesses of the English drama and the English novel (not excluding the "trashy*') were all explored. We may well be astounded that the man who could do all these things INTRODUCTION. 15 in a lifetime of moderate compass, and who was be- sides such a tireless pedestrian that he was *' forever on his feet indoors as well as out/' could find time to produce so much literature of his own. That literature divides itself into at least five divi- sions. There are, first, the Essays, which he produced 4. His Work. ^* intervals all through life. There are the Speeches which were de- livered on the floor of Parliament between his first election in 1830 and his last in 1852, and which rank very high in that grade of oratory which is just below the highest. There is the Indian Penal Code, not altogether his own work and not literature of course, yet praised by Justice Stephen as one of the most remarkable and satisfactory instruments of its kind ever drafted. There are the Poems, published in 1842, adding little to his fame and not a great deal to Eng- lish literature, yet very respectable achievements in the field of the modern romantic ballad. Finally, there is the unfinished History of England from the Accession of James the Second, his last, his most ambitious, and probably, all things considered, his most successful work. The History and Essays comprise virtually all of this product that the present generation cares to read. 5 History of Upon the History, indeed, Macaulay England. staked his claim to future remem- brance, regarding it as the great work of his life. He was exceptionally well equipped for the undertaking. He had such a grasp of universal history as few men have been able to secure, and a detailed knowledge of the period of English history under contemplation 16 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. equalled by none. But he delayed the undertaking too long, and he allowed his time and energy to be dissipated in obedience to party calls. Death over- took him in the midst of his labors. Even thus, it is clear that he underestimated the magnitude of the task he had set himself. For he proposed to cover a period of nearly a century and a half; the four volumes and a fraction which he completed actu- ally cover about fifteen years. His plan involved too much detail. It has been called pictorial history writing, and such it was. History he wished to make as vital and as human as romance. It was to be in every sense a restoration of the life of the past. Macaulay surely succeeded in this aim, as his fasci- nating third chapter will always testify; whether the aim were a laudable one, we cannot stop here to discuss. Historians will continue to point out the defects of the work, its diffuseness, its unphilosophical character, perhaps its partisan spirit. But it remains a mag- nificent fragment, and it will be read by thousands who could never be persuaded to look into dryer though possibly sounder works. Indeed, there is no higher tribute to its greatness than the objection that has sometimes been brought against it — namely, that it treats a comparatively unimportant era of Eng- land's history with such fulness and brilliance, and has attracted to it so many readers, that the other eras are thrown sadly out of perspective. But Macaulay 's name is popularly associated with that body of essays which in bulk alone (always ex- cepting Sainte-Beuve's) are scarcely exceeded by the product of any other essay-writer in an essay-writing INTRODUCTION. 17 age. And the popular judgment which has insisted upon holding to this supposedly ephemeral work is 6. Essays. ^^* ^^^ wrong. With all their faults upon them, until we have something better in kind to replace them, we cannot consent to let them go. In one sense, their range is not wide, for they fall naturally into but two divisions, the historical and the critical. To these Mr. Morison* would add a third, the controversial, comprising the four essays on Mill, Sadler, Southey, and Gladstone; but these are comparatively unimportant. In another sense, however, their range is very wide. For each one gathers about a central subject a mass of details that in the hands of any other writer would be bewildering, while the total knowledge that supports the bare array of facts and perpetual press of allu- sions betrays a scope that, to the ordinary mind, is quite beyond comprehension. And the more remarkable must this work appear when we consider the manner of its production. Most of the essays were published anonymously in the Edinhiirgh Revieiv, a few early ones in Knight's Quarterly Magazine, five (those on Atterbury, Bun- yan, Goldsmith, Johnson, and Pitt), written late in life, in the Encyclopcedia Britannica. The writing of them was always an avocation with IMacaulay, never a vocation. Those produced during his parliamentary life were usually written in the hours between early rising and breakfast. Some were composed at a dis- tance from his books. He scarcely dreamed of their living beyond the quarter of their publication, cer- * J. Cotter Morison : Macaulay. 18 MACAULAY 'S ESSAYS. tainly not beyond the generation for whose entertain- ment they were written with all the devices to catch applause and all the disregard of permanent merit which writing for such a purpose invites. He could scarcely be induced, even after they were pirated and republished in America, to reissue them in a collected edition, with his revision and under his name. These facts should be remembered in mitigation of the severe criticism to which they are sometimes subjected. Between the historical and the critical essays we are not called upon to decide, though the decision is by no means difficult. Macaulay was essentially a historian, a story-teller; and the historical essay, or short monograph on the events of a single period, such as often group themselves about some great statesman or soldier, he made peculiarly his own. He did not invent it, as Mr. Morison points out, but he expanded and improved it until he *'left it com- plete and a thing of power." Fully a score of his essays — more than half the total number — are of this description, the ^most and the best of them dealing with English history. Chief among them are the essays on Hallam, Temple, the Pitts, Clive, and Warren Hastings. The critical essays — ^upon John- son, Addison, Bunyan, and other men of letters — are in every way as attractive reading as the historical. They must take a lower rank only because Macaulay lacked some of the primary requisites of a successful critic — broad and deep sympathies, refined tastes, and nice perception of the more delicate tints and shad- ings that count for almost everything in a work of high art. His critical judgments are likely to be INTEODUCTION. 19 blunt, positive, and superficial. But they are never actually shallow and rarely without a modicum of truth. And they are never uninteresting. For, true to his narrative instinct, he always interweaves biography. And besides, the essays have the same rhetorical qualities that mark with distinction all the prose he has written, that is to say, the same masterly method and the same compelling style. It is to this method and style that, after our rapid review of Macaulay's aims and accomplishments, we are now ready to turn. There were two faculties of Macaulay's mind that set his work far apart from other work in the same 7. Organizing ^^^^ — ^^^ faculties of organization Faculty. ^j^j illustration. He saw things in their right relation and he knew how to make others see them thus. If he was describing, he never thrust minor details into the foreground. If he was nar- rating, he never ''got ahead of his story. ^ The importance of this is not sufficiently recognizee!. ]\Iany writers do not know what organization means. They do not know that in all great and successful literary work it is nine-tenths of the labor. Yet consider a moment. History is a very complex thing: divers events may be simultaneous in their occurrence; or one crisis may be slowly evolving from many causes in many places. It is no light task to tell these things one after another and yet leave a unified impression, to take up a dozen new threads in succession without tangling them and without losing the old ones, and to lay them all down at the right moment and without confusion. Such is the narrator's task, and it was at 20 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. this task that Macaulay proved himself a past master. He could dispose of a number of trivial events in a single sentence. Thus, for example, runs his account of the dramatist Wycherley's naval career: *'He embarked, was present at a battle, and celebrated it, on his return, in a copy of verses too bad for the bellman.*' On the other hand, when it is a question of a great crisis, like the impeachment of Warren Hastings, he knew how to prepare for it with elaborate ceremony and to portray it in a scene of the highest dramatic power. This faculty of organization shows itself in what we technically name structure ; and logical and rhetor- ical structure may be studied at their very best in his work. His essays are perfect units, made up of many parts, systems within systems, that play together without clog or friction. You can take them apart like a watch and put them together again. But try to rearrange the parts and the mechanism is spoiled. Each essay has its subdivisions, which in turn are groups of paragraphs. And each paragraph is a unit. Take the first paragraph of the essay on Clive: the words little interest appear in the first sentence, and the word insipid in the last; clearly the paragraph deals with a single very definite topic. And so with all. Of course the unity manifests itself in a hundred ways, but it is rarely wanting. Most frequently it takes the form of an expansion of a topic given in the first sentence, or a preparation for a topic to be announced only in the last. These initial and final sentences — often in themselves both aphoristic and memorable — serve to mark with the utmost clearness the different stages in the progress of the essay. INTRODUCTION. 21 Illustration is of more incidental service, but as used by ]\Iacaulay becomes highly organic. For his 8. Illustrating illustrations are not far-fetched or Faculty. laboriously worked out. They seem to be of one piece with his story or argument. His mind was quick to detect resemblances and analogies. He was ready with a comparison for everything, sometimes with half a dozen. For example, Addison 's essays, he has occasion to say, were different every day of the week, and yet, to his mind, each day like something — like Horace, like Lucian, like the '^ Tales of Scheherezade.'' He draws long comparisons be- tween Walpole and Townshend, between Congreve and Wycherley, between Essex and Villiers, between the fall of the Carlovingians and the fall of the jMoguls. He follows up a general statement with swarms of instances. Have historians been given to exaggerat- ing the villainy of Machiavelli? Macaulay can name you half a dozen who did S(y Did the writers of Charles's faction delight in making their opponents appear contemptible ? ' ' They have told us that Pym broke down in a speech, that Ireton had his nose pulled by Hollis, that the Earl of Northumberland cudgelled Henry Marten, that St. John's manners were sullen, that Vane had. an ugly face, that Crom- well had a red nose." Do men fail when they quit their own province for another ? Newton failed thus ; Bentley failed; Inigo Jones failed; Wilkie failed. In the same way he was ready with quotations. He writes in one of his letters: ''It is a dangerous thing for a man with a very strong memory to read very much. I could give you three or four quotations this 22 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. moment in support of that proposition; but I will bring the vicious propensity under subjection, if I can/' Thus we see his mind doing instantly and involuntarily what other minds do with infinite pains, bringing together all things that have a likeness or a common bearing. Both of these faculties, that of organization and that of illustration, are to be partially explained by his mar- ^ . velous memory. As we have seen, 9. Memory. *' ' he read everything, and he seems to have been incapable of forgetting anything. The immense advantage which this gave him over other men is obvious. He who carries his library in his mind wastes no time in turning up references; and surveying the whole field of his knowledge at once, with outlines and details all in immediate range, he should be able to see things in their natural per- spective. Of course it does not follow that a great memory will always enable a man to systematize and synthesize, but it should make it easier for its pos- sessor than for other men, while the power of ready illustration which it affords him is beyond question. It is precisely these talents that set Macaulay among the simplest and clearest of writers, and that 10. crearness and ^ccount for much of his popularity. Simplicity. People found that in taking up one of his articles they simply read on and on, never puzzling over the meaning of a sentence, getting the exact force of every statement, and following the trend of thought with scarcely a mental effort. And his natural gift of making things plain he took pains to support by various devices. He constructed his INTRODUCTION. 23 sentences after the simplest normal fashion, subject and verb and object, sometimes inverting for em- phasis, but rarely complicating, and always reducing expression to the barest terms. He could write, for example, *'One advantage the chaplain had,*' but it is impossible to conceive of his writing, ''Now amid all the discomforts and disadvantages with which the unfortunate chaplain was surrounded, there was one thing which served to offset them, and which, if he chose to take the opportunity of enjoying it, might well be regarded as a positive advantage.'* One will search his pages in vain for loose, trailing clauses and involved constructions. His vocabulary was of the same simple nature. He had a complete command of ordinary English and contented himself with that. He rarely ventured beyond the most abridged dic- tionary. An occasional technical term might be required, but he was shy of the unfamiliar. He would coin no words and he would use no archaisms. Foreign words, when fairly naturalized, he employed sparingly. ''We shall have no disputes about dic- tion,'' he wrote to Napier, Jeffrey's successor; "the English language is not so poor but that I may very well find in it the means of contenting both you and myself. ' ' Now, all of these things are wholly admirable, and if they constituted the sum total of Macaulay's method, as they certainly do con- stitute the chief features of it, we should give our word of praise and have done. But he did not stop here, and often unfortunately too often, these things are not thought of at all by those 24 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. who profess to speak knowingly of his wonderful ''style." For in addition to clearness he sought also force, an entirely legitimate object in itself and one in which he was merely giving way to his oratorical or journalistic instinct. Only, his fondness for effect led him too far and into various mannerisms, some of which it is quite impossible to approve. There is no question but that they are, as they were meant to be, powerfully effective, often rightly so, and they are exceedingly interesting to study, but for these very reasons the student needs to be warned against attaching to them an undue importance. Perhaps no one will quarrel with his liking for the specific and the concrete. This indeed is not man- nerism. It is the natural working 12. Concreteness. « ., • ... • j i? ^i, 01 the imaginative mmd, of the pic- turing faculty, and is of the utmost value in forceful, vivid writing. The "ruffs and peaked beards of Theobald's" make an excellent passing allusion to the social life of the time of Queen Elizabeth and James the First. The manoeuvers of an army become intensely interesting when we see it ' ' pouring through those wild passes which, worn by mountain torrents and dark with jungle, lead down from the table-land of Mysore to the plains of the Carnatic." A refer- ence to the reputed learning of the English ladies of the sixteenth century is most cunningly put in the picture of "those fair pupils of Ascham and Aylmer who compared, over their embroidery, the styles of Isocrates and Lysias, and who, while the horns were sounding, and the dogs in full cry, sat in the lonely oriel, with eyes riveted to that immortal page which INTRODUCTION. 25 tells how meekly the first great martyr of intellectual liberty took the cup from his weeping gaoler." But when his eagerness for the concretely picturesque leads him to draw a wholly imaginary picture of how it may have come about that Addison had Steele arrested for debt, we are quite ready to protest. His tendency to exaggerate, moreover, and his love of paradox, belong in a very different category. Let the reader count the strong words, 13. Exaggeration. . ,. . , superlatives, universal propositions, and the like, employed in a characteristic passage, and he will understand at once what is meant. In the essay on Frederic the Great we read, of Maria The- resa's accession: ''No sovereign has ever taken posses- sion of a throne by a clearer title. All the politics of the Austrian cabinet had, during twenty years, been directed to one single end — the settlement of the suc- cession. From every person whose rights could be con- sidered as injuriously affected, renunciations in the most solemn form had been obtained. ' ' And not con- tent with the ordinary resources of language, he has a trick of raising superlatives themselves, as it were, to the second or third power. ' ' There can be little doubt that this great empire was, even in its best days, far worse governed than the worst governed parts of Europe now are." "What the Italian is to the Eng- lishman, what the Hindoo is to the Italian, what the Bengalee is to other Hindoos, that was Nuncomar to other Bengalees." It is evident that this habit is a positive vice. He tried to excuse it on the ground that there is some inevitable loss in the communication of a fact from one mind to another, and that over-statement 26 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. is necessary to correct the error. But the argument is fallacious. Macaulay did not have a monopoly of the imaginative faculty ; other men are as much given to exaggeration as he, and stories, as they pass from mouth to mouth, invariably ''grow." His constant resort to antithesis to point his state- ments is another vice. ' ' That government, ' ' he writes 14. Antithesis and ^^ ^he English rule in India, ''op- Baiance. pressive as the most oppressive form of barbarian despotism, was strong with all the strength of civilization. ' ' Again : ' ' The Puritan had affected formality; the comic poet laughed at deco- rum. The Puritan had frowned at innocent diver- sions; the comic poet took under his patronage the most flagitious excesses. The Puritan had canted; the comic poet blasphemed." And so on, through a paragraph. Somewhat similar to this is his practice of presenting the contrary of a statement before pre- senting the statement itself, of telling us, for example, what might have been expected to happen before telling us what actually did happen. It is to be noticed that, accompanying this use of antithesis and giving it added artificial force, there is usually a bal- ance of form, that is, a more or less exact correspond- ence of sentence structure. Given one of Macaulay 's sentences presenting the first part of an antithesis, it is sometimes possible to foretell, word for word, what the next sentence will be. Such mechanical writing is certainly not to be commended as a model of style. Of course it is the abuse of these things and not the mere use of them that constitutes Macaulay 's vice. INTEODUCTION. 27 There are still other formal devices which he uses so freely that we are justified in calling them manner- isms. One of the most conspicuous 15. Minor Devices. . ^, , , . ^.u ^.^ i. IS the short sentence, the blunt, un- qualified statement of one thing at a time. No one who knows Macaulay would hesitate over the author- ship of the following: "The shore was rocky; the night was black ; the wind was furious ; the waves of the Bay of Biscay ran high.'' The only wonder is that he did not punctuate it with four periods. He would apparently much rather repeat his subject and make a new sentence than connect his verbs. Instead of writing, "He coaxed and wheedled," he is con- stantly tempted to write, "He coaxed, he wheedled," even though the practice involves prolonged reitera- tion of one form. This omission of connectives — "asyndeton" — may easily become a vice. The a7ids, thens, therefores, howevers, the reader must supply for himself. This demands alertness and helps to sustain interest ; and while it may occasion a momen- tary perplexity, it will rarely do so when the reader comes to know the style and to read it with the right swing. But it all goes to enforce what Mr. John Morley calls the "unlovely staccato" of Macaulay 's style. It strikes harsh on the ear and on the brain, and from a piquant stimulant becomes an intolerable weariness. Separate things get emphasis, but the nice gradations and relations are sacrificed. After all, though we stigmatize these things as "devices," intimating that they were mechanical and arbitrary, we must regard them as partly tempera- mental. Macaulay 's mind was not subtle in its work- 28 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. ing and was not given to making nice distinctions. He cared chiefly for bold outlines and broad effects. Truth, to his mind, was sharply defined from falsehood, right from wrong, good from evil. Everything could be divided from everything else, labelled, and pigeon-holed. And he was very certain, in the fields which he chose to enter, that he knew where to draw the dividing line. Positiveness, self-confidence, are written all over his work. Set for a moment against his method the method of Matthew Arnold. This is how Arnold tries to point out a defect in modern English society: ''And, owing to the same causes, does not a subtle criticism lead us to make, even on the good looks and politeness of our aristocratic class, and even of the most fascinating half of that class, the feminine half, the one qualifying remark, that in these charm- ing gifts there should perhaps be, for ideal perfec- tion, a shade more soulf" Note the careful approach, the constant, anxious qualification, working up to a climax in the almost painful hesitation of ''a shade — more — soul." Imagine, if you can, Macaulay, the rough rider, he of the ''stamping emphasis," winding into a truth like that. But indeed it is quite impos- sible to imagine Macaulay 's having any truth at all to enunciate about so ethereal an attribute as this same soul. We have come well into the region of Macaulay 's defects. Clearness, we have seen, he had in a remark- able degree. Force he also had in a remarkable degree, though he frequently abused the means of display- INTRODUCTTOX. 29 ing it. But genuine beauty, it is scarcely too much to say, he had not at all. Of course, much depends 17 Ornament upon our definitions. We do not Rhythm. mean to deny to his writings all elements of charm. The very ease of his mastery over so many resources of composition gives pleasure to the reader. His frequent picturesqueness we have granted. He can be genuinely figurative, though his figures often incline to showiness. And above all he has a certain sense for rhythm. He can write long, sweeping sentences — periods that rise and descend with feeling, and that come to a stately or graceful close/The sentence cited above about the learning of women in the sixteenth century may be taken as an example. Or read the sketch of the Catholic Church in the third paragraph of the essay on Von Ranke's History of the Popes, or the conclusion of the essay on Lord Holland, or better still the conclusion of the somewhat juvenile essay on Mitford's Greece, with its glowing tribute to Athens and its famous picture of the ''single naked fisherman washing his nets in the river of the ten thousand masts." But at best it is the rhythm of mere declamation, swinging and pomp- ous. There is no fine flowing movement, nothing like the entrancing glides of a waltz or the airy steps of a minuet, but only a steady march to the interminable and monotonous beat of the drum. For real music, sweetness, subtle and involved harmony, lingering cadences, we turn to any one of a score of prose writers — Sir Thomas Browne, Addison, Burke, Lamb, De Quincey, Hawthorne, Ruskin, Pater, Stevenson — 30 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. before we turn to Macaulay. Nor is there any other mere grace of composition in which he can be said to excel. There is no blame in the matter. We are only trying to note dispassionately the defects as well as 18. Tempera- ^^^^ excellences of a man who was mental Defects, j^ot a universal genius. It would be easy to point out much greater defects than any yet mentioned, defects that go deeper than style. One or two indeed we are obliged to mention. There is the strain of coarseness often to be noted in his writing, showing itself now in an abusive epithet, now in a vulgar catch-word, now in a sally of humor bordering on the ribald. It is never grossly offensive, but it is none the less wounding to delicate sensibility. Then there is the Philistine attitude, which Mr. Arnold spent so much of his life in combating, the attitude of the complacent, self-satisfied Englishman, who sees in the British constitution and the organiza- tion of the British empire the best of all possible governments, and in the material and commercial progress of the age the best of all possible civilizations. And there is the persistent refusal to treat questions of really great moral significance upon any kind of moral basis. The absolute right or wrong of an act Macaulay will avoid discussing if he possibly can, and take refuge in questions of policy, of sheer profit and loss. We need not blame him severely for even these serious shortcomings. On the first point we remember that he was deliberately playing to his audience, consciously writing down to the level of his public. On the second we realize that he was a INTRODUCTION. 31 practical politician and that he never could have been such had he had the idealism of a Carlyle or a Ruskin. And on the third we remember that his own private life was one of affectionate sacrifice and his public life absolutely stainless. He could vote away his own income when moral conviction demanded it. Besides, even when he was only arguing, '^ policy" was always on the side of right. What blame is left? Only this — that he should have pandered to any public, compromising his future fame for an ephemeral ap- plause, and that he should have so far wronged the mass of his readers as to suppose that arguments based upon policy would be more acceptable to them than arguments based upon sound moral principles. That he was something of a Philistine and not wholly a ''child of light," may be placed to his discount but not to his discredit. The total indictment is small and is mentioned here only in the interests of impartial criticism. It remains only to sum up the literary significance of Macaulay's work. Nearly all of that work, we 19 Literary niust remember, lies outside of the Significance. fleld of what we know as ''pure literature." Pure literature — poetry, drama, fic- tion — is a pure artistic or imaginative product with inspiration or entertainment as its chief aim. Though it may instruct incidentally, it does not merely inform. It is the work of creative genius. Macaulay's essays were meant to inform. Characters and situations are delineated in them, but not created. History and criticism are often not literature at all. They become literature only by revealing an imagi- 32 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. native insight and clothing themselves in artistic form. Macaulay 's essays have done this ; they engage the emotions as well as the intellect. They were meant for records, for storehouses of information; but they are also works of art, and therefore they live intact while the records of equally industrious but less gifted historians are revised and replaced. Thus by their artistic quality, their style, they are removed from the shelves of history to the shelves of literature. It becomes plain, perhaps, why at the outset we spoke of style. One hears little about Shakespeare's style, or Scott's, or Shelley's. Where there are mat- ters of larger interest — character, dramatic situations, passion, lofty conceptions, abstract truth — there is little room for attention to so superficial a quality, or rather to a quality that has some such superficial aspects. But in the work of less creative writers, a purely literary interest, if it be aroused at all, must centre chiefly in this. And herein lies Macaulay 's significance to the literary world today. Upon the professional writers of that world, as distinct from the readers, his influence has been no 20. Influence on ^^^s than profound, partly for evil. Journalism. \)^i chiefly, we think (Mr. Morley notwithstanding), for good. His name was mentioned at the beginning of our sketch in connection with journalism. It is just because the literary develop- ment of our age has moved so rapidly along this line, that Macaulay 's influence has been so far-reaching. The journalist must have an active pen. He cannot indulge in meditation while the ink dries. He cannot INTEODUCTION. 33 stop to arrange and rearrange his ideas, to study the cadence of his sentences, to seek for the unique or the suggestive word. What Macaulay did was to fur- nish the model of just such a style as would meet this need — ready, easy, rapid, yet never loose or obscure. He seems to have found his way by instinct to all those expedients which make writing easy — short, direct sentences, commonplace words, constant repeti- tion and balance of form, adapted quotations, and stock phrases from the Bible or Prayer-Book, or from the language of the professions, politics, and trade. This style he impressed upon a generation of journal- ists that was ready to receive it and keenly alive to its value. But the word ''journalist" is scarcely broad enough to cover the class of writers here meant. For the class includes, in addition to the great "press tribe" from editor to reporter and reviewer, every writer of popu- lar literature, every one who appeals to a miscella- neous public, who undertakes to make himself a medium between special intelligence and general intelligence. And there are thousands of these writ- ers today — in editorial chairs, on magazine staffs, on political, educational, and scientific commissions — who are consciously or unconsciously employing the convenient instrument which Macaulay did so much toward perfecting eighty years ago. The evidence is on every hand. One listens to a lecture by a scientist who, it is quite possible, never read a paragraph of Macaulay, and catches, before long, words like these: ** There is no reversal of nature's processes. The world has come from a condition of things essentially 34 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. different from the present. It is moving toward a condition of things essentially different from the present." Or one turns to an editorial in a daily paper and reads: '^It will be ever thus with all the movements in this country to which a revolutionary interpretation can be attached. The mass and body of the people of the United States are a level-headed, sober-minded people. They are an upright and a solvent people. They love their government. They are proud of their government. Its credit is dear to them. Enlisted in its cause, party lines sag loose upon the voters or disappear altogether from their contemplation." The ear-marks are very plain to see. We would not make the mistake of attributing too many and too large effects to a single cause. Life and art are very complex matters and the agencies at work are quite beyond our calculation. There is always danger of exaggerating the importance of a single influence. The trend of things is not easily disturbed — the history of the world never yet turned upon the cast of a die or the length of a woman's nose. In spite of Jeffrey's testimony — and it can not be lightly brushed aside — ^we are not ready to give ]\Iac- aulay the whole credit for inventing this style. Nor do we believe that journalism would be materially dif- ferent from what it is today, even though Macaulay had never written a line. But it does not seem too much to admit that the first vigorous impulse came from him and that the manner is deservedly asso- ciated with his name. In itself, as has been pointed out, it is not a beauti- ful thing. It is a thing of mannerisms, and some of INTEODUCTION. 35 these we have not hesitated to call vices. From the point of view of literature they are vices, blemishes on the face of true art. But the style is useful none the less. The ready writer is not concerned about beauty, he does not profess to be an artist. He has intelligence to convey, and the simplest and clearest medium is for his purpose the best. He will continue to use this serviceable medium nor trouble himself about its ''unlovely staccato" and its gaudy tinsel. Meanwhile the literary artist may pursue his way in search of a more elusive music and a more iridescent beauty, satisfied with the tithe of Macaulay's popu- larity if only he can attain to some measure of his own ideals. But Macaulay himself should be remembered for his real greatness. The facile imitator of the tricks 21. Real Great- ^^ ^^^ P^^ should beware of the ness. ingratitude of assuming that these were the measure of his mind. These vices are virtues in their place, but they are not high virtues, and they are not the virtues that made Macaulay great. His greatness lay in the qualities that we have tried to insist upon from the first, qualities that are quite beyond imitation, the power of bringing instantly into one mental focus the accumulations of a prodigious memory, and the range of vision, the grasp of detail, and the insight into men, measures, and events, that enabled him to reduce to beautiful order the chaos of human history. CHRONOLOGY AND BIBLIOGRAPHY 1800. Macaulay born, Oct. 25, 'at Rothley Temple, Leicestershire. 1818. Entered Trinity College, Cambridge. (B. A., 1822; M.A., 1825.) 1823. Began contributing to Knight ^s Quarterly Magazine. 1824. Elected Fellow of Trinity. 1825. Began contributing to Edinhurgh Review. 1826. Called to the Bar. 1830. Entered Parliament. 1831. Speeches on Reform Bill. 1834. Went to India as member of the Supreme Council. 1837. Indian Penal Code. 1838. Returned to England. Tour in Italy. 1839. Elected to Parliament for Edinburgh. Secre- tary at War. 1842. Lays of Ancient Rome. 1843. Collected edition of Essays. 1848. History of England, vols. i. and ii. (Vols. ill. and iv. 1855; vol. v. 1861.) 1852. Failure in health. 1857. Made Baron Macaulay of Rothley. 1859. Died Dec. 28. (Interred in Westminster- Abbey.) 37 38 MAGAULAY'S ESSAYS. The standard edition of Macaulay's works is that edited by his sister, Lady Trevelyan, in eight volumes, and published at London, 1866; reprinted at New York, by Harper Bros. The authorized biography is that by his nephew, G. 0. Trevelyan, a book which is exceedingly interesting and which takes high rank among English biographies. J. Cotter Morison's life in the English Men of Letters series is briefer, is both biographical and critical, and is in every way an admirable work. There are also articles in the Ency- clopcpdia Britannicaf by Mark Pattison, and in the Dictionary of National Biographyj by Sir Leslie Stephen. The best critical essays are those by Sir Leslie Stephen in Hours in a Library, by John Morley in Miscellanies, and by Walter Bagehot in Literary Studies. MACAULAY'S ESSAYS OLIVER GOLDSMITH FREDERIC THE GREAT MADAM D'ARBLAY OLIVER GOLDSMITH (February 1856) Encyclopedia Britannica. Oliver Goldsmith was one of the most pleasing Eng- lish writers of the eighteenth century. He was of a Protestant and Saxon family which had been long set- tled in Ireland, and which had, like most other Protes- 5tant and Saxon families, been, in troubled times, har- assed and put in fear by the native population. His father, Charles Goldsmith, studied in the reign of Queen Anne at the diocesan school of Elphin, became attached to the daughter of the schoolmaster, mar- 10 ried her, took orders, and settled at a place called Pallas in the county of Longford. There he with dif- ficulty supported his wife and children on what he could earn, partly as a curate and partly as a farmer. 15 At Pallas Oliver Goldsmith was born in November, 1728. The spot was then, for all practical purposes, almost as remote from the busy and splendid capital in which his later years were passed, as any clearing in Upper Canada or any sheep-walk in Australasia 20 now is. Even at this day those enthusiasts who ven- ture to make a pilgrimage to the birthplace of the poet are forced to perform the latter part of their journey on foot. The hamlet lies far from any high road, 41 42 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. on a dreary plain which, in wet weather, is often a lake. The lanes would break any jaunting car to pieces ; and there are ruts and sloughs through which the most strongly built wheels cannot be dragged. While Oliver was still a child, his father was pre- 5 sented to a living worth about 200Z. a year, in the county of Westmeath. The family accordingly quit- ted their cottage in the wilderness for a spacious house on a frequented road, near the village of Lissoy. Here the boy was taught his letters by a maid-servant, and lo was sent in his seventh year to a village school kept by an old quartermaster on half-pay, who professed to teach nothing but reading, writing and arithmetic, but who had an inexhaustible fund of stories about ghosts, banshees and fairies, about the great Rapparee chiefs, 15 Baldearg O'Donnell and galloping Hogan, and about the exploits ot Peterborough and Stanhope, the sur- prise of Monjuich, and the glorious disaster of Bri- huega. This man must have been of the Protestant religion ; but he was of the aboriginal race, and not 20 only spoke the Irish language, but could pour forth unpremeditated Irish verses. Oliver early became, and through life continued to be, a passionate admirer of the Irish music, and especially of the comprositions of Carolan, some of the last notes of whose harp he 25 heard. It ought to be added that Oliver, though by birth one of the Englishry, and though connected by numerous ties with the Established Church, never showed the least sign of that contemptuous antipathy with which, in his days, the ruling minority in Ireland 30 too generally regarded the subject majority. So far indeed was he from sharing in the opinions and feel- ings of the caste to which he belonged, that he con- ceived an aversion to the Glorious and Immortal Mem- ory, and, even when George the Third was on the 35 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 43 throne, maintained that nothing but the restoration of the banished dynasty could save the country. From the humble academy kept by the old soldier Goldsmith was removed in his ninth year. He went 5 to several grammar-schools, and acquired some knowledge of the ancient languages. His life at this time seems to have been far from happy. He had, as appears from the admirable portrait of him at Knowle, features harsh even to ugliness. The small- 10 pox had set its mark on him with more than usual severity. His stature was small, and his limbs ill put together. Among boys little tenderness is shown to personal defects; and the ridicule excited by poor Oliver's appearance was heightened by a peculiar sim- 15 plicity and a disposition to blunder which he retained to the last. He became the common butt of boys and masters, was pointed at as a fright in the play-ground, and flogged as a dunce in the school-room. When he had risen to eminence, those who had once derided 20 him ransacked their memory for the events of his early years, and recited repartees and couplets which had dropped from him, and which, though little noticed at the time, were supposed, a quarter of a century later, to indicate the powers which produced the 25 "Vicar of Wakefield" and the ''Deserted Village." In his seventeenth year Oliver went up to Trinity College, Dublin, as a sizar. The sizars paid nothing for food and tuition, and very little for lodging ; but they had to perform some menial services from 30 which they have long been relieved. They swept the court; they carried up the dinner to the fellows' table, and changed the plates and poured out the ale of the rulers of the society. Goldsmith was quartered, not alone, in a garret, on the window of 35 which his name, scrawled by himself, is still read 44 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. with interest. From such garrets many men of less parts than his have made their way to the wool-sack or to the episcopal bench. But Goldsmith, while he suffered all the humiliations, threw away all the ad- vantages, of his situation. He neglected the studies 5 of the place, stood low at the examinations, was turned down to the bottom of his class for playing the buffoon in the lecture room, was severely repri- manded for pumping on a constable, and was caned by a brutal tutor for giving a ball in the attic story lo of the college to some gay youths and damsels from the city. While Oliver was leading at Dublin a life divided between squalid distress and squalid dissipation, his father died, leaving a mere pittance. The youth ob-i5 tained his bachelor's degree, and left the university. During some time the humble dwelling to which his widowed mother had retired was his home. He was now in his twenty-first year ; it was necessary that he should do something ; and his education seemed to have 20 fitted him to do nothing but to dress himself in gaudy colours, of which he was as fond as a magpie, to take a hand at cards, to sing Irish airs, to play the flute, to angle in summer, and to tell ghost stories by the fire in winter. He tried five or six professions in turn with- 25 out success. He applied for ordination; but, as he applied in scarlet clothes, he was speedily turned out of the episcopal palace. He then became tutor in an opulent family, but soon quitted his situation in conse- quence of a dispute about play. Then he determined 30 to emigrate to America. His relations, with much sat- isfaction, saw him set out for Cork on a good horse, with thirty pounds in his pocket. But in six weeks he came back on a miserable hack, without a penny, and informed his mother that the ship in which he had 35 OLIVEE GOLDSMITH. 45 taken his passage, having got a fair wind while he was at a party of pleasure, had sailed without him. Then he resolved to study the law. A generous kinsman advanced fifty pounds. With this sum Goldsmith went 5 to Dublin, was enticed into a gaming house, and lost every shilling. He then thought of medicine. A small purse was made up; and in his twenty-fourth year he was sent to Edinburgh. At Edinburgh he passed eighteen months in nominal attendance on lec- lotures, and picked up some superficial information about chemistry and natural history. Thence he went to Leyden, still pretending to study physic. He left that celebrated, university, the third university at which he had resided, in his twenty-seventh year, with- 15 out a degree, with the merest smattering of medical knowledge, and with no property but his clothes and his flute. His flute, however, proved a useful friend. He rambled on foot through Flanders, France, and Switzerland, playing tunes which everywhere set the 20 peasantry dancing, and which often procured for him a supper and a bed. He wandered as far as Italy. His musical performances, indeed, were not to the taste of the Italians; but he contrived to live on the alms which he obtained at the gates of convents. It should, 25 however, be observed that the stories which he told about this part of his life ought to be received with great caution ; for strict veracity was never one of his virtues; and a man who is ordinarily inaccurate in narration is likely to be more than ordinarily inac- 30 curate when he talks about his own travels. Gold- smith, indeed, was so regardless of truth as to assert in print that he was present at a most interesting con- versation between Voltaire and Fontenelle, and that this conversation took place at Paris. Now it is cer- 35 tain that Voltaire never was within a hundred leagues 46 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. of Paris during the whole time which Goldsmith passed on the Continent. In 1756 the wanderer landed at Dover, without a shilling, without a friend, and without a calling. He had, indeed, if his own unsupported evidence may be 5 trusted, obtained from the university of Padua a doc- tor 's degree ; but this dignity proved utterly useless to him. In England his flute was not in request: there were no convents ; and he was forced to have recourse to a series of desperate expedients. He turned strol- 10 ling player ; but his face and figure were ill suited to the boards even of the humblest theater. He pounded drugs and ran about London with phials for charitable chemists. He joined a swarm of beggars, which made its nest in Axe Yard. He was for a time usher of a 15 school, and felt the miseries and humiliations of this situation so keenly that he thought it a promotion to be permitted to earn his bread as a bookseller's hack; but he soon found the new yoke more galling than the old one, and was glad to become an usher again. He ob- 20 tained a medical appointment in the service of the East India Company; but the appointment was speedily revoked. Why it was revoked we are not told. The subject was one on which he never liked to talk. It is probable that he was incompetent to perform the 25 duties of the place. Then he presented himself at Surgeons' Hall for examination, as mate to a naval hospital. Even to so humble a post he was found unequal. By this time the schoolmaster whom he had served for a morsel of food and the third part of a 30 bed was no more. Nothing remained but to return to the lowest drudgery of literature. Goldsmith took a garret in a miserable court, to which he had to climb from the brink of Fleet Ditch by a dizzy ladder of flag- stones called Breakneck Steps. The court and the 35 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 47 ascent have long disappeared ; but old Londoners will remember both. Here, at thirty, the unlucky adven- turer sat down to toil like a galley slave. In the succeeding six years he sent to the press some 5 things which have survived and many which have per- ished. He produced articles for reviews, magazines, and newspapers; children's books which, bound in gilt paper and adorned with hideous woodcuts, appeared in the window of the once far-famed shop at the corner 10 of St. Paul's Churchyard; ''An Inquiry into the State of Polite Learning in Europe," which, though of little or no value, is still reprinted among his works ; a ' ' Life of Beau Nash, ' ' which is not reprinted, though it well deserves to be so; a superficial and incorrect, 15 but very readable, ''History of England," in a series of letters purporting to be addressed by a nobleman to his son ; and some very lively and amusing ' ' Sketches of London Society," in a series of letters purporting to be addressed by a Chinese traveller to his friends. 20 All these works were anonymous; but some of them were well known to be Goldsmith 's ; and he gradually rose in the estimation of the booksellers for whom he drudged. He was, indeed, emphatically a popular writer. For accurate research or grave disquisition 25 he was not well qualified by nature or by education. He knew nothing accurately: his reading had been desultory; nor had he meditated deeply on what he had read. He had seen much of the world; but he had noticed and retained little more of what he had 30 seen than some grotesque incidents and characters which had happened to strike his fancy. But, though his mind was very scantily stored with materials, he used what materials he had in such a way as to pro- duce a wonderful effect. There have been many 35 greater writers ; but perhaps no writer was ever more 48 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. uniformly agreeable. His style was always pure and easy, and, on proper occasions, pointed and energetic. His narratives were always amusing, his descriptions always picturesque, his humour rich and joyous, yet not without an occasional tinge of amiable sadness. 5 About everything that he wrote, serious or sportive, there was a certain natural grace and decorum, hardly to be expected from a man a great part of whose life had been passed among thieves and beggars, street- walkers and merry andrews, in those squalid dens lo which are the reproach of great capitals. As his name gradually became known, the circle of his acquaintance widened. He was introduced to John- son, who was then considered as the first of living Eng- lish writers ; to Reynolds, the first of English painters ; 15 and to Burke, who had not yet entered parliament, but had distinguished himself greatly by his writings and by the eloquence of his conversation. With these eminent men Goldsmith became intimate. In 1763 he was one of the nine original members of that cele- 20 brated fraternity which has sometimes been called the Literary Club, but which has always disclaimed that epithet, and still glories in the simple name of The Club. By this time Goldsmith had quitted his miserable 25 dwelling at the top of Breakneck Steps, and had taken chambers in the more civilised region of the Inns of Court. But he was still often reduced to pitiable shifts. Towards the close of 1764 his rent was so long in arrear that his landlady one morning called 30 in the help of a sheriff's officer. The debtor, in great perplexity, despatched a messenger to Johnson; and Johnson, always friendly, though often surly, sent back the messenger with a guinea, and promised to follow speedily. He came, and found that Goldsmith 35 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 49 had changed the guinea, and was railing at the land- lady over a bottle of Madeira, Johnson put the cork into the bottle, and entreated his friend to consider calmly how money was to be procured. Goldsmith »said that he had a novel ready for the press. John- son glanced at the manuscript, saw that there were good things in it, took it to a bookseller, sold it for 60/., and soon returned with the money. The rent was paid; and the sheriff's officer withdrew. Ac- I cording to one story. Goldsmith gave his landlady a sharp reprimand for her treatment of him ; according to another, he insisted on her joining him in a bowl of punch. Both stories are probably true. The novel which was thus ushered into the world was the " Vicar .of Wakefield." But, before the ' ' Vicar of Wakefield ' ' appeared in print, came the great crisis of Goldsmith's literary life. In Christmas week, 1764, he published a poem, entitled the ''Traveller." It was the first work to I which he had put his name ; and it at once raised him to the rank of a legitimate English classic. The opinion of the most skilful critics was, that nothing finer had appeared in verse since the fourth book of the " Dunciad." In one respect the '' Traveller" • differs from all Goldsmith's other writings. In gen- eral his designs were bad, and his execution good. In the " Traveller," the execution, though deserving of much praise, is far inferior to the design. No philo- sophical poem, ancient or modern, has a plan so noble, ) and at the same time so simple. An English wanderer, seated on a crag among the Alps, near the point where three great countries meet, looks down on the boundless prospect, reviews his long pilgrimage, re- calls the varieties of scenery, of climate, of govern- 5 ment, of religion, of national character, which he has 50 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. observed, fuid comes to the conclusion, just or unjust, that our happiness depends little on political institu- tions, and much on the temper and regulation of our own minds. While the fourth edition of the ** Traveller " v^^as 5 on the counters of the booksellers, the " Vicar of Wakefield '' appeared, and rapidly obtained a popu- larity which has lasted down to our own time, and which is likely to last as long as our language. The fable is indeed one of the worst that ever was con- lo structed. It wants, not merely that probability which ought to be found in a tale of common English life, but that consistency which ought to be found even in the wildest fiction about witches, giants, and fairies. But the earlier chapters have all the sweetness of 15 pastoral poetry, together with all the vivacity of comedy. Moses and his spectacles, the vicar and his monogamy, the sharper and his cosmogony, the squire proving from Aristotle that relatives are related, Olivia preparing herself for the arduous task of con- 20 verting a rakish lover by studying the controversy be- tween Robinson Crusoe and Friday, the great ladies with their scandal about Sir Tomkyn's amours and Dr. Burdock's verses, and Mr. Burchell with his ' ' Fudge, ' ' have caused as much harmless mirth as has 25 ever been caused by matter packed into so small a number of pages. The latter part of the tale is un- worthy of the beginning. As we approach the catas- trophe, the absurdities lie thicker and thicker; and the gleams of pleasantry become rarer and rarer. 30 The success which had attended Goldsmith as a novelist emboldened him to try his fortune as a drama- tist. He wrote the " Goodnatured Man," a piece which had a worse fate than it deserved. Garrick refused to produce it at Drury Lane. It was acted at 35 OLIVKH (lOl.DSMITir. 51 Covent Oarflcn in 1768, ])ut was coldly nH'civcd. Tho author, however, cleared by liis })enefit riiji^hts, and by the sale of the copyright, no less than 500/., five times as much as he had made by the ** Traveller " and the ''Vicar of Wakefield" together. The plot of the ''Goodnatured Man" is, like almost all (loldsmith's plots, very ill constructed. But some passages are exquisitely ludicrous; much more ludi- crous, indeed, than suited the taste of the town at that time. A canting, mawkish play, entitled " False Delicacy," had just had an immense run. Senti- mentality was all the mode. During some years, more tears were shed at comedies than at tragedies; and a pleasantry which moved the ^ludience to anything more than a grave smile was reprobated as low. It is not strange, therefore, that the very best scene in the '' Ooodnatured Man," that in which Miss llichland finds her lover attended by the bailiff and the bniliff 's follower in full court dresses, should have been merci- lessly hissed, and should liave been omitted after the first night. In 1770 appeared the "Deserted Village." In mere diction and versification this celebrated i)0('m is Fully equal, perhaps superior, to the ''Traveller;" and it is generally preferred to the "Traveller " by that large class of readers who think, with Bayes in the " Rehearsal," that the only use of a plan is to bring in fine things. More discerning judgc^s, how- over, while they admire the beauty of the details, are shocked by one unpardonable; fault which pervades the whole. The; fault wc mean is not that theory about wealth and luxury which has so often been censiinid by political economists. The theory is indeed false; but the poem, considered merely as a poem, is not inecessarilv the worse on that account. Tin* finest 52 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. poem in the Latin language, indeed the finest didactic poem in any language, was written in defence of the silliest and meanest of all systems of natural and moral philosophy. A poet may easily be pardoned for reasoning ill; but he cannot be pardoned for 5 describing ill, for observing the world in which he lives so carelessly that his portraits bear no resem- blance to the originals, for exhibiting as copies from real life monstrous combinations of things which never were and never could be found together. What lo would be thought of a painter who should mix August and January in one landscape, who should introduce a frozen river into a harvest scene? Would it be a sufficient defence of. such a picture to say that every part was exquisitely coloured, that the green hedges, 15 the apple-trees loaded with fruit, the wagons reeling under the yellow sheaves, and the sun-burned reapers wiping their foreheads, were very fine, and that the ice and the boys sliding were also very fine 1 To such a picture the ^ ' Deserted Village ' ' bears a great re- 20 semblance. It is made up of incongruous parts. The village in its happy days is a true English village. The village in its decay is an Irish village. The felicity and the misery which Goldsmith has brought^ close together belong to two different countries, and 25 to two different stages in the progress of society. He had assuredly never seen in his native island such a rural paradise, such a seat of plenty, content, and tranquillity, as his '' Auburn." He had assuredly never seen in England all the inhabitants of such a 30 paradise turned out of their homes in one day and forced to emigrate in a body to America. The ham- let he had probably seen in Kent; the ejectment he had probably seen in Munster: but, by joining the two, he has produced something which never 35 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 53 was and never will be seen in any part of the world. In 1773 Goldsmith tried his chance at Covent Gar- den with a second play, ''She Stoops to Conquer." 5 The manager was not without great difficulty induced to bring this piece out. The sentimental comedy still reigned; and Goldsmith's comedies were not senti- mental. The ' ' Goodnatured Man" had been too funny to succeed ; yet the mirth of the ' ' Goodnatured 10 ^lan ' ' was sober when compared with the rich drollery of ' ' She Stoops to Conquer, ' ' which is, in truth, an in- comparable farce in five acts. On this occasion, how- ever, genius triumphed. Pit, boxes, and galleries, were in a constant roar of laughter. If any bigoted 15 admirer of Kelly and Cumberland ventured to hiss or groan, he was speedily silenced by a general cry of "turn him out," or "throw him over." Two genera- tions have since confirmed the verdict which was pro- nounced on that night. 20 While Goldsmith was writing the "Deserted Vil- lage" and "She Stoops to Conquer," he was employed on works of a very different kind, works from which he derived little reputation but much profit. He com- piled for the use of schools a "History of Rome," by 25 which he made 300L, a "History of England," by which he made 600?., a "History of Greece," for which he received 250?., a "Natural History," for which the booksellers covenanted to pay him 800 guineas. These works he produced without any elab- 30 orate research, by merely selecting, abridging, and translating into his own clear, pure, and flowing lan- guage what he found in books well known to the world, but too bulky or too dry for boys and girls. He committed some strange blunders; for he knew noth- 35 ing with accuracy. Thus in his ' ' History of Eng- 54 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. land" he tells us that Naseby is in Yorkshire ; nor did he correct this mistake when the book was reprinted. He was very nearly hoaxed into putting into the "History of Greece" an account of a battle between Alexander the Great and Montezuma. In his ''Ani- 5 mated Nature ' ' he relates, with faith and with perfect gravity, all the most absurd lies which he could find in books of travels about gigantic Patagonians, monkeys that preach sermons, nightingales that repeat long conversations. ''If he can tell a horse from a cow," lo said Johnson, ''that is the extent of his knowledge of zoology. ' ' How little Goldsmith was qualified to write about the physical sciences is sufficiently proved by two anecdotes. He on one occasion denied that the sun is longer in the northern than in the southern signs. 15 It was vain to cite the authority of Maupertuis. " Maupertuis ! " he cried, "I understand those mat- ters better than Maupertuis." On another occasion he, in defiance of the evidence of his own senses, maintained obstinately, and even angrily, that he 20 chewed his dinner by moving his upper jaw. Yet, ignorant as Goldsmith was, few writers have done more to make the first steps in the laborious road to knowledge easy and pleasant. His compilations are widely distinguished from the compilations of ordi- 25 nary book-makers. He was a great, perhaps an unequalled, master of the arts of selection and con- densation. In these respects his histories of Rome and of England, and still more his own abridgements of these histories, well deserve to be studied. In general 80 nothing is less attractive than an epitome : but the epitomes of Goldsmith, even when most concise, are always amusing; and to read them is considered by intelligent children, not as a task, but as a pleasure. Goldsmith might now be considered as a prosperous 35 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 55 man. He had the means of living in comfort, and even in what to one who had so often slept in barns and on bulks must have been luxury. His fame was great and was constantly rising. He lived in what 5 was intellectually far the best society of the kingdom, in a society in which no talent or accomplishment was wanting, and in which the art of conversation was cultivated with splendid success. There probably w^ere never four talkers more admirable in four dif- loferent ways than Johnson, Burke, Beauclerk, and Garrick; and Goldsmith was on terms of intimacy with all the four. He aspired to share in their collo- quial renown ; but never was ambition more unfortu- nate. It may seem strange that a man who wrote with 15 so much perspicuity, vivacity, and grace, should have been, whenever he took a part in conversation, an empty, noisy, blundering rattle. But on this point the evidence is overwhelming. So extraordinary was the contrast between Goldsmith 's published works and 20 the silly things which he said, that Horace Walpole described him as an inspired idiot. ''Noll," said Garrick, ''wrote like an angel, and talked like poor Poll." Chamier declared that it was a hard exercise of faith to believe that so foolish a chatterer could 25 have really written the "Traveller." Even Boswell could say, with contemptuous compassion, that he liked very well to hear honest Goldsmith run on. ' ' Yes, sir, ' ' said Johnson ; ' ' but he should not like to hear himself." Minds differ as rivers differ. There 30 are transparent and sparkling rivers from which it is delightful to drink as they flow; to such rivers the minds of such men as Burke and Johnson may be compared. But there are rivers of which the water when first drawn is turbid and noisome, but becomes 35 pellucid as crystal, and delicious to the taste, if it be 56 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. suffered to stand till it has deposited a sediment ; and such a river is a type of the mind of Goldsmith. His first thoughts on every subject were confused even to absurdity; but they required only a little time to work themselves clear. When he wrote they had that 5 time ; and therefore his readers pronounced him a man of genius ; but when he talked he talked nonsense, and made himself the laughing-stock of his hearers. He was painfully sensible of his inferiority in con- versation ; he felt every failure keenly ; yet he had not lo sufficient judgment and self-command to hold his tongue. His animal spirits and vanity were always impelling him to try to do the one thing which he could not do. After every attempt he felt that he had exposed himself, and writhed with shame and vexa-i5 tion ; yet the next moment he began again. His associates seem to have regarded him with kind- ness, which, in spite of their admiration of his writ- ings, was not unmixed with contempt. In truth, there was in his character much to love, but very little to 20 respect. His heart was soft even to weakness ; he was so generous that he quite forgot to be just ; he forgave injuries so readily that he might be said to invite them ; and was so liberal to beggars that he had noth- ing left for his tailor and his butcher. He was vain, 25 sensual, frivolous, profuse, improvident. One vice of a darker shade was imputed to him, envy. But there is not the least reason to believe that this bad passion, though it sometimes made him wince and utter fretful exclamations, ever impelled him to injure by wicked 30 arts the reputation of any of his rivals. The. truth probably is, that he was not more envious, but merely less prudent, than his neighbours. His heart was on his lips. All those small jealousies, which are but too common among men of letters, but which a man of let- 35 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 57 ters who is also a man of the world does his best to conceal, Goldsmith avowed with the simplicity of a child. When he was envious, instead of affecting in- difference, instead of damning with faint praise, 5 instead of doing injuries slily and in the dark, he told every body that he was envious. ''Do not, pray, do not talk of Johnson in such terms," he said to Bos- well; "you harrow up my very soul." George Steevens and Cumberland were men far too cunning 10 to say such a thing. They would have echoed the praises of the man whom they envied, and then have sent to the newspapers anonymous libels upon him. Both what was good and what was bad in Goldsmith 's character was to his associates a perfect security that 15 he would never commit such villainy. He was neither ill-natured enough nor long-headed enough to be guilty of any malicious act which required contrivance and disguise. Goldsmith has sometimes been represented as a man 20 of genius, cruelly treated by the world, and doomed to struggle with difficulties which at last broke his heart. But no representation can be more remote from the truth. He did, indeed, go through much sharp misery before he had done .anything considerable in litera- 25 ture. But, after his name had appeared on the title- page of the "Traveller," he had none but himself to blame for his distresses. His average income, during the last seven years of his life, certainly exceeded 400?. a year; and 400/. a year ranked, among the in- 30 comes of that day, at least as high as SOOl. a year would rank at present. A single man living in the Temple with 400/. a year might be called opulent. Not one in ten of the young gentlemen of good families who were studying the law there had so much. But 35 all tlie wealth which Lord Olive had brought from 58 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. Bengal, and Sir Lawrence Dundas from Germany, joined together, would not have sufficed for Gold- smith. He spent twice as much as he had. He wore fine clothes, gave dinners of several courses, paid court to venal beauties. He had also, it should be remem-5 bered, to the honour of his heart, though not of his head, a guinea, or five, or ten, according to the state of his purse, ready for any tale of distress, true or false. But it was not in dress or feasting, in promis- cuous amours or promiscuous charities, that his chief lo expense lay. He had been from boyhood a gambler, and at once the most sanguine and the most unskilful of gamblers. For a time he put off the day of in- evitable ruin by temporary expedients. He obtained advances from booksellers, by promising to execute 15 works which he never began. But at length this source of supply failed. He owed more than 2000?., and he saw no hope of extrication from his embarrass- ments. His spirits and health gave way. He was attacked by a nervous fever, which he thought him- 20 self competent to treat. It would have been happy for him if his medical skill had been appreciated as justly by himself as by others. Notwithstanding the degree which he pretended to ha,ve received at Padua, he could procure no patients. ^*I do not practise, "25 he once said; "I make it a rule to prescribe only for my friends.'' **Pray, dear Doctor," said Beauclerk, *' alter your rule; and prescribe only for your ene- mies." Goldsmith now, in spite of this excellent ad- vice, prescribed for himself. The remedy aggravated 30 the malady. The sick man was induced to call in real physicians; and they at one time imagined that they had cured the disease. Still his weakness and rest- lessness continued. He could get no sleep. He could take no food. ''You are worse," said one of his 35 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 59 medical attendants, ''than you should ])e from the degree of fever which you have. Is your mind at ease ? " ' ' No, it is not, ' ' were the last recorded words of Oliver Goldsmith. He died on the third of April, 5 1774, in his forty-sixth year. He was laid in the churchyard of the Temple; but the spot was not marked by any inscription, and is now forgotten. The coffin was followed by Burke and Reynolds. Both these great men were sincere mourners. Burke, when 10 he heard of Goldsmith's death, had burst into a flood of tears. Reynolds had been so much moved by the news that he had flung aside his brush and palette for the day. A short time after Goldsmith's death, a little poem 15 appeared, which will, as long as our language lasts, associate the names of his two illustrious friends with his own. It has already been mentioned that he sometimes felt keenly the sarcasm which his wild blundering talk brought upon him. He was, not long 20 before his last illness, provoked into retaliating. He wisely betook himself to his pen; -and at that weapon he proved himself a match for all his assailants to- gether. Within a small compass he drew with a sin- gularly easy and vigourous pencil the characters of 25 nine or ten of his intimate associates. Though this little work did not receive his last touches, it must always be regarded as a masterpiece. It is impos- sible, however, not to wish that four or five likenesses which have no interest for posterity were wanting to 30 that noble gallery, and that their places were sup- plied by sketches of Johnson and Gibbon, as happy and vivid as the sketches of Burke and Garrick. Some of Goldsmith's friends and admirers honoured him with a cenotaph in Westminster Abbey. Nolle- 35 kens was the sculptor ; and Johnson wrote the inscrip- 60 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. tion. It is much to be lamented that Johnson did not leave to posterity a more durable and a more valuable memorial to his friend. A life of Goldsmith would have been an inestimable addition to the Lives of the Poets. No man appreciated Goldsmith's writings 5 more justly than Johnson; no man was better ac- quainted with Goldsmith's character and habits; and no man was more competent to delineate with truth and spirit the peculiarities of a mind in which great powers were found in company with great weaknesses, lo But the list of poets to whose works Johnson was requested by the booksellers to furnish prefaces ended with Lyttelton, who died in 1773. The line seems to have been drawn expressly for the purpose of exclud- ing the person whose portrait would have most fitly is closed the series. Goldsmith, however, has been for- tunate in his biographers. Within a few years his life has been written by Mr. Prior, by Mr. Wash- ington Irving, and by Mr. Forster. The diligence of Mr. Prior deserves great praise : the style of Mr. 20 Washington Irving is always pleasing ; but the high- est place must, in justice, be assigned to the eminently interesting work of Mr. Forster. FREDERIC THE GREAT {April, 1842) Frederic the Great and His Times. Edited, with an intro- duction, by Thomas Campbell, Esq. 2 vols. 8vo. London: 1842. This work, which has the high honour of being in- troduced to the world by the author of Lochiel and Hohenlinden, is not wholly unworthy of so distin- guished a chaperon. It professes, indeed, to be no 5 more than a compilation ; but it is an exceedingly amusing compilation, and we shall be glad to have more of it. The narrative comes down at present only to the commencement of the Seven Years' War, and therefore does not comprise the most interesting 10 portion of Frederic's reign. It may not be unacceptable to our readers that we should take this opportunity of presenting them with a slight sketch of the life of the greatest king that has, in modern times, succeeded by right of birth to a 15 throne. If may, we fear, be impossible to compress so long and eventful a story within the limits which we must prescribe to ourselves. Should we be compelled to break off, we may perhaps, when the continuation of this work appears, return to the subject. 20 The Prussian monarchy, the youngest of the great European states, but in population and revenue the fifth among them, and in art, science, and civilisation entitled to the third, if not to the second place, sprang 61 62 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. from a humble origin. About the beginning of the fifteenth century, the marquisate of Brandenburg was bestowed by the Emperor Sigismund on the noble family of Hohenzollern. In the sixteenth century that family embraced the Lutheran doctrines. It obtained 5 from the King of Poland, early in the seventeenth century, the investiture of the duchy of Prussia. Even after this accession of territory, the chiefs of the house of Hohenzollern hardly ranked with the Electors of Saxony and Bavaria. The soil of Brandenburg lo was for the most part sterile. Even round Berlin, the capital of the province, and round Potsdam, the favourite residence of the Margraves, the country was a desert. In some places, the deep sand could with difficulty be forced by assiduous tillage to yield thin 15 crops of rye and oats. In other places, the ancient forests, from which the conquerors of the Roman em- pire had descended on the Danube, remained un- touched by the hand of man. Where the soil was rich it was generally marshy, and its insalubrity repelled 20 the cultivators whom its fertility attracted. Frederic William, called the Great Elector, was the prince to whose policy his successors have agreed to ascribe their greatness. He acquired by the peace of Westphalia several valuable possessions, and among th^m the rich 25 city and district of Magdeburg ; and he leivto his son Frederic a principality as considerable as any which was not called a kingdom. Frederic aspired to the style of royalty. Ostenta- tious and profuse, negligent of his true interests and 30 of his high duties, insatiably eager for frivolous dis- tinctions, he added nothing to the real weight of the state which he governed: perhaps he transmitted his inheritance to his children impaired rather than aug- mented in value ; but he succeeded in gaining the great 35 FREDERIC THE GREAT. 63 object of his life, the title of King. In the year 1700 he assumed this new dignity. He had on that occa- sion to undergo all the mortifications which fall to the lot of ambitious upstarts. Compared with the other 5 crowned heads of Europe, he made a figure resembling that which a Nabob or a Commissary, who had bought a title, would make in the company of Peers whose ancestors had been attainted for treason against the Plantagenets. The envy of the class which Frederic 10 quitted, and the civil scorn of the class into which he intruded himself, were marked in very significant ways. The Elector of Saxony at first refused to acknowledge the new Majesty. Louis the Fourteenth looked down on his brother King with an air not 15 unlike that with which the Count in Moliere 's play regards IMonsieur Jourdain, just fresh from the mum- mery of being made a gentleman. Austria exacted large sacrifices in return for her recognition, and at last gave it ungraciously. 20 Frederic was succeeded by his son, Frederic Wil- liam, a prince who must be allowed to have possessed some talents for administration, but whose character was disfigured by odious vices, and whose eccentricities were such as had never before been seen out of a mad- 25 house. He was exact and diligent in the transacting of business; and he was the first who formed the de- sign of obtaining for Prussia a place among the Eu- ropean powers, altogether out of proportion to her extent and population, by means of a strong military 30 organization. Strict economy enabled him to keep up a peace establishment of sixty thousand troops. These troops were disciplined in such a manner, that placed beside them, the household regiments of Versailles and St. James's would have appeared an awkward squad. 35 The master of such a force could not but be regarded 64 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. by all his neighbours as a formidable enemy and a valuable ally. But the mind of Frederic William was so ill regu- lated, that all his inclinations became passions, and all his passions partook of the character of moral and 5 intellectual disease. His parsimony degenerated into sordid avarice. His taste for military pomp and order became a mania, like that of a Dutch burgomaster for tulips, or that of a member of the Roxburghe Club for Caxtons. While the envoys of the Court of Berlin lo were in a state of such squalid poverty as moved the laughter of foreign capitals, while the food placed be- fore the princes and princesses of the blood-royal of Prussia was too scanty to appease hunger, and so bad that even hunger loathed it, no price was thought toois extravagant for tall recruits. The ambition of the King was to form a brigade of giants, and every coun- try was ransacked by his agents for men above the ordinary stature. These researches were not confined to Europe. No head that towered above the crowd in 20 the bazaars of Aleppo, of Cairo, or of Surat, could escape the crimps of Frederic William. One Irishman more than seven feet high, who was picked up in Lon- don by the Prussian ambassador, received a bounty of near thirteen hundred pounds sterling, very much 25 more than the ambassador's salary. This extrava- gance was the more absurd, because a stout youth of five feet eight, who might have been procured for a few dollars,, would in all probability have been a much more valuable soldier. But to Frederic William, this 30 huge Irishman was what a brass Otho, or a Vinegar Bible, is to a collector of a different kind. It is remarkable, that though the main end of Fred- eric William's administration was to have a great mili- tary force, though his reign forms an important epoch 35 FREDERIC THE GREAT. g5 in the history of military discipline, and though his dominant passion was the love of military display, he was yet one of the most pacific of princes. We are afraid that his aversion to war was not the effect of 5 humanity, but was merely one of his thousand whims. His feeling about his troops seems to have resembled a miser's feeling about his money. He loved to collect them, to count them, to see them increase; but he could not find it in his heart to break in upon the 10 precious hoard. He looked forward to some future time when his Patagonian battalions were to drive hostile infantry before them like sheep : but this future time was always receding; and it is probable that, if his life had been prolonged thirty years, his superb 15 army would never have seen any harder service than a sham fight in the fields near Berlin. But the great military means which he had collected were destined to be employed by a spirit far more daring and inventive than his own. 20 Frederic, surnamed the Great, son of Frederic William, was born in January, 1712. It may safely be pronounced that he had received from nature a strong and sharp understanding, and a rare firmness of temper and intensity of will. As to the other parts 25 of his character, it is difficult to say whether they are to be ascribed to nature, or to the strange training which he underwent. The history of his boyhood is painfully interesting. Oliver Twist in the parish workhouse, Smike at Dotheboy's Hall, were petted 30 children when compared with this wretched heir ap- parent of a crown. The nature of Frederic William was hard and bad, and the habit of exercising arbi- trary power had made him frightfully savage. His rage constantly vented itself to right and left in 35 curses and blows. When his IMajesty took a walk, 5'(i MACAULAT'S ESSAYS. every human being fled before him, as if a tiger had broken loose from a menagerie. If he met a lady in the street, he gave her a kick, and told her to go home and mind her brats. If he saw a clergyman staring at the soldiers, he admonished the reverend gentle- 5 man to betake himself to study and prayer, and en- forced this pious advice by a sound caning, adminis- tered on the spot. But it was in his own house that he was most unreasonable and ferocious. His palace was hell, and he the most execrable of fiends, a cross lo between Moloch and Puck. His son Frederic and his daughter Wilhelmina, afterwards Margravine of Bareuth, were in an especial manner objects of his aversion. His own mind was uncultivated. He de- spised literature. He hated infidels, papists, and is metaphysicians, and did not very well understand in what they differed from each other. The business of life, according to him, was to drill and to be drilled. The recreations suited to a prince, were to sit in a cloud of tobacco smoke, to sip Swedish beer between 20 the puffs of the pipe, to play backgammon for three halfpence a rubber, to kill wild hogs, and to shoot partridges by the thousand. The Prince Royal showed little inclination either for the serious em- ployments or for the amusements of his father. He 25 shirked the duties of the parade : he detested the fume of tobacco : he had no taste either for backgammon or for field sports. He had an exquisite ear and per- formed skilfully on the flute. His earliest instructors had been French refugees, and they had awakened in 30 him a strong passion for French literature and French society. Frederic William regarded these tastes as effeminate and contemptible, and, by abuse and persecution, made them still stronger. Things became worse when the Prince Royal attained that 35 FEEDEEIC THE GEEAT. 67 time of life at which the great revolution in the hu- man mind and body takes place. He was guilty of some youthful indiscretions, which no good and wise parent would regard with severity. At a later period she was accused, truly or falsely, of vices from which History averts her eyes, and which even Satire blushes to name, vices such that, to borrow the ener- getic language of Lord Keeper Coventry, *'the de- praved nature of man, which of itself carrieth man to 10 all other sin, abhorreth them.*' But the offences of his youth were not characterized by any degree of turpitude. They excited, however, transports of rage in the King, who hated all faults except those to which he was himself inclined, and who conceived 15 that he made ample atonement to Heaven for his brutality by holding the softer passions in detesta- tion. The Prince Royal, too, was not one of those who are content to take their religion on trust. He asked puzzling questions, and brought forward arguments 20 which seemed to savour of something different from pure Lutheranism. The King suspected that his son was inclined to be a heretic of some sort or other, whether Calvinist or Atheist his Majesty did not very well know. The ordinary malignity of Frederic 25 William was bad enough. He now thought malignity a part of his duty as a Christian man, and all the con- science that he had stimulated his hatred. The flute was broken: the French books were sent out of the palace: the Prince was kicked and cudgelled, and 30 pulled by the hair. At dinner the plates were hurled at his head : sometimes he was restricted to bread and water: sometimes he was forced to swallow food so nauseous that he could not keep it on his stomach. Once his father knocked him down, dragged him 35 along the floor to a window, and was with difficulty 53 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. prevented from strangling him with the cord of the curtain. The Queen, for the crime of not wishing to see her son murdered, was subjected to the grossest indignities. The Princess Wilhelmina, who took her brother's part, was treated almost as ill as Mrs. 5 Brownrigg's apprentices. Driven to despair, the un- happy youth tried to run away. Then the fury of the old tyrant rose to madness. The Prince was an officer in the army : his flight was therefore desertion ; and, in the moral code of Frederic William, deser- 10 tion was the highest of all crimes. "Desertion," says this royal theologian, in one of his half crazy letters, ''is from hell. It is a work of the children of the Devil. No child of God could possibly be guilty of it." An accomplice of the Prince, in spite of the is recommendation of a court martial, was mercilessly put to death. It seemed probable that the Prince himself would suffer the same fate. It was with dif- ficulty that the intercession of the States of Holland, of the Kings of Sweden and Poland, and of the Em- 20 peror of Germany, saved the House of Brandenburg from the stain of an unnatural murder. After months of cruel suspense, Frederic learned that his life would be spared. He remained, however, long a prisoner ; but he was not on that account to be pitied. 25 He found in his gaolers a tenderness which he had never found in his father; his table was not sumptu- ous, but he had wholesome food in sufficient quantity to appease hunger: he could read the Henriade with- out being kicked, and could play on his flute without 30 having it broken over his head. When his confinement terminated he was a man. He had nearly completed his twenty-first year, and could scarcely be kept much longer under the re- straints which had made his boyhood miserable. 35 FREDERIC THE GREAT. 69 Suffering had matured his understanding, while it had hardened his heart and soured his temper. He had learnt self-command and dissimulation: he af- fected to conform to some of his father's views, and 5 submissively accepted a wife, who was a wife only in name, from his father's hand. He also served with credit, though without any opportunity of ac- quiring brilliant distinction, under the command of Prince Eugene, during a campaign marked by no 10 extraordinary events. He was now permitted to keep a separate establishment, and was therefore able to indulge with caution his own tastes. Partly in order to conciliate the King, and partly, no doubt, from inclination, he gave up a portion of his time to mili- 15 tary and political business, and thus gradually ac- quired such an aptitude for affairs as his most inti- mate associates were not aware that he possessed. His favourite abode was at Rheinsberg, near the frontier which separates the Prussian dominions from 20 the Duchy of Mecklenburg. Rheinsberg is a fertile and smiling spot, in the midst of the sandy waste of the Marquisate. The mansion, surrounded by woods of oak and beech, looks out upon a spacious lake. There Frederic amused himself by laying out gardens 25 in regular alleys and intricate mazes, by building obe- lisks, temples, and conservatories, and by collecting rare fruits and flowers. His retirement was enlivened by a few companions, among whom he seems to have preferred those who, by birth or extraction, were 30 French. With these inmates he dined and supped well, drank freely, and amused himself sometimes with concerts, and sometimes with holding chapters of a fraternity which he called the Order of Bayard ; but literature was his chief resource. 35 His education had been entirely French. The long 70 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. ascendancy which Louis the Fourteenth had enjoyed, and the eminent merit of the tragic and comic drama- tists, of the satirists, and of the preachers who had flourished under that magnificent prince, had made the French language predominant in Europe. Evens in countries which had a national literature, and which could boast of names greater than those of Racine, of Moliere, and of Massillon, in the country of Dante, in the country of Cervantes, in the country of Shakespeare and Milton, the intellectual fashions lo of Paris had been to a great extent adopted. Ger- many had not yet produced a single masterpiece of poetry or eloquence. In Germany, therefore, the French taste reigned without rival and without limit. Every youth of rank was taught to speak and write 15 French. That he should speak and write his own tongue with politeness, or even with accuracy and facility, was regarded as comparatively an unimpor- tant object. Even Frederic William, with all his rugged Saxon prejudices, thought it necessary that 20 his children should know French, and quite unneces- sary that they should be well versed in German. The Latin was positively interdiqted. ''My son," his Majesty wrote, ''shall not learn Latin; and, more than that, I will not suffer anybody even to mention 25 such a thing to me. ' ' One of the preceptors ventured to read the Golden Bull in the original w^ith the Prince Royal. Frederic William entered the room, and broke out in his usual kingly style. "Rascal, what are you at there?" 30 "Please your Majesty," answered the preceptor, ' ' I was explaining the Golden Bull to his Royal High- ness." " I '11 Golden Bull you, you rascal ! ' ' roared the Majesty of Prussia. Up went the King's cane; away 35 PREDEEIC THE GREAT. 71 ran the terrified instructor; and Frederic's classical studies ended for ever. He now and then affected to quote Latin sentences, and produced such exquisitely Ciceronian phrases as these: — ''Stante pede morire," 5 — ' ' De gustibus non est disputandus ' ' — ' ' Tot verbas tot spondera." Of Italian, he had not enough to read a page of Metastasio with ease; and of the Spanish and English, he did not, as far as we are aware, un- derstand a single word, 10 As the highest human compositions to which he had access were those of the French writers, it is not strange that his admiration for those writers should have been unbounded. His ambitious and eager temper early prompted him to imitate what he ad- 15 mired. The wish, perhaps, dearest to his heart was, that he might rank among the masters of French rhetoric and poetry. He wrote prose and verse as indefatigably as if he had been a starving hack of Cave or Osborn; but Nature, which had bestowed on 20 him, in a large measure, the talents of a captain and of an administrator, had withheld from him those higher and rarer gifts, without which industry labors in vain to produce immortal eloquence and song. And, indeed, had he been blessed with more imag- 25 ination, wit, and fertility of thought, than he appears to have had, he would still have been subject to one great disadvantage, which would, in all probability, have for ever prevented him from taking a high place among men of letters. He had not the full command 30 of any language. There was no machine of thought which he could employ with perfect ease, confidence and freedom. He had German enough to scold his servants, or to give the word of command to his grenadiers ; but his grammar and pronunciation were B5 extremely bad. He found it difficult to make out the 72 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. meaning even of the simplest German poetry. On one occasion a version of Racine's Iphigenie was read to him. He held the French original in his hand; but was forced to own that, even with such help, he could not understand the translation. Yet, though 5 he had neglected his mother tongue in order to be- stow all his attention on French, his French was, after all, the French of a foreigner. It was necessary for him to have always at his beck some men of let- ters from Paris to point out the solecisms and false 10 rhymes of which, to the last, he was frequently guilty. Even had he possessed the poetic faculty, of which, as far as we can judge, he was utterly destitute, the want of a language would have prevented him from being a great poet. No noble work of imagination, 15 as far as we recollect, was ever composed by any man, except in a dialect which he had learned without re- membering how or when, and which he had spoken with perfect ease before he had ever analysed its structure. Romans of great abilities wrote Greek 20 verses; but how many of those verses have deserved to live? Many men of eminent genius have, in mod- ern times, written Latin poems ; but, as far as we are aware, none of those poems, not even Milton's, can be ranked in the first class of art, or even very high in 25 the second. It is not strange, therefore, that, in the French verses of Frederic, we can find nothing be- yond the reach of any man of good parts and indus- try, nothing above the level of Newdigate and Seaton- ian poetry. His best pieces may perhaps rank with 30 the worst in Dodsley's collection. In history, he succeeded better. We do not, indeed, find, in any part of his voluminous IMemoirs, either deep reflection or vivid painting. But the narrative is distinguished by clearness, conciseness, good sense, and a certain 35 FEEDEEIC THE GEEAT. 73 air of truth and simplicity, which is singularly grace- ful in a man who, having done great things, sits down to relate them. On the whole, however, none of his writings are so agreeable to us as his Letters, par- 5 ticularly those which are written with earnestness, and are not embroidered with verses. It is not strange that a young man devoted to literature, and acquainted only with the literature of France, should have looked with profound veneration 10 on the genius of Voltaire. ' ' A man who has never seen the sun," says Calderon, in one of his charming comedies, ''cannot be blamed for thinking that no glory can exceed that of the moon. A man who has seen neither moon nor sun, cannot be blamed for 15 talking of the unrivalled brightness of the morning star." Had Frederic been able to read Homer and Milton, or even Virgil and Tasso, his admiration of the Henriade would prove that he was utterly desti- tute of the power of discerning what is excellent in JO art. Had he been familiar with Sophocles or Shakes- peare, we should have expected him to appreciate Zaire more justly. Had he been able to study Thucy- dides and Tacitus in the original Greek and Latin, he would have known that there were heights in the >5 eloquence of history far beyond the reach of the au- thor of the Life of Charles the Twelfth. But the finest heroic poem, several of the most powerful tragedies, and the most brilliant and picturesque his- torical work that Frederic had ever read, were Vol- jotaire's. Such high and various excellence moved the young prince almost to adoration. The opinions of Voltaire on religious and philosophical questions had not yet been fully exhibited to the public. At a later period, when an exile from his country and at open 35 war with the Church, he spoke out. But when Fred- 74 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. eric was at Rheinsberg, Voltaire was still a courtier; and, though he could not always curb his petulant wit, he had as yet published nothing that could ex- clude him from Versailles, and little that a divine of the mild and generous school of Grotius and Tillotsong might not read with pleasure. In the Henriade, in Zaire, and in Alzire, Christian piety is exhibited in the most amiable form; and, some years after the period of which we are writing, a Pope condescended to accept the dedication of JMahomet. The real senti-io ments of the poet, however, might be clearly perceived by a keen eye through the decent disguise with which he veiled them, and could not escape the sagacity of Frederic, who held similar opinions, and had been accustomed to practice similar dissimulation. 15 The Prince wrote to his idol in the style of a wor- shipper ; and Voltaire replied with exquisite grace and address. A correspondence followed, which may be studied with advantage by those who wish to become proficients in the ignoble art of flattery. No man ever 20 paid compliments better than Voltaire. His sweetest confectionery had always a delicate, yet stimulating flavour, which was delightful to palates wearied by the coarse preparations of inferior artists. It was only from his hand that so much sugar could be swal- 25 lowed without making the swallower sick. Copies of verses, writing desks, trinkets of amber, were ex- changed between the friends. Frederic confided his writings to Voltaire ; and Voltaire applauded, as if Frederic had been Racine and Bossuet in one. One 30 of his Royal Highness 's performances was a refuta- tion of IMachiavelli. Voltaire undertook to convey it to the press. It was entitled the Anti-Machiavel, and was an edifying homily against rapacity, perfidy, arbitrary government, unjust war, in short, against 35 FEEDERIC THE GREAT. 75 almost every thing for which its author is now remem- bered among men. The old King uttered now and then a ferocious growl at the diversions of Kheinsberg. But his health 5 was broken ; his end was approaching, and his vigour was impaired. He had only one pleasure left, that of seeing tall soldiers. He could always be propitiated by a present of a grenadier of six feet four or six feet five; and such presents were from time to time 10 judiciously offered by his son. Early in the year 1740, Frederic William met death with a firmness and dignity worthy of a better and wiser man ; and Frederic, who had just completed his twenty-eighth year, became King of Pjrussia. His 15 character was little understood. That he had good abilities, indeed, no person who had talked with him, or corresponded with him, could doubt. But the easy, Epicurean life which he had led, his love of good cookery and good wine, of music, of conversation, of »o light literature, led many to regard him as a sensual and intellectual voluptuary. His habit of canting about moderation, peace, liberty, and the happiness which a good mind derives from the happiness of others, had imposed on some who should have known J5 better. Those who thought best of him expected a Telemachus after Fenelon's pattern. Others predicted the approach of a Medicean age, an age propitious to learning and art, and not unpropitious to pleasure. Nobody had the least suspicion that a tyrant of ex- 10 traordinary military and political talents, of industry more extraordinary still, without fear, without faith, and without mercy, had ascended the throne. The disappointment of Falstaff at his old boqn-com- panion's coronation was not more bitter than that J5 which awaited some of the inmates of Rheinsberg. 76 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. They had long looked forward to the accession of their patron, as to the event from which their own prosperity and greatness was to date. They had at last reached the promised land, the land which they had figured to themselves as flowing with milk and 5 honey; and they found it a desert. "No more of these fooleries," was the short, sharp admonition given by Frederic to one of them. It soon became plain that, in the most important points, the new sov- ereign bore a strong family likeness to his predeces-io sor. There was indeed a wide difference between the father and the son as respected extent and vigour of intellect, speculative opinions, amusements, studies, outward demeanour. But the groundwork of the character was the same in both. To both were com- 15 mon the love of order, the love of business, the mili- tary taste, the parsimony, the imperious spirit, the temper irritable even to ferocity, the pleasure in the pain and humiliation of others. But these propen- sities had in Frederic William partaken of the general 20 unsoundness of his mind, and wore a very different aspect when found in company with the strong and cultivated understanding of his successor. Thus, for example, Frederic was as anxious as any prince could be about the efficiency of his army. But this anxiety 25 never degenerated into a monomania, like that which led his father to pay fancy prices for giants. Frederic was as thrifty about money as any prince or any private man ought to be. But he did not conceive, like his father, that it was worth while to eat unwhole- 30 some cabbages for the sake of saving four or five rix- dollars in the year. Frederic was, we fear, as malevo- lent as his father; but Frederic's wit enabled him often to show his malevolence in ways more decent than those to which his father resorted, and to inflict 35 FREDEKIC THE GREAT. 77 misery and degradation by a taunt instead of a blow. Frederic, it is true, by no means relinquished his hereditary privilege of kicking and cudgelling. His practice, however, as to that matter, differed in some 5 important respects from his father's. To Frederic William, the mere circumstance that any persons whatever, men, women, or children, Prussians or for- eigners, were within reach of his toes and of his cane, appeared to be a sufficient reason for proceeding to 10 belabour them. Frederic required provocation as well as vicinity ; nor was he ever known to inflict this paternal species of correction on any but his born subjects; though on one occasion M. Thiebault had reason, during a few seconds, to anticipate the high 15 honour of being an exception to this general rule. The character of Frederic was still very imper- fectly understood either by his subjects or by his neighbours, when events occurred which exhibited it in a strong light, A few months after his accession 20 died Charles the Sixth, Emperor of Germany, the last descendant, in the male line, of the House of Austria. Charles left no son, and had, long before his death, relinquished all hopes of male issue. During the latter 25 part of his life, his principal object had been to se- cure to his descendants in the female line the many crowns of the house of Hapsburg. With this view, he had promulgated a new law of succession^ widely celebrated throughout Europe under the name of the 30 Pragmatic Sanction. By virtue of this law, his daugh- ter, the Archduchess Maria Theresa, wife of Francis of Loraine, succeeded to the dominions of her ances- tors. No sovereign has ever taken possession of a throne 35 by a clearer title. A]\ the politics of the Austrian 78 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. cabinet had, during twenty years, been directed to one single end, the settlement of the succession. From every person whose rights could be considered as in- juriously affected, renunciations in the most solemn form had been obtained. The new law had been rati- 5 tied by the Estates of all the kingdoms and principali- ties which made up the great Austrian monarchy. England, France, Spain, Russia, Poland, Prussia, Sweden, Denmark, the Germanic body, had bound themselves by treaty to maintain the Pragmatic Sane- lo tion. That instrument was placed under the protec- tion of the public faith of the whole civilised world. Even if no positive stipulations on this subject had existed, the arrangement was one which no good man would have been willing to disturb. It was a peace- is able arrangement. It was an arrangement acceptable to the great population whose happiness was chiefly concerned. It was an arrangement which made no change in the distribution of power among the states of Christendom. It was an arrangement which could 20 be set aside, only by means of a general war ; and, if it were set aside, the effect would be that the equi- librium of Europe would be deranged, that the loyal and patriotic feelings of millions would be cruelly outraged, and that great provinces which had been 25 united for centuries would be torn from each other by main force. The sovereigns of Europe were, therefore, bound by every obligation which those who are intrusted with power over their fellow-creatures ought to hold most 30 sacred, to respect and defend the rights of the Arch- duchess. Her situation and her personal qualities were such as might be expected to move the mind of any generous man to pity, admiration, and chivalrous tenderness. She was in her twenty-fourth year. Her 35 FREDERIC THE GREAT. 79 form was majestic, her features beautiful, her coun- tenance sweet and animated, her voice musical, her deportment gracious and dignified. In all domestic relations she was without reproach. She was married 5 to a husband whom she loved, and was on the point of giving birth to a child, when death deprived her of her father. The loss of a parent, and the new cares of empire, were too much for her in the delicate state of her liealth. Her spirits were depressed, and her 10 cheek lost its bloom. Yet it seemed that she had little cause for anxiety. It seemed that justice, humanity, and the faith of treaties would have their due weight, and that the settlement so solemnly guaranteed would be quietly carried into effect. England, Russia, Po- 15 land, and Holland, declared in form their intention to adhere to their engagements. The French min- isters made a verbal declaration to the same effect. But from no quarter did the young Queen of Hun- gary receive stronger assurances of friendship and 20 support than from the King of Prussia. Yet the King of Prussia, the Anti-Machiavel, had already fully determined to commit the great crime of violating his plighted faith, of robbing the ally whom he was bound to defend, and of plunging all Europe 25 into a long, bloody, and desolating war; and all this for no end whatever, except that he might extend his dominions, and see his name in the gazettes. He de- termined to assemble a great army with speed and se- crecy, to invade Silesia before Maria Theresa should 30 be apprised of his design, and to add that rich province to his kingdom. We will not condescend to refute at length the pleas which the compiler of the IMemoirs before us has copied from Doctor Preuss. They amount to this, 35 that the house of Brandenburg had some ancient pre- 30 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. tensions to Silesia, and had in the previous century- been compelled, by hard usage on the part of the Court of Vienna, to waive those pretensions. It is certain that, whoever might originally have been in the right, Prussia had submitted. Prince after prince 5 of the house of Brandenburg had acquiesced in the existing arrangement. Nay, the Court of Berlin had recently been allied with that of Vienna, and had guaranteed the integrity of the Austrian states. Is it not perfectly clear that, if antiquated claims are to lo be set up against recent treaties and long possession, the world can never be at peace for a day? The laws of all nations have wisely established a time of limita- tion, after which titles, however illegitimate in their origin, cannot be questioned. It is felt by everybody, 15 that to eject a person from his estate on the ground of some injustice committed in the time of the Tudors would produce all the evils which result from arbi- trary confiscation, and would make all property in- secure. It concerns the commonwealth — so runs the 20 legal maxim — that there be an end of litigation. And surely this maxim is at least equally applicable to the great commonwealth of states; for in that common- wealth litigation means the devastation of provinces, the suspension of trade and industry, sieges like those 25 of Badajoz and St. Sebastian, pitched fields like those of Eylau and Borodino. We hold that the transfer of Norway from Denmark to Sweden was an unjustifi- able proceeding; but Avould the king of Denmark be therefore justified in landing, without any new 30 provocation, in Norway, and commencing military operations there? The king of Holland thinks, no doubt, that he was unjustly deprived of the Belgian provinces. Grant that it were so. Would he, there- fore, be justified in marching with an army on Brus- 35 FEEDEKIC THE GREAT. 81 sels? The case against Frederic was still stronger, inasmuch as the injustice of which he complained had been committed more than a century before. Nor must it be forgotten that he owed the highest per- ) sonal obligations to the house of Austria. It may be doubted whether his life had not been preserved by the intercession of the prince whose daughter he was about to plunder. To do the King justice, he pretended to no more ) virtue than he had. In manifestoes he might, for form's sake, insert some idle stories about his anti- quated claim on Silesia; but in his conversations and ]\Iemoirs he took a very different tone. His own words are: ''Ambition, interest, the desire of mak- » ing people talk about me, carried the day; and I decided for war." Having resolved on his course, he acted with ability and vigour. It was impossible wholly to conceal his preparations ; for throughout the Prussian territories ) i-egiments, guns, and baggage were in motion. The Austrian envoy at Berlin apprised his court of these facts, and expressed a suspicion of Frederic's de- signs; but the ministers of Maria Theresa refused to give credit to so black an imputation on a young ) prince who was known chiefly by his high professions of integrity and philanthropy. *'We will not," they wrote, ''we cannot, believe it." In the mean time the Prussian forces had been assembled. Without any declaration of war, without } any demand for reparation, in the very act of pouring forth compliments and assurances of good-will, Fred- eric commenced hostilities. IMany thousands of his troops were actually in Silesia before the Queen of Hungary knew that he had set up any claim to any apart of her territories. At length he sent her a 82 ?/IACAULAY'S ESSAYS. message which could be regarded only as an insult. If she would but let him have Silesia, he would, he said, stand by her against any power which should try to deprive her of her other dominions; as if he was not already bound to stand by her, or as if his new 5 promise could be of more value than the old one. It was the depth of winter. The cold was severe, and the roads heavy with mire. But the Prussians pressed on. Resistance was impossible. The Austrian army Avas then neither numerous nor efficient. The lo small portion of that army which lay in Silesia was unprepared for hostilities. Glogau was blockaded; Breslau opened its gates; Ohlau was evacuated. A few scattered garrisons still held out; but the whole open country was subjugated : no enemy ventured to 15 encounter the King in the field; and, before the end of January, 1741, he returned to receive the congratu- lations of his subjects at Berlin. Had the Silesian question been merely a question between Frederic and ]\Iaria Theresa, it would be im- 2C possible to acquit the Prussian King of gross perfidy. But when we consider the effects which his policy pro- duced, and could not fail to produce, on the whole community of civilised nations, we are compelled to pronounce a condemnation still more severe. Till he 25 began the war, it seemed possible, even probable, that the peace of the world would be preserved. The plunder of the great Austrian heritage was indeed a strong temptation ; and in more than one cabinet am- bitious schemes were already meditated. But the 30 treaties by which the Pragmatic Sanction had been guaranteed were express and recent. To throw all Europe into confusion for a purpose clearly unjust, was no light matter. England was true to her engage- ments. The voice of Fleury had always been fors" FEEDEEIC THE GEEAT. 83 peace. He had a conscience. He was now in extreme old age, and was unwilling, after a life which, when his situation was considered, must be pronounced singularly pure, to carry the fresh stain of a great 5 crime before the tribunal of his God. Even the vain and unprincipled Belle-Isle, whose whole life was one wild day-dream of conquest and spoliation, felt that France, bound as she was by solemn stipulations, could not, without disgrace, make a direct attack on the Austrian dominions. Charles, Elector of Bavaria, pretended that he had a right to a large part of the inheritance which the Pragmatic Sanction gave to the Queen of Hungary; but he was not sufficiently powerful to move without support. It might, there- 5 fore, not unreasonably be expected that, after a short period of restlessness, all the potentates of Christen- dom would acquiesce in the arrangements made by the late Emperor. But the selfish rapacity of the King of Prussia gave the signal to his neighbours. His example quieted their sense of shame. His suc- cess led them to underrate the difficulty of dismem- bering the Austrian monarchy. The whole world sprang to arms. On the head of Frederic is all the blood which was shed in a war which raged during 5 many years and in every quarter of the globe, the blood of the column of Fontenoy, the blood of the mountaineers who were slaughtered at Culloden. The evils produced by his wickedness were felt in lands where the name of Prussia was unknown; and, in order that he might rob a neighbour 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. Silesia had been occupied without a battle; but the -) Austrian troops were advancing to the relief of the 84 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. fortresses which still held out. In the spring Fred- eric rejoined his army. He had seen little of war, and had never commanded any great body of men in the field. It is not, therefore, strange that his first mili- tary operations showed little of that skill which, at a 5 later period, was the admiration of Europe. What connoisseurs say of some pictures painted by Raphael in his youth, may be said of this campaign. It was in Frederic's early bad manner. Fortunately for him, the generals to whom he was opposed were men k of small capacity. The discipline of his own troops, particularly of the infantry, was unequalled in that age; and some able and experienced officers were at hand to assist him with their advice. Of these, the most distinguished was Field-Marshal Schwerin, a is brave adventurer of Pomeranian extraction, who had served half the governments in Europe, had borne the commissions of the States General of Holland and of the Duke of IMecklenburg, had fought under ]\Iarl- borough at Blenheim, and had been with Charles the 21 Twelfth at Bender. Frederic's first battle was fought at Molwitz; and never did the career of a great commander open in a more inauspicious manner. His army was victorious. Not only, however, did he not establish his title to the a character of an able general ; but he was so unfortu- nate as to make it doubtful whether he possessed the vulgar courage of a soldier. The cavalry, which he commanded in person, was put to flight. Unaccus- tomed to the tumult and carnage of a field of battle, 3( he lost his self-possession, and listened too readily to those who urged him to save himself. His Eng- lish grey carried him many miles from the field, while Schwerin, though wounded in two places, man- fully upheld the day. The skill of the old Field- 3? f^KEDEKlC THE GEEAT. 85 Marshal and the steadiness of the Prussian bat- talions prevailed; and the Austrian army was driven from the field with the loss of eight thou- sand men. 5 The news was carried late at night to a mill in which the King had taken shelter. It gave him a bit- ter pang. He was successful ; but he owed his success to dispositions which others had made, and to the valour of men who had fought while he was flying. 10 So unpromising was the first appearance of the great- est warrior of that age. The battle of Molwitz was the signal for a general explosion throughout Europe. Bavaria took up arms. France, not yet declaring herself a principal in the 15 war, took part in it as an ally of Bavaria. The two great statesmen to whom mankind had owed many years of tranquillity, disappeared about this time from the scene, but not till they had both been guilty of the weakness of sacrificing their sense of justice 20 and their love of peace to the vain hope of preserving their power. Fleury, sinking under age and infirm- ity, was borne down by the impetuosity of Belle-Isle. Walpole retired from the service of his ungrateful country to his woods and paintings at Houghton; and 25 his power devolved on the daring and eccentric Carteret. As were the ministers, so were the nations. Thirty years during which Europe had, with few in- terruptions, enjoyed repose, had prepared the public mind for great military efforts. A new generation 30 had grown up, which could not remember the siege of Turin or the slaughter of Malplaquet; which knew war by nothing but its trophies; and which, while it looked with pride on the tapestries at Blenheim, or the statue in the Place of Victories, little thou^jht by 35 what privations, by what waste of private fortunes, SQ MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. by how many bitter tears, conquests must be pur- chased. For a time fortune seemed adverse to the Queen of Hungary. Frederic invaded Moravia. The French and Bavarians penetrated into Bohemia, and were 5 there joined by the Saxons. Prague was taken. The Elector of Bavaria was raised by the suffrages of his colleagues to the Imperial throne, a throne which the practice of centuries had almost entitled the House of Austria to regard as a hereditary possession. 10 Yet was the spirit of the haughty daughter of the Caesars unbroken. Hungary was still hers by an un- questionable title; and although her ancestors had found Hungary the most mutinous of all their king- doms, she resolved to trust herself to the fidelity of a 15 people, rude indeed, turbulent, and impatient of op- pression, but brave, generous, and simple-hearted. In the midst of distress and peril she had given birth to a son, afterwards the Emperor Joseph the Second. Scarcely had she risen from her couch, when she 20 hastened to Presburg. There, in the sight of an in- numerable multitude, she was crowned with the crown and robed with the robe of St. Stephen. No specta- tor could restrain his tears when the beautiful young mother, still weak from child-bearing, rode, after the 25 fashion of her fathers, up the IMount of Defiance, un- sheathed the ancient sword of state, shook it towards north and south, east and west, and with a glow on her pale face challenged the four corners of the world to dispute her rights and those of her boy. At 30 the first sitting of the Diet she appeared clad in deep mourning for her father, and in pathetic and digni- fied words implored her people to support her just cause. ^Magnates and deputies sprang up, half drew their sabres, and with eager voices vowed to stand by 35 FREDERIC THE GREAT. gy her with their lives and fortunes. Till then her firm- ness had never once forsaken her before the public eye ; but at that shout she sank down upon her throne, and wept aloud. Still more touching was the sight when, a few days later, she came before the estates of her realm, and held up before them the little Arch- duke in her arms. Then it was that the enthusiasm of Hungary broke forth into that war-cry which soon resounded throughout Europe, ''Let us die for our King, Maria Theresa!" In the mean time, Frederic was meditating a change of policy. He had no wish to raise France to supreme power on the Continent, at the expense of the house of Hapsburg. His first object was to rob the Queen of Hungary. His second object was that, if possible, nobody should rob her but himself. He had entered into engagements with the powers leagued against Austria ; but these engagements were in his estima- tion of no more force than the guarantee formerly given to the Pragmatic Sanction. His plan now was to secure his share of the plunder by betraying his accomplices. Maria Theresa was little inclined to listen to any such compromise; but the English gov- ernment represented to her so strongly the necessity of buying off Frederic, that she agreed to negotiate. The negotiation would not, however, have ended in a treaty, had not the arms of Frederic been crowned with a second victory. Prince Charles of Loraine, brother-in-law to ]\Iaria Theresa, a bold and active, though unfortunate general, gave battle to the Prus- sians at Chotusitz, and was defeated. The King was still only a learner of the military art. He acknowl- edged, at a later period, that his success on this occa- sion was to be attributed, not at all to his own gen- eralship, but solely to the valour and steadiness of 88 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. his troops. He completely effaced, however, by his personal courage and energy, the stain which Mol- witz had left on his reputation. A peace, concluded under the English mediation, was the fruit of this battle. Maria Theresa ceded 5 Silesia: Frederic abandoned his allies: Saxony fol- lowed his example ; and the Queen was left at liberty to turn her whole force against France and Bavaria. She was everywhere triumphant. The French were compelled to evacuate Bohemia, and with difficulty ef- lo fected their escape. The whole line of their retreat might be tracked by the corpses of thousands who had died of cold, fatigue and hunger. Many of those who reached their country carried with them the seeds of death. Bavaria was overrun by bands of ferocious is warriors from that bloody debatable land which lies on the frontier between Christendom and Islam. The terrible names of the Pandoor, the Croat, and the Hussar, then first became familiar to western Europe. The unfortunate Charles of Bavaria, vanquished byzc Austria, betrayed by Prussia, driven from his heredi- tary states, and neglected by his allies, was hurried by shame and remorse to an untimely end. An English army appeared in the heart of Germany, and defeated the French at Dettingen. The Austrian captains al-21 ready began to talk of completing the work of Marl- borough and Eugene, and of compelling France to relinquish Alsace and the Three Bishoprics. The Court of Versailles, in this peril, looked to Frederic for help. He had been guilty of two great 3( treasons: perhaps he might be induced to commit a third. The Duchess of Chateauroux then held the chief influence over the feeble Louis. She determined to send an agent to Berlin ; and Voltaire was selected for the mission. He eagerly undertook the task ; for, 31 FREDEEIC THE GREAT. 39 while his literary fame filled all Europe, he was troubled with a childish craving for political distinc- tion. He was vain, and not without reason, of his address, and of his insinuating eloquence; and he 5 flattered himself that he possessed boundless influ- ence over the King of Prussia. The truth was that he knew, as yet, only one corner of Frederic's charac- ter. He was well acquainted with all the petty vanities and affectations of the poetaster ; but was not 10 aware that these foibles were united with all the talents and vices which lead to success in active life, and that the unlucky versifier who pestered him with reams of middling Alexandrines, was the most vigi- lant, suspicious, and severe of politicians. 15 Voltaire was received with every mark of respect and friendship, was lodged in the palace, and had a seat daily at the royal table. The negotiation was of an extraordinary description. Nothing can be con- ceived more whimsical than the conferences which 20 took place between the first literary man and the first practical man of the age, whom a strange weakness had induced to exchange their parts. The great poet would talk of nothing but treaties and guarantees, and the great King of nothing but metaphors and 25 rhymes. On one occasion Voltaire put into his Maj- esty's hands a paper on the state of Europe, and received it back with verses scrawled on the margin. In secret they both laughed at each other. Voltaire did not spare the King's poems; and the King has 30 left on record his opinion of Voltaire's diplomacy. ''He had no credentials," says Frederic, "and the whole mission was a joke, a mere farce." But what the influence of Voltaire could not effect, the rapid progress of the Austrian arms effected. If 35 it should be in the power of ]\Iaria Theresa and George 90 MACAULAY'8 ESSAYS. the Second, to dictate terms of peace to France, what chance was there that Prussia would long retain Si- lesia? Frederic's conscience told him that he had acted perfidiously and inhumanly towards the Queen of Hungary. That her resentment was strong she 5 had given ample proof ; and of her respect for treaties he judged by his own. Guarantees, he said, were mere filigree, pretty to look at, but too brittle to bear the slightest pressure. He thought it his safest course to ally himself closely to France, and again to attack ic the Empress Queen. Accordingly, in the autumn of 1744, without notice, without any decent pretext, he recommenced hostilities, marched through the elect- orate of Saxony without troubling himself about the permission of the Elector, invaded Bohemia, took 15 Prague, and even menaced Vienna. It was now that, for the first time, he experienced the inconstancy of fortune. An Austrian army under Charles of Loraine threatened his communications with Silesia. Saxony was all in arms behind him. He 20 found it necessary to save himself by a retreat. He afterwards owned that his failure was the natural effect of his own blunders. No general, he said, had ever committed greater faults. It must be added, that to the reverses of this campaign he always 25 ascribed his subsequent successes. It was in the midst of difficulty and disgrace that he caught the first clear glimpse of the principles of the military art. The memorable year 1745 followed. The war . raged by sea and land, in Italy, in Grermany, and in 30 Flanders; and even England, after many years of profound internal quiet, saw, for the last time, hostile armies set in battle array against each other. This year is memorable in the life of Frederic, as the date at which his novitiate in the art of war mav be said 35 FKEDERIC THE GREAT. 91 to have terminated. There have been great captains whose precocious and self-taught military skill re- sembled intuition. Conde, Clive, and Napoleon are examples. But Frederic was not one of these brilliant 5 portents. His proficiency ^in military science was sim- ply the proficiency which a man of vigorous faculties makes in any science to which he applies his mind with earnestness and industry. It was at Hohen- friedberg that he first proved how much he had 10 profited by his errors, and by their consequences. His victory on that day was chiefly due to his skilful dis- positions, and convinced Europe that the prince who. a few years before, had stood aghast in the rout of ]\Iolwitz, had attained in the military art a mastery 15 equalled by none of his contemporaries, or equalled by Saxe alone. The victory of Hohenfriedberg was speedily followed by that of Sorr. In the meantime, the arms of France had been victorious in the Low Countries. Frederic had no 20 longer reason to fear that Maria Theresa would be able to give law to Europe, and he began to meditate a fourth breach of his engagements. The court of Versailles was alarmed and mortified. A letter of earnest expostulation, in the handwriting of Louis, 25 was sent to Berlin ; but in vain. In the autumn of 1745, Frederic made peace with England and, before the close of the year, with Austria also. The preten- sions of Charles of Bavaria could present no obstacle to an accommodation. That unhappy prince was no 30 more ; and Francis of Loraine, the husband of ]Maria Theresa, was raised, with the general assent of the Germanic body, to the Imperial throne. Prussia was again at peace ; but the European war lasted till, in the year 1748, it was terminated by the 35 treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle. Of all the powers that had 92 ]\,[ACAULAY 'S ESSAYS. taken part in it, the only gainer was Frederic. Not only had he added to his patrimony the fine province of Silesia: he had, by his unprincipled dexterity, succeeded so well in alternately depressing the scale of Austria and that of France, that he was generally 5 regarded as holding the balance of Europe, a high dignity for one who ranked lowest among kings, and whose great-grandfather had been no more than a jMargrave. By the public, the King of Prussia was considered as a politician destitute alike of morality lo and decency, insatiably rapacious, and shamelessly false ; nor was the public much in the wrong. He was at the same time allowed to be a man of parts, a rising general, a shrewd negotiator and administrator. Those qualities wherein he surpassed all mankind, 15 were as yet unknown to others or to himself ; for they were qualities which shine out only on a dark ground. His career had hitherto, with little interruption, been prosperous ; and it was only in adversity, in adversity which seemed without hope or resource, in adversity 20 which would have overwhelmed even men celebrated for strength of mind, that his real greatness could be shown. He had, from the commencement of his reign, applied himself to public business after a fashion un- 25 known among kings. Louis the Fourteenth, indeed, had been his own prime minister, and had exercised a general superintendence over all the departments of the government ; but this was not sufficient for Fred- eric. He was not content with being his own prime 30 minister: he would be his own sole minister. Under him there was no room, not merely for a Richelieu or a ]\Iazarin, but for a Colbert, a Louvois, or a Torcy. A love of labour for its own sake, a restless and in- satiable longing to dictate, to intermeddle, to make 33 FREDERIC THE GREAT. 93 his power felt, a profound scorn and distrust ot his fellow-creatures, made him unwilling to ask counsel, to confide important secrets, to delegate ample powers. The highest functionaries under his government were i mere clerks, and were not so much trusted by him as valuable clerks are often trusted by the heads of de- partments. He was his own treasurer, his own com- mander-in-chief, his own intendant of public works, his own minister for trade and justice, for home I affairs and foreign affairs, his own master of the horse, steward, and chamberlain. Matters of which no chief of an office in any other government would ever hear were, in this singular monarchy, decided by the King in person. If a traveller wished for a good place to see a review, he had to write to Frederic, and received next day from a royal messenger Fred- eric's answer signed by Frederic's own hand. This was an extravagant, a morbid activity. The public business would assuredly have been better done if each department had been put under a man of talents and integrity, and if the King had contented himself with a general control. In this manner the advan- tages which belong to unity of design, and the ad- vantages which belong to the division of labour would have been to a great extent combined. But such a system would not have suited the peculiar temper of Frederic. He could tolerate no will, no reason, in the state, save his own. He wished for no abler assist- ance than that of penmen who had just understand- ing enough to translate and transcribe, to make out his scrawls, and to put his concise Yes and No into an official form. Of the higher intellectual faculties, there is as much in a copying machine, or a litho- graphic press, as he required from a secretary of the , cabinet. 94 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. His own exertions were such as were hardly to be expected from a human body or a human mind. At Potsdam, his ordinary residence, he rose at three in summer and four in winter. A page soon appeared, with a large basket full of all the letters which had 5 arrived for the King by the last courier, despatches from ambassadors, reports from officers of revenue, plans of buildings, proposals for draining marshes, complaints from persons who thought themselves ag- grieved, applications from persons who wanted titles, lo military commissions, and civil situations. He exam- ined the seals with a keen eye; for he was never for a moment free from the suspicion that some fraud might be practised on him. Then he read the letters, divided them into several packets, and signified his 15 pleasure, generally by a mark, often by two or three words, now and then by some cutting epigram. By eight he had generally finished this part of his task. The adjutant-general was then in attendance, and received instructions for the day as to all the military 20 arrangements of the kingdom. Then the King went to review his guards, not as kings ordinarily review their guards, but with the minute attention and se- verity of an old drill-sergeant. In the mean time the four cabinet secretaries had been employed in answer- 25 ing the letters on which the King had that morning signified his will. These unhappy men were forced to work all the year round like negro slaves in the time of the sugar-crop. They never had a holiday. They never knew what it was to dine. It was neces- 30 sary that, before they stirred, they should finish the whole of their work. The King, always on his guard against treachery, took from the heap a handful of letters at random, and looked into them to see whether his instructions had been exactly followed. This was 35 FEEDEKIC THE GREAT. 95 no bad security against foul play on the part of the secretaries; for if one of them were detected in a trick, he might think himself fortunate if he escaped with five years of imprisonment in a dungeon. Fred- 5 eric then signed the replies, and all were sent off the same evening. The general principles on which this strange gov- ernment was conducted, deserve attention. The policy of Frederic was essentially the same as his father *s; 10 but Frederic, while he carried that policy to lengths to which his father never thought of carrying it, cleared it at the same time from the absurdities with which his father had encumbered it. The King's first object was to have a great, efficient, and well- 15 trained army. He had a kingdom which in extent and population was hardly in the second rank of Eu- ropean powers; and yet he aspired to a place not inferior to that of the sovereigns of England, France, and Austria. For that end it was necessary that 20 Prussia should be all sting. Louis the Fifteenth, with five times as many subjects as Frederic, and more than five times as large a revenue, had not a more formid- able army. The proportion which the soldiers in Prussia bore to the people seems hardly credible. Of 25 the males in the vigour of life, a seventh part were probably under arms; and this great force had, by drilling, by reviewing, and by the unsparing use of cane and scourge, been taught to perform all evolu- tions with a rapidity and a precision which would 30 have astonished Villars or Eugene. The elevated feel- ings which are necessary to the best kind of army were then wanting to the Prussian service. In those ranks were not found the religious and political en- thusiasm which inspired the pikemen of Cromwell, 35 the patriotic ardour, the thirst of glory, the devo- 96 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. tion to a great leader, which inflamed the Old Guard of Napoleon. But in all the mechanical parts of the military calling, the Prussians were as superior to the English and French troops of that day as the English and French troops to a rustic militia. 5 Though the pay of the Prussian soldier was small, though every rixdollar of extraordinary charge was scrutinised by Frederic with a vigilance and suspicion such as Mr. Joseph Hume never brought to the exam- ination of an army estimate, the expense of such anio establishment was, for the means of the country, enor- mous. In order that it might not be utterly ruinous, it was necessary that every other expense should be cut down to the lowest possible point. Accordingly Frederic, though his dominions bordered on the sea, 15 had no navy. He neither had nor wished to have col- onies. His judges, his fiscal officers, were meanly paid. His ministers at foreign courts walked on foot, or drove shabby old carriages till the axletrees gave way. Even to his highest diplomatic agents, who re- 20 sided at London and Paris, he allowed less than a thousand pounds sterling a year. The royal house- hold was managed with a frugality unusual in the establishments of opulent subjects, unexampled in any other palace. The King loved good eating and 25 drinking, and during a great part of his life took pleasure in seeing his table surrounded by guests; yet the whole charge of his kitchen was brought within the sum of two thousand pounds sterling a year. He examined every extraordinary item with a 30 care which might be thought to suit the mistress of a boarding house better than a great prince. When more than four rixdollars were asked of him for a hundred oysters, he stormed as if he had heard that one of his generals had sold a fortress to the Empress 85 FREDERIC THE GREAT. 97 Queen. Not a bottle of Champagne was uncorked without his express order. The game of the royal parks and forests, a serious head of expenditure in most kingdoms, was to him a source of profit. The 5 whole was farmed out ; and though the farmers were almost ruined by their contract, the King would grant them no remission. His wardrobe consisted of one fine gala dress, which lasted him all his life; of two or three old coats fit for Monmouth Street, of yellow 10 waistcoats soiled with snuff, and of huge boots em- browned by time. One taste alone sometimes allured him beyond the limits of parsimony, nay, even be- yond the limits of prudence, the taste for building. In all other things his economy was such as we might 15 call by a harsher name, if we did not reflect that his funds were drawn from a heavily taxed people, and that it was impossible for him, without excessive tyranny, to keep up at once a formidable army and a splendid court. 20 Considered as an administrator, Frederic had un- doubtedly many titles to praise. Order was strictly maintained throughout his dominions. Property was secure. A great liberty of speaking and of writing was allowed. Confident in the irresistible strength 25 derived from a great army, the King looked down on malcontents and libellers with a wise disdain ; and gave little encouragement to spies and informers. When he was told of the disaffection of one of his subjects, he merely asked, * ' How many thousand men 30 can he bring into the field ? " He once saw a crowd staring at something on a wall. He rode up, and found that the object of curiosity was a scurrilous placard against himself. The placard had been posted up so high that it was not easy to read it. Frederic 35 ordered his attendants to take it down and put it 98 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. lower. **My people and I/' he said, ''have come to an agreement which satisfies us both. They are to say what they please, and I am to do what I please. ' ' No person would have dared to publish in London satires on George the Second approaching to the 5 atrocity of those satires on Frederic, which the book- sellers at Berlin sold with impunity. One bookseller sent to the palace a copy of the most stinging lam- poon that perhaps was ever written in the world, the Memoirs of Voltaire, published by Beaumarchais, and lo asked for his majesty's orders. ''Do not advertise it in an offensive manner,'' said the King, "but sell it by all means. I hope it will pay you well." Even among statesmen accustomed to the license of a free press, such steadfastness of mind as this is not very 15 common. It is due also to the memory of Frederic to say that he earnestly laboured to secure to his people the great blessing of cheap and speedy justice. He was one of the first rulers who abolished the cruel and absurd 20 practice of torture. No sentence of death, pronounced by the ordinary tribunals, was executed without his sanction ; and his sanction, except in cases of murder, was rarely given. Towards his troops he acted in a very different manner. Military offences were pun- 25 ished with such barbarous scourging that to be shot was considered by the Prussian soldier as a secondary punishment. Indeed, the principle which pervaded Frederic's whole policy was this, that the more se- verely the army is governed, the safer it is to treat so the rest of the community v/ith lenity. Eeligious persecution was unknown under his gov- ernment, unless some foolish and unjust restrictions which lay upon the Jews may be regarded as forming an exception. His policy with respect to the Cath-35 FREDERIC THE GREAT. 99 olics of Silesia presented an honourable contrast to the policy which, under very similar circumstances, Eng- land long followed with respect to the Catholics of Ireland. Every form of religion and irreligion found 5 an asylum in his states. The scoffer whom the parlia- ments of France had sentenced to a cruel death, was consoled by a commission in the Prussian service. The Jesuit who could show his face nowhere else, who in Britain was still subject to penal laws, who was pro- 10 scribed by France, Spain, Portugal, and Naples, who had been given up even by the Vatican, found safety and the means of subsistence in the Prussian domin- ions. Most of the vices of Frederic's administration re- 15 solve themselves into one vice, the spirit of meddling. The indefatigable activity of his intellect, his dicta- torial temper, his military habits, all inclined him to this great fault. He drilled his people as he drilled his grenadiers. Capital and industry were diverted 20 from their natural direction by a crowd of prepos- terous regulations. There was a monopoly of coffee, a monopoly of tobacco, a monopoly of refined sugar. The public money, of which the King was generally so sparing, was lavishly spent in ploughing bogs, in 25 planting mulberry-trees amidst the sand, in bringing sheep from Spain to improve the Saxon wool, in be- stowing prizes for fine yarn, in building manufac- tories of porcelain, manufactories of carpets, manu- factories of hardware, manufactories of lace. Neither 30 the experience of other rulers, nor his own, could ever teach him that something more than an edict and a grant of public money was required to create a Lyons, a Brussels, or a Birmingham. For his commercial policy, however, there was some 35 excuse. He had on his side illustrious examples and 100 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. popular prejudice. Grievously as he erred, lie erred in company with his age. In other departments his meddling was altogether without apology. He inter- fered with the course of justice as well as with the course of trade ; and set up his own crude notions of 5 equity against the law as expounded by the unanimous voice of the gravest magistrates. It never occurred to him that men whose lives were passed in adjudi- cating on questions of civil right were more likely to form correct opinions on such questions than a prince lo whose attention was divided among a thousand ob- jects, and who had never read a law-book through. The resistance opposed to him by the tribunals in- flamed him to fury. He reviled his Chancellor. He kicked the shins of his Judges. He did not, it is true, 15 intend to act unjustly. He firmly believed that he was doing right, and defending the cause of the poor against the wealthy. Yet this well-meant meddling probably did far more harm than all the explosions of his evil passions during the whole of his long 20 reign. We could make shift to live under a de- bauchee or a tyrant; but to be ruled by a busy-body is more than human nature can bear. The same passion for directing and regulating ap- peared in every part of the King's policy. Every 25 lad of a certain station in life was forced to go to certain schools within the Prussian dominions. If a young Prussian repaired, though but for a few weeks, to Leyden or Gottingen for the purpose of study, the offense was punished with civil disabili-30 ties, and sometimes with the confiscation of prop- erty. Nobody was to travel without the royal per- mission. If the permission were granted, the pocket- money of the tourist was fixed by royal ordinance. A merchant miprht take with him two hundred and 35 FREDEEIC THE GREAT. 101 fifty rixdollars in gold, a noble was allowed to take four hundred; for it may be observed, in passing, that Frederic studiously kept up the old distinction between the nobles and the community. In specu- 5 lation, he was a French philosopher, but in action, a German prince. He talked and wrote about the privileges of blood in the style of Sieyes; but in practice no chapter in the empire looked with a keener eye to genealogies and quarterings. 10 Such was Frederic the Ruler. But there was an- other Frederic, the Frederic of Rheinsberg, the fid- dler and flute-player, the poetaster and metaphysician. Amidst the cares of state the King had retained his passion for music, for reading, for writing, for liter- is ary society. To these amusements he devoted all the time that he could snatch from the business of war and government; and perhaps more light is thrown on his character by what passed during his hours of relaxation, than by his battles or his laws. 20 It was the just boast of Schiller that, in his coun- try, no Augustus, no Lorenzo, had watched over the infancy of poetry. The rich and energetic language of Luther, driven by the Latin from the schools of pedants, and by the French from the palaces of 25 kings, had taken refuge among the people. Of the powers of that language Frederic had no notion. He generally spoke of it, and of those who used it, with the contempt of ignorance. His library consisted of French books; at his table nothing was heard but 30 French conversation. The associates of his hours of relaxation were, for the most part, foreigners. Britain furnished to the royal circle two distin- guished men, born in the highest rank, and driven ])y civil dissensions from the land to which, under 35 happier circumstances, their talents and virtues 102 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. might have been a source of strength and glory. George Keith, Earl Marischal of Scotland, had taken arms for the house of Stuart in 1715 ; and his younger brother, James, then only seventeen years old, had fought gallantly by his side. When all was lost they 5 retired together to the Continent, roved from country to country, served under various standards, and so bore themselves as to win the respect and good-will of many who had no love for the Jacobite cause. Their long wanderings terminated at Potsdam; norio had Frederic any associates who deserved or obtained so large a share of his esteem. They were not only accomplished men, but nobles and warriors, capable of serving him in war and diplomacy, as well as of amusing him at supper. Alone of all his companions 15 they appear never to have had reason to complain of his demeanour towards them. Some of those who knew the palace best pronounced that Lord Mari- schal was the only human being whom Frederic ever really loved. 20 Italy sent to the parties at Potsdam the ingenious and amiable Algarotti, and Bastiani, the most crafty, cautious, and servile of Abbes. But the greater part of the society which Frederic had assembled round him, was drawn from France. Maupertuis had 25 acquired some celebrity by the journey which he had made to Lapland, for the purpose of ascertaining, by actual measurement, the shape of our planet. He was placed in the chair of the Academy of Berlin, a humble imitation of the renowned academy of Paris. 30 Baculard D'Arnaud, a young poet, who was thought to have given promise of great things, had been in- duced to quit his country, and to reside at the Prus- sian Court. The Marquess D'Argens was among the King's favourite companions, on account, as it should 35 FKEDEEIC THE GREAT. 103 seem, of the strong opposition between their charac- ters. The parts of D'Argens were good, and his manners those of a finished French gentleman; but his whole soul was dissolved in sloth, timidity, and 5 self-indulgence. His was one of that abject class of minds which are superstitious without being re- ligious. Hating Christianity with a rancour which made him incapable of rational inquiry, unable to see in the harmony and beauty of the universe the traces of divine power and wisdom, he was the slave of dreams and omens, would not sit down to a table with thirteen in company, turned pale if the salt fell towards him, begged his guests not to cross their knives and forks on their plates, and would not for 5 the world commence a journey on Friday. His health was a subject of constant anxiety to him. Whenever his head ached or his pulse beat quick, his dastardly fears and effeminate precautions were the jest of all Berlin. All this suited the King's purpose admir- ably. He wanted somebody by whom he might be amused, and whom he might despise. When he wished to pass half an hour in easy polished conver- sation, D'Argens was an excellent companion; when he wanted to vent his spleen and contempt, D'Argens :5was an excellent butt. With these associates, and others of the same class, Frederic loved to spend the time which he could steal from public cares. He wished his supper-parties to be gay and easy. He invited his guests to lay aside 50 all restraint, and to forget that he was at the head of a hundred and sixty thousand soldiers, and was ab- solute master of the life and liberty of all who sat at meat with him. There was, therefore, at these par- ties the outward show of ease. The wit and learning j5of the company were ostentatiously displayed. The 104 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. discussions on history and literature were often highly interesting. But the absurdity of all the re- ligion known among men was the chief topic of con- versation; and the audacity with which doctrines and names venerated throughout Christendom were 5 treated on these occasions startled even persons accustomed to the society of French and English freethinkers. Real liberty, however, or real affection, was in this brilliant society not to be found. Abso- lute kings seldom have friends ; and Frederic 's faults n were such as, even where perfect equality exists, make friendship exceedingly precarious. He had in- deed many qualities, which, on a first acquaintance, were captivating. His conversation was lively; his manners, to those whom he desired to please, were lE even caressing. No man could flatter with more deli- cacy. No man succeeded more completely in inspir- ing those who approached him with vague hopes of some great advantage from his kindness. But under this fair exterior he was a tyrant, suspicious, disdain- 2( ful, and malevolent. He had one taste which may be pardoned in a boy, but which, when habitually and deliberately indulged by a man of mature age and strong understanding, is almost invariably the sign of a bad heart, a taste for severe practical jokes. If 2; a courtier was fond of dress, oil was flung over his richest suit. If he was fond of money, some prank was invented to make him disburse more than he could spare. If he was hypochondriacal, he was made to believe that he had the dropsy. If he had 31 particularly set his heart on visiting a place, a letter was forged to frighten him from going thither. These things, it may be said, are trifles. They are so; but they are indications, not to be mistaken, of a nature to which the sight of human a FEEDERIC THE GEEAT. 105 suffering and human degradation is an agreeable excitement. Frederic had a keen eye for the foibles of others, and loved to communicate his discoveries. He had 5 some talent for sarcasm, and considerable skill in de- tecting the sore places where sarcasm would be most acutely felt. His vanity, as well as his malignity, found gratification in the vexation and confusion of those who smarted under his caustic jests. Yet in 10 truth his success on these occasions belonged quite as much to the king as to the wit. We read that Corn- modus descended, sword in hand, into the arena against a wretched gladiator, armed only with a foil of lead, and, after shedding the blood of the helpless 15 victim, struck medals to commemorate the inglorious victory. The triumphs of Frederic in the war of repartee were of much the same kind. How to deal with him was the most puzzling of questions. To appear constrained in his presence was to disobey his 20 commands, and to spoil his amusement. Yet if his associates were enticed by his graciousness to indulge in the familiarity of a cordial intimacy, he was cer- tain to make them repent of their presumption by some cruel humiliation. To resent his affronts were 25 perilous; yet not to resent them was to deserve and to invite them. In his view, those who mutinied were insolent and ungrateful; those who submitted were curs made to receive bones and kickings with the same fawning patience. It is, indeed, difficult to 30 conceive how any thing short of the rage of hunger should have induced men to bear the misery of being the associates of the Great King. It was no lucrative post. His i\Iajesty was as severe and economical in his friendships as in the other charges of his estab- 35 lishment, and as unlikely to give a rixdollar too much 106 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. for his guests as for his dinners. The sum which he allowed to a poet or a philosopher was the very small- est sum for which such poet or philosopher could be induced to sell himself into slavery; and the bonds- man might think himself fortunate if what had been 5 so grudgingly given was not, after years of suffering, rudely and arbitrarily withdrawn. Potsdam was, in truth, what it was called by one of its most illustrious inmates, the Palace of Alcina. At the first glance it seemed to be a delightful spot, where 10 every intellectual and physical enjoyment awaited the happy adventurer. Every new comer was received with eager hospitality, intoxicated with flattery, en- couraged to expect prosperity and greatness. It was in vain that a long succession of favourites who had 15 entered that abode with delight and hope, and who, after a short term of delusive happiness, had been doomed to expiate their folly by years of wretched- ness and degradation, raised their voices to warn the aspirant who approached the charmed threshold. 20 Some had wisdom enough to discover the truth early, and spirit enough to fly without looking back; others lingered on to a cheerless and unhonoured old age. We have no hesitation in saying that the poorest author of that time m London, sleeping on a bulk, 25 dining in a cellar, with a cravat of paper, and a skewer for a shirt-pin, was a happier man than any of the literary inmates of Frederic's court. But of all who entered the enchanted garden in the inebriation of delight, and quitted it in agonies of 3c rage and shame, the most remarkable was Voltaire. Many circumstances had made him desirous of find- ing a home at a distance from his country. His fame had raised him up enemies. His sensibility gave them a formidable advantage over him. They were, 3s FEEDERIC THE GEEAT. 107 indeed, contemptible assailants. Of all that they wrote against him, nothing has survived except what he has himself preserved. But the constitution of his mind resembled the constitution of those bodies in 5 which the slightest scratch of a bramble, or the bite of a gnat, never fails to fester. Though his reputa- tion was rather raised than lowered by the abuse of such writers as Freron and Desfontaines, though the vengeance which he took on Freron and Desfon- D taines was such, that scourging, branding, pillorying, would have been a trifle to it, there is reason to be- lieve that they gave him far more pain that he ever gave them. Though he enjoyed during his own life- time the reputation of a classic, though he was ex- 5 tolled by his contemporaries above all poets, phil- osophers, and historians, though his works were read with as much delight and admiration at Moscow and Westminster, at Florence and Stockholm, as at Paris itself, he was yet tormented by that restless jealousy which should seem to belong only to minds burning with the desire of fame, and yet conscious of impo- tence. To men of letters who could by no possibility be his rivals, he was, if they behaved well to him, not merely just, not merely courteous, but often a hearty :5 friend and a munificent benefactor. But to every writer who rose to a celebrity approaching his own, he became either a disguised or an avowed enemy. He slily depreciated Montesquieu and Buffon. He publicly, and with violent outrage, made war on iO Rousseau. Nor had he the art of hiding his feelings under the semblance of good humour or of contempt. With all his great talents, and all his long experi- ence of the world, he had no more self-command than a petted child or a hysterical woman. Whenever he 35 was mortified, he exhausted the whole rhetoric of 108 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. anger and sorrow to express his mortification. His torrents of bitter words, his stamping and cursing, his grimaces and his tears of rage, were a rich feast to those abject natures, whose delight is in the agonies of powerful spirits and in the abasement of immortal 5 names. These creatures had now found out a way of galling him to the very quick. In one walk, at least, it had been admitted by envy itself that he was without a living competitor. Since Racine had been laid among the great men whose dust made the holyi( precinct of Port Roj^al holier, no tragic poet had ap- peared who could contest the palm with the author Zaire, of Alzire, and of Merope. At length a rival was announced. Old Crebillon, who, many years be- fore, had obtained some theatrical success, and whou had long been forgotten, came forth from his garret in one of the meanest lanes near the Rue St. An- toine, and was welcomed by the acclamations of en- vious men of letters, and of a capricious populace. A thing called Catiline, which he had written in his re- 2( tirement, was acted with boundless applause. Of this execrable piece it is sufficient to say, that the plot turns on a love affair, caried on in all the forms of Scudery, between Catiline, whose confidant is the Praetor Lentulus, and Tullia, the daughter of Cicero. 21 The theatre resounded with acclamations. The king pensioned the successful poet; and the coffee-houses pronounced that Voltaire was a clever man, but that the real tragic inspiration, the celestial fire which had glowed in Corneille and Racine, was to be found in 31 Crebillon alone. The blow went to Voltaire's heart. Had his wis- dom and fortitude been in proportion to the fertility of his intellect, and to the brilliancy of his wit, he would have seen that it was out of the power of alls? FEEDEEIC THE GREAT. 109 the puffers and detractors in Europe to put Catiline above Zaire; but he had none of the magnanimous patience with which Milton and Bentley left their claims to the unerring judgment of time. He eagerly 5 engaged in an undignified competition with Crebillon, and produced a series of plays on the same subjects which his rival had treated. These pieces were coolly received. Angry with the court, angry with the cap- ital, Voltaire began to find pleasure in the prospect ioof exile. His attachment for Madame du Chatelet long prevented him from executing his purpose. Her death set him at liberty; and he determined to take refuge at Berlin. To Berlin he was invited by a series of letters, .5 couched in terms of the most enthusiastic friendship and admiration. For once the rigid parsimony of Frederic seemed to have relaxed. Orders, honourable offices, a liberal pension, a well-served table, stately apartments under a royal roof, were offered in return !0 for the pleasure and honour which were expected from the society of the first wit of the age. A thou- sand louis were remitted for the charges of the jour- ney. No ambassador setting out from Berlin for a court of the first rank, had ever been more amply 15 supplied. But Voltaire was not satisfied. At a later period, when he possessed an ample fortune, he was one of the most liberal of men ; but till his means had become equal to his wishes, his greediness for lucre was unrestrained either by justice or by shame. He 10 had the effrontery to ask for a thousand louis more, in order to enable him to bring his niece, Madame Denis, the ugliest of coquettes, in his company. The indelicate rapacity of the poet produced its natural effect on the severe and frugal King. The answer J5was a dry refusal. ''I did not," said his Majesty, 110 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. ''solicit the honour of the lady's society." On this, Voltaire went off into a paroxysm of childish rage. "Was there ever such avarice? He has hundreds of tubs full of dollars in his vaults, and haggles with me about a poor thousand louis. ' ' It seemed that the 5 negotiation would be broken off; but Frederic, with great dexterity, affected indifference, and seemed in- clined to transfer his idolatry to Baculard D 'Arnaud. His Majesty even wrote some bad verses, of which the sense was, that Voltaire was a setting sun, and thatio D 'Arnaud was rising. Good-natured friends soon carried the lines to Voltaire. He was in his bed. He jumped out in his shirt, danced about the room with rage, and sent for his passport and his post-horses. It was not difficult to foresee the end of a connection 15 which had such a beginning. It was in the year 1750 that Voltaire left the great capital, which he was not to see again till, after the lapse of near thirty years, he returned, bowed down by extreme old age, to die in the midst of a splendid 20 and ghastly triumph. His reception in Prussia was such as might well have elated a less vain and excit- able mind. He wrote to his friends at Paris, that the kindness and the attention with which he had been welcomed surpassed description, that the King was 25 the most amiable of men, that Potsdam was the para- dise of philosophers. He was created chamberlain, and received, together with his gold key, the cross of an order, and a patent ensuring to him a pension of eight hundred pounds sterling a year for life. A 30 hundred and sixty pounds a year were promised to his niece if she survived him. The royal cooks and coachmen were put at his disposal. He was lodged in the same apartments in which Saxe had lived, when, at the height of power and glory, he visited 35 FEEDERIC THE GREAT. HI Prussia. Frederic, indeed, stooped for a time even to use the language of adulation. He pressed to his lips the meagre hand of the little grinning skeleton, whom he regarded as the dispenser of immortal re- 5 nown. He would add, he said, to the titles which he owed to his ancestors and his sword, another title, derived from his last and proudest acquisition. His style should run thus: — Frederic, King of Prussia, ]\Iargrave of Brandenburg, Sovereign Duke of Silesia, 10 Possessor of Voltaire. But even amidst the delights of the honeymoon, Voltaire's sensitive vanity began to take alarm. A few days after his arrival, he could not help telling his niece that the amiable King had a trick of giving a sly scratch with one hand, while 15 patting and stroking with the other. Soon came hints not the less alarming, because mysterious. ''The supper parties are delicious. The King is the life of the company. But — I have operas and comedies, re- views and concerts, my studies and books. But — 20 but — Berlin is fine, the princesses charming, the maids of honour handsome. But" — This eccentric friendship was fast cooling. Never had there met two persons so exquisitely fitted to plague each other. Each of them had exactly the 25 fault of which the other was most impatient ; and they were, in different ways, the most impatient of mankind. Frederic was frugal, almost niggardly. When he had secured his plaything he began to think that he had bought it too dear. Voltaire, on the other 30 hand, was greedy, even to the extent of impudence and knavery; and conceived that the favourite of a monarch who had barrels full of gold and silver laid up in cellars ought to make a fortune which a re- ceiver-general might envy. They soon discovered each 35 other's feelings. Both were angry; and a war be- 112 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. gan, in which Frederic stooped to the part of Har- pagon, and Voltaire to that of Scapin. It is humili- ating to relate, that the great warrior and statesman gave orders that his guest's allowance of sugar and chocolate should be curtailed. It is, if possible, as still more humiliating fact, that Voltaire indemni- fied himself by pocketing the wax-candles in the royal antechamber. Disputes about money, however, were not the most serious disputes of these extraordinary associates. The sarcasms of the King soon galled the lo sensitive temper of the poet. D'Arnaud and D'Ar- gens, Guichard and La Metric, might, for the sake of a morsel of bread, be willing to bear the insolence of a master; but Voltaire was of another order. He knew that he was a potentate as well as Frederic, 15 that his European reputation, and his incomparable power of covering whatever he hated with ridicule, made him an object of dread even to the leaders of armies and the rulers of nations. In truth, of all the intellectual weapons which have ever been wielded by 20 man, the most terrible was the mockery of Voltaire. Bigots and tyrants, who had never been moved by the wailing and cursing of millions, turned pale at his name. Principles unassailable by reason, principles Avhieh had withstood the fiercest attacks of power, the 25 most valuable truths, the most generous sentiments, the noblest and most graceful images, the purest reputations, the most august institutions, began to look mean and loathsome as soon as that with- ering smile was turned upon them. To every op- 30 ponent, however strong in his cause and his tal- ents, in his station and his character, who ven- tured to encounter the great scoffer, might be ad- dressed the caution which was given of old to the Archangel : — 35 FREDEETC THE GREAT. II3 I forewarn thee, shun His deadly arrow; neither vainly hope To be invulnerable in those bright arms Though tempered heavenly; for that fatal dint, Save Him Avho reigns above, none can resist. We cannot pause to recount how often that rare talent was exercised against rivals worthy of esteem ; how often it was used to crush and torture enemies worthy only of silent disdain; how often it was per- 10 verted to the more noxious purpose of destroying the last solace of earthly misery, and the last restraint on earthly power. Neither can we pause to tell how often it was used to vindicate justice, humanity, and toleration, the principles of sound philosophy, the 15 principles of free government. This is not the place for a full character of Voltaire. Causes of quarrel multiplied fast. Voltaire, who, partly from love of money, and partly from love of excitement, was always fond of stock-jobbing, became 20 implicated in transactions of at least a dubious char- acter. The King was delighted at having such an opportunity to humble his guest; and bitter re- proaches and complaints were exchanged. Voltaire, too, was soon at war with the other men of letters who 25 surrounded the King ; and this irritated Frederic, who, however, had himself chiefly to blame ; for, from that love of tormenting which was in him a ruling passion, he perpetually lavished extravagant praises on small men and bad books, merely in order that he 30 might enjoy the mortification and rage which on such occasions Voltaire took no pains to conceal. His majesty, however, soon had reason to regret the pains which he had taken to kindle jealousy among the members of his household. The whole palace was in 35 a ferment with literary intrigues and cabals. It was 114: MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. to no purpose that the imperial voice, which kept a hundred and sixty thousand soldiers in order, was raised to quiet the contention of the exasperated wits. It was far easier to stir up such a storm than to lull it. Nor was Frederic, in his capacity of wit, by any 5 means without his own share of vexations. He had sent a large quantity of verses to Voltaire, and re- quested that they might be returned with marks and corrections. "See," exclaimed Voltaire, ''what a quantity of his dirty linen the King has sent me to 10 wash!" Talebearers were not wanting to carry the sarcasm to the royal ear ; and Frederic was as much incensed as a Grub Street writer who had found his name in the Dunciad. This could not last. A circumstance which, when 15 the mutual regard of the friends was in its first glow, would merely have been matter for laughter, produced a violent explosion. Maupertuis enjoyed as much of Frederic's good will as any man of letters. He was President of the Academy of Berlin ; and he 20 stood second to Voltaire, though at an immense dis- tance, in the literary society which had been assem- bled at the Prussian court. Frederic had, by playing for his own amusement on the feelings of the two jealous and vain-glorious Frenchmen, succeeded in 25 producing a bitter enmity between them. Voltaire resolved to set his mark, a mark never to be effaced, on the forehead of IMaupertuis, and wrote the ex- quisitely ludicrous Diatribe of Doctor Akakia. He showed this little piece to Frederic, who had too much 30 taste and too much malice not to relish such delicious pleasantry. In truth, even at this time of day, it is not easy for any person who has the least perception of the ridiculous to read the jokes of the Latin city, the Patagonians, and the hole to the centre of the 35 FEEDEEIC THE GREAT. 115 earth, wihoiit laughing till he cries. But though Frederic was diverted by this charming pasquinade, he was unwilling that it should get abroad. His self- love was interested. He had selected Maupertuis to 5 fill the chair of his Academy. If all Europe were taught to laugh at Maupertuis, would not the repu- tation of the Academy, would not even the dignity of its royal patron, be in some degree compromised ? The King, therefore, begged Voltaire to suppress this per- 10 formance. Voltaire promised to do so, and broke his word. The Diatribe was published, and received with shouts of merriment and applause by all who could read the French language. The King stormed. Vol- taire, with his usual disregard of truth, asserted his 15 innocence, and made up some lie about a printer or an amanuensis. The King was not to be so imposed upon. He ordered the pamphlet to be burned by the common hangman, and insisted upon having an apology from Voltaire, couched in the most abject 20 terms. Voltaire sent back to the King his cross, his key, and the patent of his pension. After this burst of rage, the strange pair began to be ashamed of their violence, and went through the forms of reconcilia- tion. But the breach was irreparable; and Voltaire 25 took his leave of Frederic forever. They parted with cold civility; but their hearts were big with resent- ment. Voltaire had in his keeping a volume of the King's poetry, and forgot to return it. This was, we ])elieve, merely one of the oversights which men set- 30 ting out upon a journey often commit. That Vol- taire could have meditated plagiarism is quite in- credible. He would not, we are confident, for the half of Frederic's kingdom, have consented to father Frederic's verses. The King, however, who rated his 35 own writings much above their value, and who was 116 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. inclined to see all Voltaire's actions in the worst light, was enraged to think that his favourite compo- sitions were in the hands of an enemy, as thievish as a daw and as mischievous as a monkey. In the anger excited by this thought, he lost sight of reason and 5 decency, and determined on committing an outrage at once odious and ridiculous. Voltaire had reached Frankfort. His niece, Madame Denis, came thither to meet him. He con- ceived himself secure from the power of his late mas- lo ter, when he was arrested by order of the Prussian resident. The precious volume was delivered up. But the Prussian agents had, no doubt, been in- structed not to let Voltaire escape without some gross indignity. He was confined twelve days in a wretched 15 hovel. Sentinels with fixed bayonets kept guard over him. His niece was dragged through the mire by the soldiers. Sixteen hundred dollars were extorted from him by his insolent gaolers. It is absurd to say that this outrage is not to be attributed to the King. Was 20 anybody punished for it? Was anybody called in question for it ? Was it not consistent with Frederic 's character? Was it not of a piece with his conduct on other similar occasions? Is it not notorious that he repeatedly gave private directions to his officers to 25 pillage and demolish the houses of persons against whom he had a grudge, charging them at the same time to take their measures in such a way that his name might not be compromised? He acted thus towards Count Briihl in the Seven Years ' War. Why 30 should we believe that he would have been more scru- pulous with regard to Voltaire? When at length the illustrious prisoner regained his liberty, the prospect before him was but dreary. He was an exile both from the country of his birth 35 FEEDEEIC THE GEEAT. 117 and from the country of his adoption. The French government had taken offence at his journey to Prus- sia, and would not permit him to return to Paris ; and in the vicinity of Prussia it was not safe for him to 5 remain. He took refuge on the beautiful shores of Lake Le- man. There, loosed from every tie which had hitherto restrained him, and having little to hope or to fear from courts and churches, he began his long war 10 against all that, whether for good or evil, had authority over man; for what Burke said of the Constituent Assembly, was eminently true of this its great fore- runner : Voltaire could not build : he could only pull down: he was the very Vitruvius of ruin. He has 15 bequeathed to us not a single doctrine to be called by his name, not a single addition to the stock of our positive knowledge. But no human teacher ever left behind him so vast and terrible a wreck of truths and falsehoods, of things noble and things base, of things 20 useful and things pernicious. From the time when his sojourn beneath the Alps commenced, the dram- atist, the wit, the historian, was merged in a more important character. He was now the patriarch, the founder of a sect, the chief of a conspiracy, the prince 25 of a wide intellectual commonwealth. He often en- joyed a pleasure dear to the better part of his nature, the pleasure of vindicating innocence which had no other helper, of repairin^i' cruel wrongs, of pun- ishing tyranny in high places. He had also the 30 satisfaction not less acceptable to his ravenous van- ity, of hearing terrified Capuchins call him the Antichrist. But whether employed in works of be. nevolence, or in works of mischief, he never for- got Potsdam and Frankfort; and he listened anx- 35 iously to every murmur which indicated that a tem- 118 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. pest was gathering in Europe, and that his vengeance was at hand. He soon had his wish. Maria Theresa had never for a moment forgotten the great wrong which she had received at the hand of Frederic. Young and delicate, 5 just left an orphan, just about to be a mother, she had been compelled to fly from the ancient capital of her race; she had seen her fair inheritance dismembered by robbers, and of those robbers he had been the fore- most. Without a pretext, without a provocation, inio defiance of the most sacred engagements, he had at- tacked the helpless ally whom he was bound to defend. The Empress Queen had the faults as well as the vir- tues which are connected with quick sensibility and a high spirit. There was no peril which she was not 15 ready to brave, no calamity which she was not ready to bring on her subjects, or on the whole human race, if only she might once taste the sweetness of a com- plete revenge. Revenge, too, presented itself, to her narrow and superstitious mind, in the guise of duty. 20 Silesia had been wrested not only from the House of Austria, but from the Church of Rome. The con- queror had indeed permitted his new subjects to wor- ship God after their own fashion; but this was not enough. To bigotry it seemed an intolerable hardship 25 that the Catholic Church, having long enjoyed ascendency, should be compelled to content itself with equality. Nor was this the only circumstance which led Maria Theresa to regard her enemy as the enemy of God. The profaneness of Frederic's writings and 30 conversation, and the frightful rumours which were circulated respecting the immorality of his private life, naturally shocked a woman who believed with the firmest faith all that her confessor told her, and who, though surrounded by temptations, though 35 FREDERIC THE GREAT. 119 young and beautiful, though ardent in all her pas- sions, though possessed of absolute power, had pre- served her fame unsullied even by the breath of slander, 5 To recover Silesia, to humble the dynasty of Hohen- zollern to the dust, v^as the great object of her life. She toiled during many years for this end, with zeal as indefatigable as that which the poet ascribes to the stately goddess who tired out her immortal horses in 10 the work of raising the nations against Troy, and who offered to give up to destruction her darling Sparta and IMycenae, if only she might once see the smoke going up from the palace of Priam. With even such a spirit did the proud Austrian Juno strive to array 15 against her foe a coalition such as Europe had never seen. Nothing would content her but that the whole civilized world, from the White Sea to the Adriatic, from the Bay of Biscay to the pastures of the wild horses of the Tanais, should be combined in arms 20 against one petty state. She early succeeded by various arts in obtaining the adhesion of Russia, An ample share of spoil was promised to the King of Poland; and that prince, governed by his favourite, Count Briihl, readily prom- 25 ised the assistance of the Saxon forces. The great difficulty was with France. That the Houses of Bour- bon and of Hapsburg should ever cordially co-operate in any great scheme of European policy, had long been thought, to use the strong expression of Frederic, 30 just as impossible as that fire and water should amal- gamate. The whole history of the Continent, during two centuries and a half, had been the history of the mutual jealousies and enmities of France and Aus- tria. Since the administration of Pichelieu, above 35 all, it had been considered as the plain policy of the 120 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. ]\Iost Christian King to thwart on all occasions the Court of Vienna, and to protect every member of the Germanic body who stood up against the dictation of the Csesars. Common sentiments of religion had been unable to mitigate this strong antipathy. The rulers 5 of France, even while clothed in the Roman purple, even while persecuting the heretics of Rochelle and Auvergne, had still looked with favor on the Lutheran and Calvinistic princes who were struggling against the chief of the empire. If the French ministers paid lo any respect to the traditional rules handed down to them through many generations, they would have acted towards Frederic as the greatest of their prede- cessors acted towards Gustavus Adolphus. That there was deadly enmity between Prussia and Austria 15 was of itself a sufficient reason for close friendship between Prussia and France. With France Frederic could never have any serious controversy. His terri- tories were so situated that his ambition, greedy and unscrupulous as it was, could never impel him to at- 20 tack her of his own accord. He was more than half a Frenchman: he wrote, spoke, read nothing but French: he delighted in French society: the admira- tion of the French he proposed to himself as the best reward of all his exploits. It seemed incredible that 25 any French government, however notorious for levity or stupidity, could spurn away such an ally. The Court of Vienna, however, did not despair. The Austrian diplomatists propounded a new scheme of politics, which, it must be owned, was not altogether 30 without plausibility. The great powers, according to this theory, had long been under a delusion. They had looked on each other as natural enemies, while in truth they were natural allies. A succession of cruel wars had devastated Europe, had thinned the popula- 35 FEEDEEIC THE GREAT. 121 tion, had exhausted the public resources, had loaded governments with an immense burden of debt ; and when, after two hundred years of murderous hostility or of hollow truce, the illustrious Houses whose en- 5 mity had distracted the world sat down to count their gains, to what did the real advantage on either side amount? Simply to this, that they had kept each other from thriving. It was not the King of France, it was not the Emperor, who had reaped the fruits of 10 the Thirty Years' War, or of the War of the Prag- matic Sanction. Those fruits had been pilfered by states of the second and third rank, which, secured against jealousy by their insignificance, had dexter- ously aggrandised themselves while pretending to 15 serve the animosity of the great chiefs of Christendom. While the lion and tiger were tearing each other, the jackal had run off into the jungle with the prey. The real gainer by the Thirty Years' War had been neither France nor Austria, but Sweden. The real 20 gainer by the war of the Pragmatic Sanction had been neither France nor Austria, but the upstart of Bran- denburg. France had made great efforts, had added largely to her military glory, and largely to her pub- lic burdens; and for what end? Merely that Fred- 25 eric might rule Silesia. For this and this alone one French army, wasted by sword and famine, had perished in Bohemia; and another had purchased, with floods of the noblest blood, the barren glory of Fontenoy. And this prince, for whom France had 30 suffered so much, was he a grateful, was he even an honest ally? Had he not been as false to the Court of Versailles as to the Court of Vienna? Had he not played, on a large scale, the same part which, in pri- vate life, is played by the vile agent of chicane who 35 sets his neighbours quarrelling, involves them in costly 122 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. and interminable litigation, and betrays them to each other all round, certain that, whoever may be ruined, he shall be enriched? Surely the true wisdom of the great powers was to attack, not each other, but this common barrator, who, by inflaming the passions of 5 both, by pretending to serve both, and by deserting both, had raised himself above the station to which he was born. The great object of Austria was to regain Silesia; the great object of France was to obtain an accession of territory on the side of Flanders. If they 10 took opposite sides, the result would probably be that, after a war of many years, after the slaughter of many thousands of brave men, after the waste of many millions of crowns, they would lay down their arms without having achieved either object; but, if they 15 came to an understanding, there would be no risk, and no difficulty. Austria would willingly make in Bel- gium such cessions as France could not expect to obtain by ten pitched battles. Silesia would easily be annexed to the monarchy of which it had long 20 been a part. The union of two such powerful govern- ments would at once overawe the King of Prussia. If he resisted, one short campaign would settle his fate. France and Austria, long accustomed to rise from the game of war both losers, would, for the 25 first time, both be gainers. There could be no room for jealousy between them. The power of both would be increased at once; the equilibrium between them would be preserved; and the only sufferer would be a mischievous and unprincipled buccaneer, who de-30 served no tenderness from either. These doctrines, attractive from their novelty and ingenuity, soon became fashionable at the supper- parties and in the coffee-houses of Paris, and were espoused by every gay JMarquis, and every facetious 35 FREDEEIC THE GREAT. 123 abbe who was admitted to see Madame de Pompa- dour's hair curled and powdered. It was not, how- ever, to any political theory that the strange coalition between France and Austria owed its origin. The 5 real motive which induced the great continental powers to forget their old animosities and their old state maxims, was personal aversion to the King of Prussia. This feeling was strongest in Maria Theresa ; but it was by no means confined to her. Frederic, in 10 some respects a good master, was emphatically a bad neighbour. That he was hard in all dealings, and quick to take all advantages, was not his most odious fault. His bitter and scoffing speech had inflicted keener wounds than his ambition. In his character of 15 wit he was under less restraint than even in his char- acter of ruler. Satirical verses against all the princes and ministers of Europe were ascribed to his pen. In his letters and conversation he alluded to the greatest potentates of the age in terms which would have bet- 20 ter suited Colle, in a war of repartee with young Crebillon at Pelletier's table, than a great sovereign speaking of great sovereigns. About women he was in the habit of expressing himself in a manner which it was impossible for the meekest of women to for- 25 give; and, unfortunately for him, almost the whole Continent was then governed by women who were by no means conspicuous for meekness. Maria Theresa herself had not escaped his scurrilous jests. The Empress Elizabeth of Russia knew that her gallantries 30 afforded him a favourite theme for ribaldry and in- vective, ^ladame de Pompadour, who was really the head of the French Government, had been even more keenly galled. She had attempted, by the most deli- cate flattery, to propitiate the King of Prussia; but 35 her messages had drawn from him only dry and sar- 124 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. castic replies. The Empress Queen took a very dif- ferent course. Though the haughtiest of princesses, though the most austere of matrons, she forgot, in her thirst for revenge, both the dignity of her race and the purity of her character, and condescended to flat- 5 ter the low-born and low-minded concubine, who having acquired influence by prostituting herself, retained it by prostituting others. Maria Theresa actually wrote with her own hand a note, full of ex- pressions of esteem and friendship to her dear cousin, 10 the daughter of the butcher Poisson, the wife of the publican D'Etoiles, the kidnapper of young girls for the harem of an old rake, a strange cousin for the descendant of so many Emperors of the West ! The mistress was completely gained over, and easily car- 15 ried her point with Louis, who had, indeed, wrongs of his own to resent. His feelings were not quick; but contempt, says the eastern proverb, pierces even through the shell of a tortoise ; and neither prudence nor decorum had ever restrained Frederic from ex- 20 pressing his measureless contempt for the sloth, the imbecility, and the baseness of Louis. France was thus induced to join the coalition; and the example of France determined the conduct of Sweden, then completely subject to French influence. 25 The enemies of Frederic were surely strong enough to attack him openly; but they were desirous to add to all their other advantages, the advantage of a sur- prise. He was not, however, a man to be taken off his guard. He had tools in every court; and he now 30 received from Vienna, from Dresden, and from Paris, accounts so circumstantial and so consistent, that he could not doubt of his danger. He learnt that he was to be assailed at once by France, Austria, Russia, Saxony, Sweden, and the Germanic body; that the 35 FREDERIC THE GREAT. 125 greater part of his dominions was to be portioned out among his enemies; that France, which from her geographical position could not directly share in his spoils, was to receive an equivalent in the Nether- 5 lands; that Austria was to have Silesia, and the Czarina East Prussia ; that Augustus of Saxony ex- pected Magdeburg ; and that Sweden would be re- warded with part of Pomerania. If these designs succeeded, the House of Brandenburg would at once 10 sink in the European system to a place lower than that of the Duke of Wurtemburg or the Margrave of Baden. And what hope was there that these designs would fail? No such union of the continental powers had 15 been seen for ages. A less formidable confederacy had in a week conquered all the provinces of Venice, when Venice was at the height of power, wealth, and glory. A less formidable confederacy had compelled Louis the Fourteenth to bow down his haughty head 20 to the very earth. A less formidable confederacy has, within our own memory, subjugated a still mightier empire, and abased a still prouder name. Such odds had never been heard of in war. The people whom Frederic ruled were not five millions. The popula- 25 tion of the countries which were leagued against him amounted to a hundred millions. The disproportion in wealth was at least equally great. Small commu- nities, actuated by strong sentiments of patriotism or loyalty, have sometimes made head against great mon- 30 archies weakened by factions and discontents. But small as was Frederic's kingdom, it probably con- tained a greater number of disaffected subjects than were to be found in all the states of his enemies. Silesia formed the fourth part of his dominions ; and 35 from the Silesians, born under Austrian princes, the 126 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. utmost that he could expect was apathy. From the Silesian Catholics he could hardly expect anything but resistance. Some states have been enabled, by their geographi- cal position, to defend themselves with advantages against immense force. The sea has repeatedly pro- tected England against the fury of the whole Con- tinent. The Venetian government, driven from its possessions on the land, could still bid defiance to the confederates of Cambray from the Arsenal amidst the 10 lagoons. More than one great and well appointed army, which regarded the shepherds of Switzerland as an easy prey, has perished in the passes of the Alps. Frederic had no such advantage. The form of his states, their situation, the nature of the ground, 15 all were against him. His long, scattered, straggling territory seemed to have been shaped with an express view to the convenience of invaders, and was pro- tected by no sea, by no chain of hills. Scarcely any corner of it was a week's march from the territory of 20 the enemy. The capital itself, in the event of war, would be constantly exposed to insult. In truth, there was hardly a politician or a soldier in Europe who doubted that the conflict would be terminated in a very few days by the prostration of the house of 25 Brandenburg. Nor was Frederic 's own opinion very different. He anticipated nothing short of his own ruin, and of the ruin of his family. Yet there was still a chance, a slender chance, of escape. His states had at least the so advantage of a central position; his enemies were widely separated from each other, and could not con- veniently unite their overwhelming forces on one point. They inhabited different climates, and it was probable that the season of the year which would be 35 FREDERIC THE GREAT. 1-27 best suited to the military operations of one portion of the league, would be unfavourable to those of an- other portion. The Prussian monarchy, too, was free from some infirmities which were found in empires 5 far more extensive and magnificent. Its effective strength for a desperate struggle was not to be meas- ured merely by the number of square miles or the number of people. In that spare but well-knit and well-exercised body, there was nothing but sinew, and 10 muscle, and bone. No public creditors looked for dividends. No distant colonies required defence. No court, filled with flatterers and mistresses, devoured the pay of fifty battalions. The Prussian army, though far inferior in number to the troops which 15 were about to be opposed to it, was yet strong out of all proportion to the extent of the Prussian domin- ions. It was also admirably trained and admirably officered, accustomed to obey and accustomed to con- quer. The revenue was not only unincumbered by 20 debt, but exceeded the ordinary outlay in time of peace. Alone of all the European princes, Frederic had a treasure laid up for a day of difficulty. Above all, he was one, and his enemies were many. In their camps would certainly be found the jealousy, the 25 dissension, the slackness inseparable from coalitions ; on his side was the energy, the unity, the secrecy of a strong dictatorship. To a certain extent the de- ficiency of military means might be supplied by the resources of military art. Small as the King's army 30 was, when compared with the six hundred thousand men whom the confederates could bring into the field, celerity of movement might in some degree compen- sate for deficiency of bulk. It was thus just possible that genius, judgment, resolution, and good luck 35 united, might protract the struggle during a cam- 12S MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. paign or two; and to gain even a month was of im- portance. It could not be long before the vices which are found in all extensive confederacies would begin to show themselves. Every member of the league would think his own share of the war too large, and 5 his own share of the spoils too small. Complaints and recriminations would abound. The Turk might stir on the Danube; the statesmen of France might discover the error which they had committed in aban- doning the fundamental principles of their national lo policy. Above all, death might rid Prussia of its most formidable enemies. The wa.r was the effect of the personal aversion with which three or four sover- eigns regarded Frederic; and the decease of any one of those sovereigns might produce a complete revolu- 15 tion in the state of Europe. In the midst of a horizon generally dark and stormy, Frederic could discern one bright spot. The peace which had bee'a concluded between England and France in 1748, had been in Europe no more than an 20 armistice ; and had not even been an armistice in the other quarters of the globe. In India the sovereignty of the Carnatic was disputed betw^een two great Mus- sulman houses; Fort Saint George had taken one side, Pondicherry the other ; and in a series of battles 25 and sieges the troops of Lawrence and Clive had been opposed to those of Dupleix. A struggle less impor- tant in its consequences, but not less likely to produce irritation, w^as carried on between those French and English adventurers, who kidnaped negroes and col- 30 lected gold dust on the coast of Guinea. But it was in North America that the emulation and mutual aversion of the two nations were most conspicuous. The French attempted to hem in the English colo- nists by a chain of military posts, extending from the 35 FREDERIC: THE GREAT. 129 Great Lakes to the month of the INFississippi. The English took arms. The wild aboriginal tribes ap- peared on each side mingled with the Pale Faces. Battles were fought; forts were stormed; and hideous 5 stories about stakes, scalpings, and death-songs reached Europe, and inflamed that national animosity which the rivalry of ages had produced. The dis- putes between France and England came to a crisis at the very time when the tempest which had been 10 gathering was about to burst on Prussia. The tastes and interests of Frederic would have led him, if he had been allowed an option, to side with the house of Bourbon. But the folly of the Court of Versailles left him no choice. France became the tool of Aus- 15 tria ; and Frederic was forced to become the ally of England. He could not, indeed, expect that a power which covered the sea with its fleets, and which had to make war at once on the Ohio and the Ganges, would be able to spare a large number of troops for 20 operations in Germany. But England, though poor compared with the England of our time, was far richer than any country on the Continent. The amount of her revenue, and the resources which she found in her credit, though they may be thought 25 small by a generation which has seen her raise a hun- dred and thirty millions in a single year, appeared miraculous to the politicians of that age. A very mod- erate portion of her wealth, expended by an able and economical prince, in a country where prices were 30 low would be sufficient to equip and maintain a formidable army. Such was the situation in which Frederic found himself. He saw the whole extent of his peril. He saw that there was still a faint possibility of escape; 35 and, with prudent temerity, he determined to strike 130 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. the first blow. It was in the month of August, 1756, that the great war of the Seven Years commenced. The King demanded of the Empress Queen a distinct explanation of her intentions, and plainly told her that he should consider a refusal as a declaration of 5 war. ''I want," he said, ''no answer in the style of an oracle." He received an answer at once haughty and evasive. In an instant the rich electorate of Saxony was overflowed by sixty thousand Prussian troops. Augustus with his army occupied a strong lo position at Pirna. The Queen of Poland was at Dres- den. In a few days Pirna was blockaded and Dres- den was taken. The first object of Frederic was to obtain possession of the Saxon State Papers; for those papers, he well knew, contained ample proofs is that, though apparently an aggressor, he was really acting in self-defence. The Queen of Poland, as well acquainted as Frederic with the importance of those documents, had packed them up, had concealed them in her bed-chamber, and was about to send them off 20 to Warsaw, when a Prussian officer made his appear- ance. In the hope that no soldier would venture to outrage a lady, a queen, the daughter of an emperor, the mother-in-law of a dauphin, she placed herself before the trunk, and at length sat down on it. But 25 all resistance was vain. The papers were carried to Frederic, who found in them, as he expected, abun- dant evidence of the designs of the coalition. The most important documents were instantly published, and the effect of the publication was great. It was 30 clear that, of whatever sins the King of Prussia might formerly have been guilty, he was now the injured party, and had merely anticipated a blow intended to destroy him. The Saxon camp at Pirna was in the mean time 35 FEEDEEIC THE GEEAT. 131 closely invested; but the besieged were not without hopes of succour. A great Austrian army under I\Iar- shal Brown was about to pour through the passes which separate Bohemia from Saxony. Frederic left 5 at Pirna a force sufficient to deal with the Saxons, hastened into Bohemia, encountered Brown at Lowo- sitz, and defeated him. This battle decided the fate of Saxony. Augustus and his favourite Briihl fled to Poland. The whole army of the electorate capitu- lolated. From that time till the end of the war, Fred- eric treated Saxony as a part of his dominions, or, rather, he acted towards the Saxons in a manner which may serve to illustrate the whole meaning of that tremendous sentence, "subjectos tanquam suos, viles 15 tanquam alienos. ' ' Saxony was as much in his power as Brandenburg ; and he had no such interest in the welfare of Saxony as he had in the welfare of Bran- denburg. He accordingly levied troops and exacted contributions throughout the enslaved province, with 20 far more rigour than in any part of his own do- minions. Seventeen thousand men who had been in the camp at Pirna were half compelled, half persuaded to enlist under their conqueror. Thus, within a few weeks from the commencement of 25 hostilities, one of the confederates had been dis- armed, and his weapons were now pointed against the rest. The winter put a stop to military operations. All had hitherto gone well. But the real tug of war was 30 still to come. It was easy to foresee that the year 1757 would be a memorable era in the history of Europe. The King's scheme for the campaign was simple, bold, and judicious. The Duke of Cumberland with 35 an English and Hanoverian army was in Western 132 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. Germany, and might be able to prevent the French troops from attacking Prussia. The Russians, con- fined by their snows, would probably not stir till the spring was far advanced. Saxony was prostrated. Sweden could do nothing very important. During as few months Frederic would have to deal with Austria alone. Even thus the odds were against him. But ability and courage have often triumphed against odds still more formidable. Early in 1757 the Prussian army in Saxony began lO to move. Through four defiles in the mountains they came pouring into Bohemia. Prague was the King's first mark; but the ulterior object was probably Vienna. At Prague lay Marshal Brown with one great army. Daun, the most cautious and fortunate 15 of the Austrian captains, was advancing Avitli another. Frederic determined to overwhelm Brown before Daun should arrive. On the sixth of May was fought, under those walls which, a hundred and thirty years before, had witnessed the victory of the Catholic 20 league and the flight of the unhappy Palatine, a battle more bloody than any which Europe saw dur- ing the long interval between Malplaquet and Eylau. The King and Prince Ferdinand of Brunswick were distinguished on that day by their valour and exer- 25 tions. But the chief glory was with Schwerin. "When the Prussian infantry wavered, the stout old marshal snatched the colours from an ensign, and, waving them in the air, led back his regiment to the charge. Thus at seventy-two years of age he fell in the thick- 30 est battle, still grasping the standard which bears the black eagle on the field argent. The victory remained with the King; but it had been dearly purchased. AVhole columns of his bravest warriors had fallen. H(^ admitted that he had lost eighteen thousand men. OF 35 FREDERIC THE GREAT. I33 the enemy, twenty-four thousand had been killed, wounded, or taken. Part of the defeated army was shut up in Prague. Part fled to join the troops wdiich, under the com- 5 mand of Daun, were now close at hand. Frederic determined to play over the same game which had succeeded at Lowositz. He left a large force to be- siege Prague, and at the head of thirty thousand men he marched against Daun. The cautious Marshal, 10 though he had a great superiority in numbers, would risk nothing. He occupied at Kolin a position almost impregnable, and awaited the attack of the King. It was the eighteenth of June, a day which, if the 15 Greek superstition still retained its influence, would be held sacred to Nemesis, a day on which the two greatest princes of modern times Avere taught, by a terrible experience, that neither skill nor valour can fix the inconstancy of fortune. The battle began 20 before noon ; and part of the Prussian army main- tained the contest till after the midsummer sun had gone down. But at length the King found that his troops, having been repeatedly driven back with fright- ful carnage, could no longer be led to the charge. He 25 was with difficulty persuaded to quit the field. The officers of his personal staff were under the necessity of expostulating with him, and one of them took the liberty to say, ''Does your Majesty mean to storm the batteries alone?" Thirteen thousand of his 30 bravest followers had perished. Nothing remained for him but to retreat in good order, to raise the siege of Prague, and to hurry his army by different routes out of Bohemia. Tliis stroke seemed to be final. Frederic's situation 35 had at Ix'st 1)een sucli, that only an uninterrupted 134 MACAXJLAY'S ESSAYS. run of good luck could save him, as it seemed, from ruin. And now, almost in the outset of the contest, he had met with a check which, even in a war between equal powers, would have been felt as serious. He had owed much to the opinion which all Europe en- 5 tertained of his army. Since his accession, his soldiers had in many successive battles been victorious over the Austrians. ' But the glory had departed from his arms. All whom his malevolent sarcasms had wounded, made haste to avenge themselves by 10 scoffing at the scoffer. His soldiers had ceased to con- fide in his star. In every part of his camp his dis- positions were severely criticized. Even in his own family he had detractors. His next brother, William, heir-presumptive, or rather, in truth, heir-apparent 15 to the throne, and great-grandfather of the present king, could not refrain from lamenting his own fate and that of the house of Hohenzollern, once so great and so prosperous, but now, by the rash ambition of its chief, made a by-word to all nations. These com- 20 plaints, and some blunders which William commit- ted during the retreat from Bohemia, called forth the bitter displeasure of the inexorable King. The princess heart was broken by the cutting reproaches of his brother ; he quitted the army, retired to a coun- 25 try seat, and in a short time died of shame and vexa- tion. It seemed that the King's distress could hardly be increased. Yet at this moment another blow not less terrible than that of Kolin fell upon him. The French 30 under Marshal D'Estrees had invaded Germany. The Duke of Cumberland had given them battle at Has- tembeck, and had been defeated. In order to save the Electorate of Hanover from entire subjugation, he had made, at Closter Seven, an arrangement with the 35 rREDERIC THE GREAT. 135 French Generals, which left them at liberty to turn their arms against the Prussian dominions. That nothing might be wanting to Frederic's dis- tress, he lost his mother just at this time; and he 5 appears to have felt the loss more than was to be ex- pected from the hardness and severity of his charac- ter. In truth, his misfortunes had now cut to the quick. The mocker, the tyrant, the most rigorous, the most imperious, the most cynical of men, was very 10 unhappy. His face was so haggard and his form so thin, that when on his return from Bohemia he passed through Leipsic, the people hardly knew him again. His sleep was broken; the tears, in spite of himself, often started into his eyes; and the grave began to 15 present itself to his agitated mind as the best refuge from misery and dishonour. His resolution was fixed never to be taken alive, and never to make peace on condition of descending from his place among the powers of Europe. He saw nothing left for him ex- zocept to die; and he deliberately chose his mode of death. He always carried about with him a sure and speedy poison in a small glass case; and to the few in whom he placed confidence, he made no mystery of his resolution. 25 But we should very imperfectly describe the state of Frederic's mind, if we left out of view the laugh- able peculiarities which contrasted so singularly with the gravity, energy, and harshness of his character. It is difficult to say whether the tragic or the comic 30 predominated in the strange scene which was then act- ing. In the midst of all the great King's calamities, his passion for writing indifferent poetry grew stronger and stronger. Enemies all round him, de- spair in his heart, pills of corrosive sublimate hidden 35 in liis clothes, lie poured forth hundreds upon hun- 136 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. dreds of lines, hateful to gods and men, the insipid dregs of Voltaire's Hippocrene, the faint echo of the lyre of Chaulieu. It is amusing to compare what he did during the last months of 1757, with what he wrote during the same time. It may be doubted 5 whether any equal portion of the life of Hannibal, of Caesar, or of Napoleon, will bear a comparison with that short period, the most brilliant in the history of Prussia and of Frederic. Yet at this very time the scanty leisure of the illustrious warrior was employed lo in producing odes and epistles, a little better than Gibber's, and a little worse than Hayley's. Here and there a manly sentiment which deserves to be in prose makes its appearance in company with Prometheus and Orpheus, Elysium and Acheron, the plaintive is Philomel, the poppies of ^Morpheus, and all the other frippery which, like a robe tossed by a proud beauty to her waiting-woman, has long been contemptuously abandoned by genius to mediocrity. We hardly know any instance of the strength and weakness of human 20 nature so striking, and so grotesque, as the' character of this haughty, vigilant, resolute, sagacious blue- stocking, half Mithridates and half Trissotin, bearing up against a world in arms, with an ounce of poison in one pocket and a quire of bad verses in the other. 25 Frederic had some time before made advances to- wards a reconciliation with Voltaire; and some civil letters had passed between them. After the battle of Kolin their epistolary intercourse became, at least in seeming, friendly and confidential. We do not know 30 any collection of Letters which throws so much light on the darkest and most intricate parts of human na- ture, as the correspondence of these strange beings after they had exchanged forgiveness. Both felt that the quarrel had lowered them in the public estima- 35 FREDEEIC THE GREAT. I37 tion. They admired each other. They stood in need of each other. The great King wished to be handed down to posterity by the great Writer. The great Writer felt himself exalted by the homage of the 5 great King. Yet the wounds which they had inflicted on each other were too deep to be effaced, or even perfectly healed. Not only did the scars remain ; the sore places often festered and bled afresh. The let- ters consisted for the most part of compliments, 10 thanks, offers of service, assurances of attachment. But if any thing brought back to Frederic's recollec- tion the cunning and mischievous pranks by which Voltaire had provoked him, some expression of con- tempt and displeasure broke forth in the midst of 15 eulogy. It was much worse when any thing recalled to the mind of Voltaire the outrages which he and his kinswoman had suffered at Frankfort. All at once his flowing panegyric was turned into invective. ''Re- member how you behaved to me. For your sake I 20 have lost the favour of my native king. For your sake I am an exile from my country. I loved you. I trusted myself to you. I had no wish but to end my life in your service. And what was my reward? Stripped of all that you had bestowed on me, the 25 key, the order, the pension, I was forced to fly from your territories. I was hunted as if I had been a de- serter from 3^our grenadiers. I was arrested, in- sulted, plundered. IMy niece was dragged through the mud of Frankfort by your soldiers, as if she had 30 been some wretched follower of your camp. You have great talents. You have good qualities. But you have one odious vice. You delight in the abasement of your fellow-creatures. You have brought disgrace on the name of philosopher. You have given some 35 colour to the slandors of tlie bigots, who sav that no 138 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. confidence can be placed in the justice or humanity of those who reject the Christian faith." Then the King answers, with less heat but equal severity — ''You know that you behaved shamefully in Prussia. It was well for you that you had to deal with a man so 5 indulgent to the infirmities of genius as I am. You richly deserved to see the inside of a dungeon. Your talents are not more widely known than your faith- lessness and your malevolence. The grave itself is no asylum from your spite. Maupertuis is dead ; but lo you still go on calumniating and deriding him, as if you had not made him miserable enough while he was living. Let us have no more of this. And, above all, let me hear no more of your niece. I am sick to death of her name. I can bear with your faults for 15 the sake of your merits; but she has not written Mahomet or Merope." An explosion of this kind, it might be supposed, would necessarily put an end to all amicable communi- cation. But it was not so. After every outbreak of 20 ill humour this extraordinary pair became more lov- ing than before, and exchanged compliments and assurances of mutual regard with a wonderful air of sincerity. It may well be supposed that men who wrote thus 25 to each other, were not very guarded in what they said of each other. The English ambassador, ]\Iitchell, who knew that the King of Prussia was constantly writing to Voltaire with the greatest freedom on the most important subjects, was amazed to hear his 30 Majesty designate this highly favoured correspondent as a bad-hearted fellow, the greatest rascal on the face of the earth. And the language which the poet held about the King was not much more respectful. It would probably have puzzled Voltaire himself 35 FEEDERIC THE GEEAT. 139 to say what was his real feeling towards Frederic. It was compounded of all sentiments, from enmity to friendship, and from scorn to admiration; and the proportions in which these elements were mixed, 5 changed every moment. The old patriarch resembled the spoiled child who screams, stamps, cuffs, laughs, kisses, and cuddles within one quarter of an hour. His resentment was not extinguished ; yet he was not without sympathy for his old friend. As a French- 10 man, he wished success to the arms of his country. As a philosopher, he was anxious for the stability of a throne on which a philosopher sat. He longed both to save and to humble Frederic. There was one way, and only one, in which all his conflicting feelings 15 could at once be gratified. If Frederic were preserved by the interference of France, if it were known that for that interference he was indebted to the mediation of Voltaire, this would indeed be delicious revenge; this would indeed be to heap coals of fire on that 20 haughty head. Nor did the vain and restless poet think it impossible that he might, from his hermitage near the Alps, dictate peace to Europe. D'Estrees had quitted Hanover, and the command of the French army had been intrusted to the Duke of Richelieu, a 25 man whose chief distinction was derived from his success in gallantry. Richelieu was in truth the most eminent of that race of seducers by profession, who furnished Crebillon the younger and La Clos with models for their heroes. In his earlier days the royal . 30 house itself had not been secure from his presump- tuous love. He was believed to have carried his con- quests into the family of Orleans ; and some suspected that he was not unconcerned in the mysterious re- morse which embittered the last hours of the charm- 85 ing mother of Louis the Fifteenth. But the Duke was 140 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. now sixty years old. With a heart deeply corrupted by vice, a head long accustomed to think only on trifles, an impaired constitution, an impaired fortune, and, worst of all, a very red nose, he was entering on a dull, frivolous, and unrespected old age. Without 5 one qualification for military command, except that personal courage which was common between him and the whole nobility of France, he had been placed at the head of the army of Hanover ; and in that sit- uation he did his best to repair, by extortion audio corruption, the injury which he had done to his prop- erty by a life of dissolute profusion. The Duke of Richelieu to the end of his life hated the philosophers as a sect, not for those parts of their system which a good and wise man would have con- 15 demned, but for their virtues, for their spirit of free inquiry, and for their hatred of those social abuses of which he was himself the personification. But he, like many of those who thought with him, excepted Voltaire from the list of proscribed writers. He fre- 20 quently sent flattering letters to Ferney. He did the patriarch the honour to borrow money of him, and even carried his condescending friendship so far as to forget to pay the interest. Voltaire thought that it might be in his power to bring the Duke and the King 25 of Prussia into communication with each other. He •wrote earnestly to both ; and he so far succeeded that a correspondence between them was commenced. But it was to very different means that Frederic was to owe his deliverance. At the beginning of Novem-30 ber, the net seemed to have closed completely round him. The Russians were in the field, and were spread- ing devastation through his eastern provinces. Silesia was overrun by the Austrians. A great French army was advancing from the west under the command of 35 FEEDERIC THE GREAT. 141 Marshal Soubise, a prince of the great Armorican house of Rohan. Berlin itself had been taken and plundered by the Croatians. Such was the situation from which Frederic extricated himself, with dazzling 5 glory, in the short space of thirty days. lie marched first against Soubise. On the fifth of November the armies met at Rosbach. The French were two to one; but they were ill disciplined, and their general was a dunce. The tactics of Frederic, 10 and the well-regulated valour of the Prussian troops, obtained a complete victory. Seven thousand of the invaders were made prisoners. Their guns, their col- ours, their baggage, fell into the hands of the con- querors. Those who escaped fled as confusedly as a 15 mob scattered by cavalry. Victorious in the West, the King turned his arms towards Silesia. In that quarter every thing seemed to be lost. Breslau had fallen ; and Charles of Loraine, with a mighty power, held the whole province. On the fifth of December, 20 exactly one month after the battle of Rosbach, Fred- eric, with forty thousand men, and Prince Charles, at the head of not less than sixty thousand, met at Leuthen, hard by Breslau. The King, who was, in general, perhaps too much inclined to consider the 25 common soldier as a mere machine, resorted, on this great day, to means resembling those which Bonaparte afterwards employed with such signal success for the purpose of stimulating military enthusiasm. The principal officers were convoked. Frederic addressed 30 them with great force and pathos ; and directed them . to speak to their men as he had spoken to them. When the armies were set in battle array, the Prus- sian troops were in a state of fierce excitement; but their excitement showed itself after the fashion of a 35 grave people. The columns advanced to the attack 142 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. chanting, to the sound of drums and fifes, the rude hymns of the okl Saxon Sternholds. They had never fought so well ; nor had the genius of their chief ever been so conspicuous. ''That battle," said Napoleon, 'Svas a masterpiece. Of itself it is sufficient to entitle 5 Frederic to a place in the first rank among generals. ' ' The victory was complete. Twenty-seven thousand Austrians were killed, wounded, or taken ; fifty stand of colours, a hundred guns, four thousand waggons, fell into the hands of the Prussians. Breslau opened lo its gates ; Silesia was reconquered ; Charles of Loraine retired to hide his shame and sorrow at Brussels ; and Frederic allowed his troops to take some repose in winter quarters, after a campaign, to the vicissitudes of w^hich it will be difficult to find any parallel in 15 ancient or modern history. The King's fame filled all the world. He had, during the last year, maintained a contest, on terms of advantage, against three powers, the weakest of which had more than three times his resources. He 20 had fought four great pitched battles against superior forces. Three of these battles he had gained; and the defeat of Kolin, repaired as it had been, rather raised than lowered his military renown. The victory of Leuthen is, to this day, the proudest on the roll of 25 Prussian fame. Leipsic indeed, and Waterloo, pro- duced consequences more important to mankind. But the glory of Leipsic must be shared by the Prussians with the Austrians and Eussians; and at Waterloo the British Infantry bore the burden and heat of the 30 day. The victory of Rosbach was, in a military point • of view, less honourable than that of Leuthen; for it was gained over an incapable general and a disorgan- ized army ; but the moral effect which it produced was immense. All the preceding triumphs of Frederic 35 FEEDEEIC THE GREAT. 143 had been triumphs over Germans, and could excite no emotions of national pride among the German peo- ple. It was impossible that a Hessian or a Hanover- ian could feel any patriotic exultation at hearing that 5 Pomeranians had slaughtered Moravians, or that Saxon banners had been hung in the churches of Ber- lin. Indeed, though the military character of the Ger- mans justly stood high throughout the world, they could boast of no great day which belonged to them 10 as a people ; of no Agincourt, of no Bannockburn. Most of their victories had been gained over each other; and their most splendid exploits against for- eigners had been achieved under the command of Eugene, who was himself a foreigner. The news of 15 the battle of Rosbach stirred the blood of the whole of the mighty population from the Alps to the Baltic, and from the borders of Courland to those of Loraine. Westphalia and Lower Saxony had been deluged by a great host of strangers, whose speech was unintel- 20 ligible, and whose petulant and licentious manners had excited the strongest feelings of disgust and hatred. That great host had been put to flight by a small band of German warriors, led by a prince of German blood on the side of father and mother, and 25 marked by the fair hair and clear blue eye of Ger- many. Never since the dissolution of the empire of Charlemagne, had the Teutonic race won such a field against the French. The tidings called forth a gen- eral burst of delight and pride from the whole of the 30 great family which spoke the various dialects of the ancient language of Arminius. The fame of Frederic began to supply, in some degree, the place of a com- mon government and of a common capital. It became a rallying point for all true Germans, a subject of 35 mutual congratulation to the Bavarian and the West- 144 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. phalian, to the citizen of Frankfort and the citizen of Nuremburg. Then first it was manifest that the Ger- mans were truly a nation. Then first was discernible that patriotic spirit which, in 1813, achieved the great deliverance of central Europe, and which still guards, 5 and long will guard, against foreign ambition the old freedom of the Rhine. Nor were the effects produced by that celebrated day merely political. The greatest masters of German poetry and eloquence have admitted that, though the lo great King neither valued nor understood his native language, though he looked on France as the only seat of taste and philosophy, yet, in his own despite, he did much to emancipate the genius of his countrymen from the foreign yoke; and that, in the act of van- 15 quishing Soubise, he was, unintentionally, rousing the spirit which soon began to question the literary precedence of Boileau and Voltaire. So strangely do events confound all the plans of man. A prince who read only French, who wrote only French, who as- 20 pired to rank as a French classic, became, quite unconsciously, the means of liberating half the Con- tinent from the dominion of that French criticism of which he was himself, to the end of his life, a slave. Yet even the enthusiasm of Germany in favour of 25 Frederic hardly equalled the enthusiasm of England. The birth-day of our ally was celebrated with as much enthusiasm as that of our own sovereign ; and at night the streets of London were in a blaze with illumina- tions. Portraits of the hero of Rosbach, w4th hisso cocked hat and long pigtail, were in every house. An attentive observer will, at this day, find in the par- lours of old-fashioned inns, and in the portfolios of print-sellers, twenty portraits of Frederic for one of George the Second. The sign painters were every- 35 FREDERIC THE GREAT. 145 where employed in touching up Admiral Vernon into the King of Prussia. This enthusiasm was strong among religious people, and especially among the ]\Iethodists, who knew that the French and Austrians 5 were Papists, and supposed Frederic to be the Joshua or Gideon of the Reformed Faith. One of Whitfield's hearers, on the day on which thanks for the battle of Leuthen were returned at the Tabernacle, made the following exquisitely ludicrous entry in a diary, part 10 of which has come down to us: ''The Lord stirred up the King of Prussia and his soldiers to pray. They kept three fast days, and spent about an hour pray- ing and singing psalms before they engaged the enemy. ! how good it is to pray and fight ! ' ' Some 15 young Englishmen of rank proposed to visit Germany as volunteers, for the purpose of learning the art of war under the greatest of commanders. This last proof of British attachment and admiration, Frederic politely but firmly declined. His camp was no place 20 for amateur students of military science. The Prus- sian discipline was rigorous even to cruelty. The of- ficers, while in the field, were expected to practise an abstemiousness and self-denial, such as was hardly surpassed by the most rigid monastic orders. How- 25 ever noble their birth, however high their rank in the service, they were not permitted to eat from any thing better than pewter. It was a high crime even in a count and field-marshal to have a single silver spoon among his baggage. Gay young Englishmen of 30 twenty thousand a year, accustomed to liberty and to luxury, would not easily submit to these Spartan restraints. The King could not venture to keep them in order as he kept his own subjects in order. Situ- ated as he was with respect to England, he could not 35 well imprison or shoot refractory Howards and Cav- 146 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. endishes. On the other hand, the example of a few fine gentlemen, attended by chariots and livery servants, eating in plate, and drinking Champagne and Tokay, was enough to corrupt his whole army. He thought it best to make a stand at first, and 5 civilly refused to admit such dangerous companions among his troops. The help of England v/as bestowed in a manner far more useful and more acceptable. An annual subsidy of near seven hundred thousand pounds 10 enabled the King to add probably more than fifty thousand men to his army. Pitt, now at the height of power and popularity, undertook the task of de- fending Western Germany against France, and asked Frederic only the loan of a general. The general 15 selected was Prince Ferdinand of Brunswick, who had attained high distinction in the Prussian service. He was put at the head of an army, partly English, partly Hanoverian, partly composed of mercenaries hired from the petty princes of the empire. He soon 20 vindicated the choice of the two allied courts, and proved himself the second general of the age. Frederic passed the winter at Breslau, in reading, writing, and preparing for the next campaign. The havoc which the war had made among his troops was 25 rapidly repaired; and in the spring of 1758 he was again ready for the conflict. Prince Ferdinand kept the French in check. The King in the mean time, after attempting against the Austrians some opera- tions which led to no very important results, marched 30 to encounter the Russians, who, slaying, burning, and wasting wherever they turned, had penetrated into the heart of his realm. He gave them battle at Zorn- dorf, near Frankfort on the Oder. The fight was long and bloody. Quarter was neither given nor taken ; 35 FEEDERIC THE GREAT. 147 for the Germans and Scythians regarded each other with bitter aversion, and the sight of the ravages committed by the half-savage invaders had incensed the King and his army. The Russians vi^ere over- 5 thrown with great slaughter ; and for a few months no further danger was to be apprehended from the east. A day of thanksgiving was proclaimed by the King, and was celebrated with pride and delight by his 10 people. The rejoicings in England were not less en- thusiastic or less sincere. This may be selected as the point of time at which the military glory of Fred- eric reached the zenith. In the short space of three quarters of a year he had won three great battles over 15 the armies of three mighty and warlike monarchies, France, Austria and Russia. But it was decreed that the temper of that strong mind should be tried by both extremes of fortune in rapid succession. Close upon this series of triumphs 20 came a series of disasters, such as would have blighted the fame and broken the heart of almost any other commander. Yet Frederic, in the midst of his calami- ties, was still an object of admiration to his subjects, his allies, and his enemies. Overwhelmed by ad- 25 versity, sick of life, he still maintained the contest, greater in defeat, in flight, and in what seemed hope- less ruin, than on the fields of his proudest victories. Having vanquished the Russians, he hastened into Saxony to oppose the troops of the Empress Queen, 30 commanded by Daun, the most cautious, and Lau- dohn, the most inventive and enterprising of her generals. These two celebrated commanders agreed on a scheme, in which the prudence of the one and the vigour of the other seemed to have been happily com- 35 bined. At dead of night they surprised the King in 148 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. his camp at Hochkirchen. His presence of mind saved his troops from destruction ; but nothing could save them from defeat and severe loss. IMarshal Keith was among the slain. The first roar of the guns roused the noble exile from his rest, and he was in- 5 stantly in the front of the battle. He received a dangerous wound, but refused to quit the field, and was in the act of rallying his broken troops, when an Austrian bullet terminated his chequered and event- ful life. 10 The misfortune was serious. But of all generals Frederic understood best how to repair defeat, and Daun understood least how to improve victory. In a few days the Prussian army was as formidable as before the battle. The prospect was, however, gloomy. 15 An Austrian army under General Harsch had in- vaded Silesia, and invested the fortress of Neisse. Daun, after his success at Hochkirchen, had written to Harsch in very confident terms: — "Go on with your operations against Neisse. Be quite at ease as 20 to the King. I will give a good account of him.'^ In truth, the position of the Prussians was full of difficulties. Between them and Silesia lay the vic- torious army of Daun. It was not easy for them to reach Silesia at all. If they did reach it, they left 25 Saxony exposed to the Austrians. But the vigour and activity of Frederic surmounted every obstacle. He made a circuitous march of extraordinary rapidity, passed Daun, hastened into Silesia, raised the siege of Neisse, and drove Harsch into Bohemia. Daun availed 30 himself of the King's absence to attack Dresden. The Prussians defended it desperately. The inhabitants of that wealthy and polished capital begged in vain for mercy from the garrison within, and from the besiegers without. The beautiful suburbs were burned 35 FEEDEEIC THE GEEAT. 149 to the ground. It was clear that the town, if won at all, would be won street by street by the bayonet. At this conjuncture, came news that Frederic, having cleared Silesia of his enemies, was returning by forced 5 marches into Saxony. Daun retired from before Dresden, and fell back into the Austrian territories. The King, over heaps of ruins, made his triumphant entry into the unhappy metropolis, which had so cruelly expiated the weak and perfidious policy of its 10 sovereign. It was now the twentieth of November. The cold weather suspended military operations ; and the King again took up his winter quarters at Breslau. The third of the seven terrible years was over ; and 15 Frederic still stood his ground. He had been recently tried by domestic as well as by military disasters. On the fourteenth of October, the day on which he was defeated at Hochkirchen, the day on the anniversary of which, forty-eight years later, a defeat far more 20 tremendous laid the Prussian monarchy in the dust, died Wilhelmina, Margravine of Bareuth, From the accounts which we have of her, by her own hand, and by the hands of the most discerning of her contem- poraries, we should pronounce her to have been coarse, 25 indelicate, and a good hater, but not destitute of kind and generous feelings. Her mind, naturally strong and observant, had been highly cultivated; and she was, and deserved to be, Frederic's favourite sister. He felt the loss as much as it was in his iron nature 30 to feel the loss of any thing but a province or a battle. At Breslau, during the winter, he was indefatigable in his poetical labours. The most spirited lines, per- haps, that he ever wrote, are to be found in a bitter lampoon on Louis and IMadame de Pompadour, which 35 he composed at this time, and sent to Voltaire. The 150 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. verses were, indeed, so good, that Voltaire was afraid that he might himself be suspected of having written them, or at least of having corrected them ; and partly from fright, partly, we fear, from love of mischief, sent them to the Duke of Choiseul, then prime min-5 ister of France. Choiseul very wisely determined to encounter Frederic at Frederic's own weapons, and applied for assistance to Palissot, who had some skill as a versifier, and some little talent for satire. Pa- lissot produced some very stinging lines on the moral lo and literary character of Frederic, and these lines the Duke sent to Voltaire. This war of couplets, follow- ing close on the carnage of Zorndorf and the con- flagration of Dresden, illustrates well the strangely compounded character of the King of Prussia. 15 At this moment he was assailed by a new enemy. Benedict the Fourteenth, the best and wisest of the two hundred and fifty successors of St. Peter, was no more. During the short interval between his reign and that of his disciple Ganganelli, the chief 20 seat in the Church of Rome was filled by Rezzonico, who took the name of Clement the Thirteenth. This absurd priest determined to try what the weight of his authority could effect in favour of the orthodox Maria Theresa against a heretic king. At the higli 25 mass on Christmas-day, a sword with a rich belt and scabbard, a hat of crimson velvet lined with ermine, and a dove of pearls, the mystic symbol of the Divine Comforter, were solemnly blessed by the supreme pon- tiff, and were sent with great ceremony to Marshal 30 Daun, the conqueror of Kolin and Hochkirchen. This mark of favour had more than once been bestowed by the Popes on the great champions of the faith. Similar honours had been paid, more than six centuries earlier, by Urban the Second to Godfrey of Bouillon. Similar 35 FKEDEEIC THE GREAT. 151 honours had been conferred on Alba for destroying the liberties of the Low Countries, and on John So- biesky after the deliverance of Vienna. But the presents which were received with profound reverence 5 by the Baron of the Holy Sepulchre in the eleventh century, and which had not wholly lost their value even in the seventeenth century, appeared inexpress- ibly ridiculous to a generation which read IMontes- quieu and Voltaire. Frederic wrote sarcastic verses 10 on the gifts, the giver, and the receiver. But the public wanted no prompter; and an universal roar of laughter from Petersburg to Lisbon reminded the Vatican that the age of crusades was over. The fourth campaign, the most disastrous of all the 15 campaigns of this fearful war, had now opened. The Austrians filled Saxony and menaced Berlin. The Russians defeated the King^s generals on the Oder, threatened Silesia, effected a junction with Laudohn, and intrenched themselves strongly at Kunersdorf. 20 Frederic hastened to attack them. A great battle was fought. During the earlier part of the day every thing yielded to the impetuosity of the Prussians, and to the skill of their chief. The lines were forced. Half the Russian guns were taken. The King sent 25 off a courier to Berlin with two lines, announcing a complete victory. But, in the mean time, the stub- born Russians, defeated yet unbroken, had taken up their stand in an almost impregnable position, on an eminence where the Jews of Frankfort were wont to 30 bury their dead. Here the battle recommenced. The Prussian infantry, exhausted by six hours of hard fighting under a sun which equalled the tropical heat, were yet brought up repeatedly to the attack, but in vain. The King led three charges in person. Two 35 horses were killed under him. The officers of his staff 152 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. fell all round him. His coat was pierced by several bullets. All was in vain. His infantry was driven back with frightful slaughter. Terror began to spread fast from man to man. At that moment, the fiery cavalry of Laudohn, still fresh, rushed on the waver- 5 ing ranks. Then followed an universal rout. Fred- eric himself was on the point of falling into the hands of the conquerors, and was with difficulty saved by a gallant officer, who, at the head of a handful of Hus- sars, made good a diversion of a few minutes. Shat-10 tered in body, shattered in mind, the King reached that night a village which the Cossacks had plun- dered; and there, in a ruined and deserted farm- house, flung himself on a heap of straw. He had sent to Berlin a second despatch very different from his 15 first : — ' ' Let the royal family leave Berlin. Send the archives to Potsdam. The town may make terms with the enemy." The defeat was, in truth, overwhelming. Of fifty thousand men who had that morning marched under 20 the black eagles, not three thousand remained to- gether. The King bethought him again of his corro- sive sublimate, and wrote to bid adieu to his friends, and to give directions as to the measures to be taken in the event of his death: — *'I have no resource left "25 — such is the language of one of his letters — "all is lost. I will not survive the ruin of my country. Fare- well for ever.'' But ]the mutual jealousies of the confederates pre- vented them from following up their victory. They 30 lost a few days in loitering and squabbling ; and a few days, improved by Frederic, were worth more than the years of other men. On the morning after the battle, he had got together eighteen thousand of his troops. Very soon his force amounted to thirty thou- 35 FREDERIC THE GREAT. 153 sand. Guns were procured from the neighbouring fortresses, and there was again an army. Berlin was for the present safe; but calamities came pouring on the King in uninterrupted succession. One of his 5 generals, with a large body of troops, was taken at IMaxen; another was defeated at Meissen; and when at length the campaign of 1759 closed, in the midst of a rigorous winter, the situation of Prussia appeared desperate. The only consoling circumstance was, 10 that, in the West, Ferdinand of Brunswick had been more fortunate than his master; and by a series of exploits, of which the battle of Minden was the most glorious, had removed all apprehension of danger on the side of France. 15 The fifth year was now about to commence. It seemed impossible that the Prussian territories, re- peatedly devastated by hundreds of thousands of in- vaders, could longer support the contest. But the King carried on war as no European power has ever 20 carried on war, except the Committee of Public Safety during the great agony of the French Revolu- tion. He governed his kingdom as he would have governed a besieged town, not caring to what extent property was destroyed, or the pursuits of civil life 25 suspended, so that he did but make head against the enemy. As long as there was a man left in Prussia, that man might carry a musket ; as long as there was a horse left, that horse might draw artillery. The coin was debased, the civil functionaries were left un- gopaid; in some provinces civil government altogether ceased to exist. But there were still rye-bread and potatoes; there were still lead and gunpowder; and, while the means of sustaining and destroying life remained, Frederic was determined to fight it out to 35 the very last. 154 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. The earlier part of the campaign of 1760 was 1111- favourable to him. Berlin was again occupied by the enemy. Great contributions were levied on the in- habitants, and the royal palace was plundered. But at length, after two years of calamity, victory came 5 back to his arms. At Lignitz he gained a great battle over Laudohn; at Torgau, after a day of horrible carnage, he triumphed over Daun. The fifth year closed, and still the event was in suspense. In the countries where the war had raged, the misery and 10 exhaustion were more appalling than ever; but still there were left men and beasts, arms and food, and still Frederic fought on. In truth he had now been baited into savageness. His heart was ulcerated with hatred. The implacable resentment with which his 15 enemies persecuted him, though originally provoked by his own unprincipled ambition, excited in him a thirst for vengeance which he did not even attempt to conceal. '*It is hard," he says in one of his let- ters, ''for man to bear what I bear. I begin to feel 20 that, as the Italians say, revenge is a pleasure for the gods. My philosophy is worn out by suffering. I am no saint, like those of whom we read in the legends; and I will own that I should die content if only I could first inflict a portion of the misery which 1 25 endure." Borne up by such feelings he struggled with various success, but constant glory, through the campaign of 1761. On the whole, the result of this campaign was disastrous to Prussia. No great battle was gained by 30 the enemy; but, in spite of the desperate bounds of the hunted tiger, the circle of pursuers was fast clos- ing round him. Laudohn had surprised the important fortress of Schweidnitz. With that fortress, half of Silesia, and the command of the most important de-35 FEEDEEIC THE GEEAT. 155 files through the mountains, had been transferred to the Austrians. The Russians had overpowered the King's generals in Pomerania. The country was so completely desolated that he began, by his own con- 5 fession, to look round him with blank despair, unable to imagine where recruits, horses, or provisions were to be found. Just at this time two great events brought on a complete change in the relations of almost all the 10 powers of Europe. One of those events was the re- tirement of Mr. Pitt from office; the other was the death of the Empress Elizabeth of Russia. The retirement of Pitt seemed to be an omen of utter ruin to the House of Brandenburg. His proud 15 and vehement nature was incapable of any thing that looked like either fear or treachery. He had often declared that, while he was in power^ England should never make a peace of Utrecht, should never, for any selfish object, abandon an ally even in the last ex- 20tremity of distress. The Continental war was his own war. He had been bold enough, he who in former times had attacked, with irresistible powers of ora- tory, the Hanoverian policy of Carteret, and the German subsidies of Newcastle, to declare that Han- 25 over ought to be as dear to us as Hampshire, and that he would conquer America in Germany. He had fallen; and the power which he had exercised, not always with discretion, but always with vigour and genius, had devolved on a favourite who was the 30 representative of the Tory party, of the party which had thwarted "William, which had persecuted J\Iarl- borough, and which had given up the Catalans to the vengeance of Philip of Anjou. To make peace with France, to shake off, with all, or more than, all, the 35 speed compatible with decency, every Continental 156 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. connection, these were among the chief objects of the new Minister. The policy then followed inspired Frederic with an unjust, but deep and bitter aver- sion to the English name, and produced effects Avhich are still felt throughout the civilised world. To that 5 policy it was owing that, some years later, England could not find on the whole Continent a single ally to stand by her, in her extreme need, against the House of Bourbon. To that policy it was owing that Fred- eric, alienated from England, was compelled to con- lo nect himself closely, during his later years, with Russia, and was induced to 'assist in that great crime, the fruitful parent of other great crimes, the first partition of Poland. Scarcely had the retreat of Mr. Pitt deprived Prus- 15 sia of her only friend, when the death of Elizabeth produced an entire revolution in the politics of the North. The Grand Duke Peter, her nephew, who now ascended the Russian throne, was not merely free from the prejudices which his aunt had enter- 20 tained against Frederic, but was a worshipper, a servile imitator of the great King. The days of the new Czar's government were few and evil, but suf- ficient to produce a change in the whole state of Christendom. He set the Prussian prisoners at lib- 25 erty, fitted them out decently, and sent them back to their master; he withdrew his troops from the provinces which Elizabeth had decided on incorporat- ing with her dominions; and he absolved all those Prussian subjects, w^ho had been compelled to swear 30 fealty to Russia, from their engagements. Not content with concluding peace on terms favour- able to Prussia, he solicited rank in the Prussian service, » dressed himself in a Prussian uniform, wore the Black Eagle of Prussia on his breast, made prep- 35 FREDERIC THE GREAT. I57 arations for visiting Prussia, in order to have an interview with the object of his idolatry, and actually sent fifteen thousand excellent troops to reinforce the shattered army of Frederic. Thus strengthened, the 5 King speedily repaired the losses of the preceding year, reconquered Silesia, defeated Daun at Buckers- dorf, invested and retook Schweidnitz, and, at the close of the year, presented to the forces of Maria Theresa a front as formidable as before the great re- 10 verses of 1759. Before the end of the campaign, his friend, the emperor Peter, having by a series of ab- surd insults to the institutions, manners, and feelings of his people, united them in hostility to his person and government, was deposed and murdered. The 15 Empress, who, under the title of Catharine the Sec- ond, now assumed the supreme power, was, at the commencement of her administration, by no means partial to Frederic, and refused to permit her troops to remain under his command. But she observed the 20 peace made by her husband ; and Prussia was no longer threatened by danger from the East. England and France at the same time paired off together. They concluded a treaty, by which they bound themselves to observe neutrality with respect 25 to the German war. Thus the coalitions on both sides were dissolved ; and the original enemies, Austria and Prussia, remained alone confronting each other. Austria had undoubtedly far greater means than Prussia, and was less exhausted by hostilities; yet it 30 seemed hardly possible that Austria could effect alone what she had in vain attempted to effect when sup- ported by France on the one side, and by Russia on the other. Danger also began to menace the Imperial liouse from another quarter. The Ottoman Porte 35 held threatening language, and a hundred thousand 158 MACAUIiAY'S ESSAYS. Turks were mustered on the frontiers of Hungary. The proud and revengeful spirit of the Empress Queen at length gave way; and, in February, 1763, the peace of Hubertsburg put an end to the conflict which had, during seven years, devastated Germany. 5 The King ceded nothing. The whole Continent in arms had proved unable to tear Silesia from that iron grasp. The war was over. Frederic was safe. His glory was beyond the reach of envy. If he had not made lo conquests as vast as those of Alexander, of Caesar, and of Napoleon, if he had not, on fields of battle, enjoyed the constant success of Marlborough and "Wellington, he had yet given an example unrivalled in history of what capacity and resolution can effect 15 against the greatest superiority of power and the ut- most spite of fortune. He entered Berlin in triumph, after an absence of more than six years. The streets were brilliantly lighted up; and, as he passed along in an open carriage, with Ferdinand of Brunswick at 20 his side, the multitude saluted him with loud praises and blessings. He was moved by those marks of at- tachment, and repeatedly exclaimed *'Long live my dear people! Long live my children !'* Yet, even in the midst of that gay spectacle, he could not but 25 perceive everywhere the traces of destruction and decay. The city had been more than once plundered. The population had considerably diminished. Berlin, however, had suffered little when compared with most parts of the kingdom. The ruin of private fortunes, 30 the distress of all ranks, was such as might appal the firmest mind. Almost every province had been the seat of war, and of war conducted with merciless ferocity. Clouds of Croatians had descended on Si- lesia. Tens of thousands of Cossacks had been let 35 FEEDEKIC THE GEEAT. I59 loose on Pomerania and Brandenburg. The mere contributions levied by the invaders amounted, it was said, to more than a hundred millions of dollars ; and the value of what they extorted was probably 5 much less than the value of what they destroyed. The fields lay uncultivated. The very seed-corn had been devoured in the madness of hunger. Famine, and contagious maladies produced by famine, had swept away the herds and flocks; and there was reason to 10 fear that a great pestilence among the human race was likely to follow in the train of that tremendous war. Nearly fifteen thousand houses had been burned to the ground. The population of the kingdom had in seven years decreased to the frightful extent of ten per 15 cent. A sixth of the males capable of bearing arms had actually perished on the field of battle. In some districts, no labourers, except women, were seen in the fields at harvest-time. In others, the traveller passed shuddering through a succession of silent 20 villages, in which not a single inhabitant remained. The currency had been debased ; the authority of laws and magistrates had been suspended ; the whole social system was deranged. For, during that convulsive struggle, every thing that was not military violence 25 was anarchy. Even the army was disorganized. Some great generals, and a crowd of excellent officers, had fallen, and it had been impossible to supply their place. The difficulty of finding recruits had, towards the close of the war, been so great, that selection and 30 rejection were impossible. Whole battalions were composed of deserters or of prisoners. It was hardly to be hoped that thirty years of repose and industry would repair the ruin produced by seven years of havoc. One consolatory circumstance, indeed, there 35 was. No debt had been incurred. The burdens of 160 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. the war had been terrible, almost insupportable ; but no arrear was left to embarrass the finances in time of peace. Here, for the present, we must pause. We have accompanied Frederic to the close of his career as as warrior. Possibly, when these Memoirs are completed, we may resume the consideration of his character, and give some account of his domestic and foreign policy, and of his private habits, during the many years of tranquillity which followed the Seven Years 'lo War. MADAME D'ARBLAY (January, 1813) Diary and Letters of Madame D'Arblay. Five vols. 8vo. London: 1842. Though the world saw and heard little of Madame D 'Ar])lay during the last forty years of her life, and though that little did not add to her fame, there were thousands, we believe, who felt a singular emotion 5 when they learned that she was no longer among us. The news of her death carried the minds of men back at one leap over two generations, to the time when her first literary triumphs were won. All those whom we had been accustomed to revere as intellect- 10 ual patriarchs seemed children when compared with her; for Burke had sat up all night to read her writings, and Johnson had pronounced her superior to Fielding, when Rogers was still a schoolboy, and Southey still in petticoats. Yet more strange did it seem that we should just have lost one whose name 15 had been widely celebrated before anybody had heard of some illustrious men who, twenty, thirty, or forty years ago, were, after a long and splendid career, borne with honour to the grave. Yet so it was. Frances Burney was at the height of fame and popu- 20 larity before Cowper had published his first volume, before Porson had gone up to college, before Pitt had taken his seat in the House of Commons, before the voice of Erskine had been once heard in Westminster Hall. Since the appearance of her first work, sixty- 25 two years had passed; and this interval had been 161 162 MACAUIiAY'S ESSAYS. crowded, not only with political, but also with intel- lectual revolutions. Thousands of reputations had, during that period, sprung up, bloomed, withered, and disappeared. Ne^v kinds of composition had come into fashion, had got out of fashion, had been derided, 5 had been forgotten. The fooleries of Delia Crusca, and the fooleries of Kotzebue, had for a time be- witched the multitude, but had left no trace behind them; nor had misdirected genius been able to save from decay the once flourishing schools of Godwin, lo of Darwin, and of RadclifPe. IMany books, written for temporary effect, had run through six or seven editions, and had then been gathered to the novels of Afra Behn, and the epic poems of Sir Richard Black- more. 'Yet the early works of Madame D'Arblay, inis spite of the lapse of years, in spite of the change of manners, in spite of the popularity deservedly ob- tained by some of her rivals, continued to hold a high place in the public esteem. She lived to be a classic. Time set on her fame, before she went hence, that 20 seal which is seldom set except on the fame of the departed. Like Sir Condy Rackrent in the tale, she survived her own wake, and overheard the judgment of posterity. Having always felt a warm and sincere, though not 25 a blind admiration for her talents, we rejoiced to learn that her Diary was about to be made public. Our hopes, it is true, were not unmixed with fears. We could not forget the fate of the IMemoirs of Dr. Burney, which were published ten years ago. That 30 unfortunate book contained much that was curious and interesting. Yet it was received with a cry of disgust, and was speedily consigned to oblivion. The truth is, that it deserved its doom. It was written in Madame D'Arblay 's later style, the worst style 35 MADAME D'AEBLAY. 163 that has ever been known among men. No genius, no information, could save from proscription a book so written. We, therefore, opened the Diary with no small anxiety, trembling lest we should light upon 5 some of that peculiar rhetoric which deforms almost every page of .the IMemoirs, and which it is impos- sible to read without a sensation made up of mirth, shame, and loathing. We soon, however, discovered to our great delight that this Diary was kept before 10 Madame D'Arblay became eloquent. It is, for the most part, written in her earliest and best manner, in true woman's English, clear, natural, and lively. The two works are lying side by side before us; and we never turn from the Memoirs to the Diary without 15 a sense of relief. The difference is as great as the difference between the atmosphere of a perfumer's shop, fetid with lavender water and jasmine soap, and the air of a heath on a fine morning in May. Both works ought to be consulted by every person who 20 wishes to be well acquainted with the history of our literature and our manners. But to read the Diary is a pleasure; to read the Memoirs will always be a task. We may, perhaps, afford some harmless amusement 25 to our readers, if we attempt, wdth the help of these two books, to give them an account of the most impor- tant years of IMadame D'Arblay 's life. She was descended from a family which bore the name of Macburney, and which, though probably of 30 Irish origin, had been long settled in Shropshire, and was possessed of considerable estates in that county. Unhappily, many years before her birth, the Mac- burneys began, as if of set purpose and in a spirit of determined rivalry, to expose and ruin themselves. 35 The heir apparent, Mr. James Macburney, offended 164 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. his father by making a runaway match with an actress from Goodman's Fields. The old gentleman could devise no more judicious mode of wreaking vengeance on his undutiful boy than by marrying the cook. The cook gave birth to a son named Joseph, 5 who succeeded to all the lands of the family, while James was cut off with a shilling. The favourite son, however, was so extravagant, that he soon became as poor as his disinherited brother. Both were forced to earn their bread by their labour. Joseph turned lo dancing master, and settled in Norfolk. James struck off the ]\Iac from the beginning of his name, and set up as a portrait painter at Chester. Here he had a son named Charles, well known as the author of the History of Music, and as the father of two remarkable is children, of a son distinguished by learning, and of a daughter still more honourably distinguished by genius. Charles early showed a taste for that art, of which, at a later period, he became the historian. He was 20 apprenticed to a celebrated musician in London, and applied himself to study with vigour and success. He soon found a kind and munificent patron in Fulke Greville, a highborn and highbred man, who seems to have had in large measure all the accomplishments 25 and all the follies, all the virtues and all the vices, which, a hundred years ago, were considered as mak- ing up the character of a fine gentleman. Under such protection, the young artist had every prospect of a brilliant career in the capital. But his health 3c failed. It became necessary for him to retreat from the smoke and river fog of London, to the pure air of the coast. He accepted the place of organist at Lynn, and settled at that town with a young lady who had recently become his wife. 35 MADAME D'AEBLAY. 165 At Lynn, in June, 1752, Frances Burney was born. Nothing in her childhood indicated that she would, while still a young woman, have secured for herself an honourable and permanent place among English 5 writers. She was shy and silent. Her brothers and sisters called her a dunce, and not without some show of reason ; for at eight years old she did not know her letters. In 1760, ]\Ir. Burney quitted Lynn for London, and 10 took a house in Poland Street ; a situation which had been fashionable in the reign of Queen Anne, but which, since that time, had been deserted by most of its wealthy and noble inhabitants. He afterwards resided in Saint Martin's Street, on the south side of 15 Leicester Square. His house there is still well known, and will continue to be well known as long as our island retains any trace of civilisation ; for it was the dwelling of Newton, and the square turret which dis- tinguishes it from all the surrounding buildings was 20 Newton 's observatory. Mr. Burney at once obtained as many pupils of the most respectable description as he had time to attend, and was thus enabled to support his family, modestly indeed, and frugally, but in comfort and independ- 25ence. His professional merit obtained for him the degree of Doctor of Music from the University of Oxford ; and his works on subjects connected with his art gained for him a place, respectable, though cer- tainly not eminent, among men of letters. 30 The progress of the mind of Frances Burney, from her ninth to her twenty-fifth year, well deserves to be recorded. When her education had proceeded no further than the hornbook, she lost her mother, and thenceforward she educated herself. Her father ap- 35 pears to have been as bad a father as a very honest, 266 macaulay's essays. affectionate, and sweet tempered man can well be. He loved his daughter dearly ; but it never seems to have occurred to him that a parent has other duties to per- form to children than that of fondling them. It would indeed have been impossible for him to superintend^ their education himself. His professional engage- ments occupied him all day. At seven in the morning he began to attend his pupils, and, when London was full, was sometimes employed in teaching till eleven at night. He was often forced to carry in his pocket a tin box of sandwiches, and a bottle of wine and water, on which he dined in a hackney coach, while hurrying from one scholar to another. Two of liis daughters he sent to a seminary at Paris; but he imagined that Frances w^ould run some risk of being ^^ perverted from the Protestant faith if she were edu- cated in a Catholic country, and he therefore kept her at home. No governess, no teacher of any art or of any language, was provided for her. But one of her sisters showed her how to write ; and, before she 20 was fourteen, she began to find pleasure in reading. It was not, however, by reading that her intellect was formed. Indeed, when her best novels were pro- duced, her knowledge of books was very small. When at the height of her fame, she was unacquainted with 25 the most celebrated works of Voltaire and Moliere; and, what seems still more extraordinary, had never heard or seen a line of Churchill, who, when she was a girl, was the most popular of living poets. It is particularly deserving of observation that she appears 30 to have been by no means a novel reader. Her father's library was large; and he had admitted into it so many books wiiich rigid moralists generally exclude that he felt uneasy, as he afterwards owned, when Johnson began to examine the shelves. But in the 35 MADAME D'ARBLAY. Igy whole collection there was only a single novel, Field- ing's Amelia. An education, however, which to most girls would have been useless, but which suited Fanny's mind bet- 5 ter than elaborate culture, was in constant progress during her passage from childhood to womanhood. The great book of human nature was turned over be- fore her. Her father's social position was very peculiar. He belonged in fortune and station to the 10 middle class. His daughters seemed to have been suffered to mix freely with those whom butlers and Avaiting maids call vulgar. We are told that they were in the habit of playing with the children of a wigmaker who lived in the adjoining house. Yet few 15 nobles could assemble, in the most stately mansions of Grosvenor Square or Saint James's Square, a society so various and so brilliant as was sometimes to be found in Dr. Burney's cabin. His iliind, though not very powerful or capacious, was restlessly active; 20 and, in the intervals of his professional pursuits, he had contrived to lay up much miscellaneous informa- tion. His attainments, the suavity of his temper, and the gentle simplicity of his manners, had obtained for him ready admission to the first literary circles. 25 While he was still at Lynn, he had won Johnson's heart by sounding with honest zeal the praises of the English Dictionary. In London the two friends met frequently, and agreed most harmoniously. One tie, indeed, was wanting to their mutual attachment. 3oBurney loved his own art passionately; and Johnson just knew the bell of Saint Clement's church from the organ. They had, however, many topics in com- mon; and on winter nights their conversations were sometimes prolonged till the fire had gone out, and 35 the candles had burned away to the wicks. Burney's 168 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. admiration of the powers which had produced Ras- selas and The Rambler bordered on idolatry. John- son, on the other hand, condescended to growl out that Burney was an honest fellow, a man whom it was impossible not to like. 5 Garrick, too, was a frequent visitor in Poland Street and Saint Martin's Lane. That wonderful actor loved the society of children, partly from good nature, and partly from vanity. *The ecstasies of mirth and terror, which his gestures and play of 10 countenance never failed to produce in a nursery, flattered him quite as much as the applause of mature critics. He often exhibited all his powers of mimicry for the amusement of the little Burneys, awed them by shuddering and crouching as if he saw a ghost, 15 scared them by raving like a maniac in Saint Luke's, and then at once became an auctioneer, a chimney- sweeper, or an old woman, and made them laugh till the tears ran down their cheeks. But it w^ould be tedious to recount the names of all 20 the men of letters and artists whom Frances Burney had an opportunity of seeing and hearing. Colman, Twining, Harris, Baretti, Hawkesworth, Reynolds, Barry, were among those who occasionally surrounded the tea table and supper tray at her father's modest 25 dwelling. This was not all. The distinction which Dr. Burney had acquired as a musician, and as the historian of music, attracted to his house the most eminent musical performers of that age. The great- est Italian singers who visited England regarded him 3Q as the dispenser of fame in their art, and exerted themselves to obtain his suffrage. Pacchierotti be- came his intimate friend. The rapacious Agujari, who sang for nobody else under fifty pounds an air, sang her best for Dr. Burney without a fee; and in 35 MADAME D'ARBLAY. 169 the company of Dr. Biirney even the haughty and eccentric Gabrielli constrained herself to behave with civility. It was thus in his power to give, with scarcely any expense, concerts equal to those of the 5 aristocracy. On such occasions the quiet street in which he lived was blocked up by coroneted chariots, and his little drawingroom was crowded with peers, peeresses, ministers, and ambassadors. On one eve- ning, of which we happen to have a full account, 10 there were present Lord Mulgrave, Lord Bruce, Lord and Lady Edgecumbe, Lord Barrington from the War Office, Lord Sandwich from the Admiralty, Lord Ashburnham, with his gold key dangling from his pocket, and the French Ambassador, M. De 15 Guignes, renowned for his fine person and for his suc- cess in gallantry. But the great show of the night was the Russian ambassador, Count Orloff, whose gi- gantic figure was all in a blaze with jewels, and in whose demeanour the untamed ferocity of the Scy- 20 thian might be discerned through a thin varnish of French politeness. As he stalked about the small parlour, brushing the ceiling with his toupee, the girls whispered to each other, with mingled admiration and horror, that he was the favoured lover of his august 25 mistress ; that he had borne the chief part in the revolution to which she owed her throne ; and that his huge hands, now glittering with diamond rings, had given the last squeeze to the windpipe of her unfor- tunate husband. 30 With such illustrious guests as these were mingled all the most remarkable specimens of the race of lions, a kind of game which is hunted in London every spring with more than IMeltonian ardour and perse- verance. Bruce, who had washed down steaks cut 35 from living oxen with water from the fountains of 170 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. the Nile, came to swagger and talk about his travels. Omai lisped broken English, and made all the assem- bled musicians hold their ears by howling Otaheitean love songs, such as those with which Oberea charmed her Opano. . 5 With the literary and fashionable society, which occasionally met under Dr. Burney's roof, Frances can scarcely be said to have mingled. She was not a musician, and could therefore bear no part in the concerts. She was shy almost to awkwardness, audio scarcely ever joined in the conversation. The slight- est remark from a stranger disconcerted her; and even the old friends of her father who tried to draw her out could seldom extract more than a Yes or a No. Her figure was small, her face not distinguished 15 by beauty. She was therefore suffered to withdraw quietly to the background, and, unobserved herself, to observe all that passed. Her nearest relations were aware that she had good sense, but seem not to have suspected that, under her demure and bashful de-20 portment, were concealed a fertile invention and a keen sense of the ridiculous. She had not, it is true, an eye for the fine shades of character, but every marked peculiarity instantly caught her notice and remained engraven on her imagination. Thus, while 25 still a girl, she had laid up such a store of materials for fiction as few of those who mix much in the world are able to accumulate during a long life. She had watched and listened to people of every class, from princes and great officers of state down to artists liv-30 ing in garrets, and poets familiar with subterranean cookshops. Hundreds of remarkable persons had passed in review before her, English, French, Ger- man, Italian, lords and fiddlers, deans of cathedrals and managers of theatres, travellers leading about 35 MADAME D'AEBLAY. 171 newly caught savages, and singing women escorted by- deputy husbands. So strong was the impression made on the mind of Frances by the society which she was in the habit of 5 seeing and hearing, that she began to write little fic- titious narratives as soon as she could use her pen with ease, which, as we have said, was not very early. Her sisters were amused by her stories ; but Dr. Bur- ney knew nothing of their existence; and in another 10 quarter her literary propensities met with serious dis- couragement. When she was fifteen, her father took a second wife. The new Mrs. Burney soon found out that her stepdaughter was fond of scribbling, and de- livered several good-natured lectures on the subject. 15 The advice no doubt was well meant, and might have been given by the most judicious friend; for at that time, from causes to which we may hereafter advert, nothing could be more disadvantageous to a young lady than to be known as a novel-writer. Frances 20 yielded, relinquished her favourite pursuit, and made a bonfire of all her manuscripts. She now hemmed and stitched from breakfast to dinner with scrupulous regularity. But the dinners of that time were early; and the afternoon was her 25 own. Though she had given up novel-writing, she was still fond of using her pen. She began to keep a diary, and she corresponded largely with a person who seems to have had the chief share in the forma- tion of her mind. This was Samuel Crisp, an old 30 friend of her father. His name, well known, near a century ago, in the most splendid circles of London, has long been forgotten. His history is, however, so interesting and instructive that it tempts us to ven- ture on a digression. 35 Long before Frances Burney was born, Mr. Crisp 172 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. had made his entrance into the world, with every adr vantage. He was well connected and well educated. His face and figure were conspicuously handsome; his manners were polished ; his fortune was eas}^ ; his character was without stain ; he lived in the best so- 5 ciety ; he had read much ; he talked well ; his taste in literature, music, painting, architecture,, sculpture, was held in high esteem. Nothing that the world can give seemed to be wanting to his happiness and respectability, except that he should understand theio limits of his powers, and should not throw away dis- tinctions which were within his reach in the pursuit of distinctions which were unattainable. ''It is an uncontrolled truth," says Swift, ''that no man ever made an ill figure who understood his is own talents, nor a good one who mistook them." Every day brings with it fresh illustrations of this weighty saying; but the best commentary that we re- member is the history of Samuel Crisp. ]\Ien like him have their proper place, and it is a most im-20 portant one, in the Commonwealth of Letters. It is by the judgment of such men that the rank of authors is finally determined. It is neither to the multitude nor to the few who are gifted with great creative genius, that we are to look for sound critical decisions. 25 The multitude, unacquainted with the best models, are captivated by whatever stuns and dazzles them. They deserted Mrs. Siddons to run after Master Betty; and they now prefer, we have no doubt, Jack Sheppard to Van Artevelde. A man of great original 30 genius, on the other hand, a man who has attained to mastery in some high walk of art, is by no means to be implicitly trusted as a judge of the perform- ances of others. The erroneous decisions pronounced by such men are without number. It is commonly 35 MADAME D'AEBLAY. I73 supposed that jealousy makes them unjust. But a more creditable explanation may easily be found. The very excellence of a work shows that some of the faculties of the author have been developed at the 5 expense of the rest ; for it is not given to the human intellect to expand itself widely in all directions at once, and to be at the same time gigantic and well proportioned. Whoever becomes pre-eminent in any art, nay, in any style of art, generally does so by 10 devoting himself with intense and exclusive enthusi- asm to the pursuit of one kind of excellence. His perception of other kinds of excellence is therefore too often impaired. Out of his own department he praises and blames at random, and is far less to be 15 trusted than the mere connoisseur, who produces nothing, and whose business is only to judge and en- joy. One painter is distinguished by his exquisite finishing. He toils day after day to bring the veins of a cabbage leaf, the folds of a lace veil, the wrinkles 20 of an old woman's face, nearer and nearer to perfec- tion. In the time which he emploj^s on a square foot of canvass, a master of a different order covers the walls of a palace with gods burying giants under mountains, or makes the cupola of a church alive with 25 seraphim and martyrs. The more fervent the pas- sion of each of these artists for his art, the higher the merit of each in his own line, the more unlikely it is that they will justly appreciate each other. Many persons who never handled a pencil probably do far 30 more justice to ]\Iichael Angelo than would have been done by Gerard Douw, and far more justice to Ger- ard Douw than would have been done by Michael Angelo. It is the same with literature. Thousands, who 35 have no spark of the genius of Dryden or Words 174 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. worth, do to Dryden the justice which has never been done by Wordsworth, and to Wordsworth the justice which, we suspect, would never have been done by Dryden. Gray, Johnson, Richardson, Fielding, are all highly esteemed by the great body of intelligent 5 and well informed men. But Gray could see no merit in Rasselas; and Johnson could see no merit in The Bard. Fielding thought Richardson a solemn prig; and Richardson perpetually expressed contempt and disgust for Fielding's lowness. lo Mr. Crisp seems, as far as we can judge, to have been a man eminently qualified for the useful office of a connoisseur. His talents and knowledge fitted him to appreciate justly almost every species of in- tellectual superiority. As an adviser he was inestim-15 able. Nay, he might probably have held a respect- able rank as a writer, if he would have confined him- self to some department of literature in which noth- ing more than sense, taste, and reading was required. Unhappily he set his heart on being a great poet, 20 wrote a tragedy in five acts on the death of Virginia, and offered it to Garrick, who was his personal friend. Garrick read, shook his head, and expressed a doubt whether it would be wise in Mr. Crisp to stake a reputation, which stood high, on the success 25 of such a piece. But the author, blinded by ambition, set in motion a machinery such as none could long resist. His intercessors were the most eloquent man and the most lovely woman of that generation. Pitt was induced to read Virginia, and to pronounce it 30 excellent. Lady Coventry, with fingers which might have furnished a model to sculptors, forced the manu- script into the reluctant hand of the manager; and, in the year 1754, the play was brought forward. Nothing that skill or friendship could do was omit- 35 MADAME D'lEBLAY. I75 ted. Garrick wrote both prologue and epilogue. The zealous friends of the author filled every box; and, by their strenuous exertions, the life of the play was prolonged during ten nights. But, though there was 5 no clamorous reprobation, it was universally felt that the attempt had failed. "When Virginia was printed, the public disappointment was even greater than at the representation. The critics, the Monthly Re- viewers in particular, fell on plot, characters, and 10 diction without mercy, but, we fear, not without jus- tice. We have never met with a copy of the play; but, if we may judge from the scene which is ex- tracted in the Gentleman's Magazine, and which does not appear to have been malevolently selected, we 15 should say that nothing but the acting of Garrick, and the partiality of the audience, could have saved so feeble and unnatural a drama from instant dam- nation. The ambition of the poet w^as still unsubdued. 20 When the London season closed, he applied himself vigorously to the work of removing blemishes. He does not seem to have suspected, what we are strongly inclined to suspect, that the whole piece was one blemish, and that the passages which were meant to 25 be fine, were, in truth, bursts of that tame extrava- gance into which writers fall, when they set them- selves to be sublime and pathetic in spite of nature. He omitted, added, retouched, and flattered himself with hopes of a complete success in the following 30 year; but in the following year, Garrick showed no disposition to bring the amended tragedy on the stage. Solicitation and remonstrance were tried in vain. Lady Coventry, drooping under that malady which seems ever to select what is loveliest for its 35 prey, could render no assistance. The manager's Ian- 176 MACAUL*AY'S ESSAYS. guage was civilly evasive; but his resolution was in- flexible. Crisp had committed a great error; but he had es- caped with a very slight penance. His play had not been hooted from the boards. It had, on the con- 5 trary, been better received than many very estimable performances have been, than Johnson's Irene, for example, or Goldsmith's Goodnatured Man. Had Crisp been wise, he would have thought himself happy in having purchased self-knowledge so cheap. 10 He would have relinquished, without vain repinings, the hope of poetical distinction, and would have turned to the many sources of happiness which he still possessed. Had he been, on the other hand, an unfeeling and unblushing dunce, he would have gone 15 on writing scores of bad tragedies in defiance of cen- sure and derision. But he had too much sense to risk a second defeat, yet too little sense to bear his first defeat like a man. The fatal delusion that he was a great dramatist, had taken firm posses- 20 sion of his mind. His failure he attributed to every cause except the true one. He complained of the ill will of Garrick, who appears to have done for the play everything that ability and zeal could do, and who, from selfish motives, would, of course, have been 25 well pleased if Virginia had been as successful as the Beggar's Opera. Nay, ^Crisp complained of the lan- guor of the friends whose partiality had given him three benefit nights to which he had no claim. He complained of the injustice of the spectators, when, 30 in truth, he ought to have been grateful for their un- exampled patience. He lost his temper and spirits, and became a cynic and a hater of mankind. From London he retired to Hampton, and from Hampton to a solitary and long deserted mansion, built on a 35 MADAME D'ARBLAY. 177 common in one of the wildest tracts of Surrey. No road, not even a slieepwalk, connected his lonely dwelling with the abodes of men. The place of his retreat was strictly concealed from his old associates. 5 In the spring he sometimes emerged, and was seen at exhibitions and concerts in London. But he soon disappeared, and hid himself, with no society but his books, in his dreary hermitage. He survived his failure about thirty years. A new generation sprang 10 up around him. No memory of his bad verses re- mained among men. His very name was forgotten. How completely the world had lost sight of him, will appear from a single circumstance. We looked for him in a copious Dictionary of Dramatic Authors 15 published while he was still alive, and we found only that Mr. Henry Crisp, of the Custom House, had written a play called Virginia, acted in 1754. To the last, however, the unhappy man continued to brood over the injustice of the manager and the pit, 20 and tried to convince himself and others that he had missed the highest literary honours, only because he had omitted some fine passages in compliance with Garrick's judgment. Alas, for human nature, that the wounds of vanity should smart and bleed so 25 much longer than the wounds of affection ! Few peo- ple, we believe, whose nearest friends and relations died in 1754, had any acute feeling of the loss in 1782. Dear sisters, and favourite daughters, and ])rides snatched away before the honeymoon was 30 passed, had been forgotten, or were remembered only with a tranquil regret. But Samuel Crisp was still mourning for his tragedy, like Rachel weeping for her children, and would not be comforted. "Never," such was his language twenty-eight years after his 35 disaster, "never give up or alter a tittle unless it per- 178 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. fectly coincides with your own inward feelings. I can say this to my sorrow and my cost. But mum ! ' ' Soon after these words were written, his life, a life which might have been eminently useful and happy, ended in the same gloom in which, during more than 5 a quarter of a century, it had been passed. We have thought it worth while to rescue from oblivion this curious fragment of literary history. It seems to us at once ludicrous, melancholy, and full of instruction. 10 Crisp was an old and very intimate friend of the Burneys. To them alone was confided the name of the desolate old hall in which he hid himself like a wild beast in a den. For them were reserved such remains of his humanity as had survived the failure 15 of his play. Frances Burney he regarded as his daughter. He called her his Fannikin; and she in return called him her dear Daddy. In truth, he seems to have done much more than her real parents for the development of her intellect; for though he 20 was a bad poet, he was a scholar, a thinker, and an excellent counsellor. He was particularly fond of the Concerts in Poland Street. They had, indeed, been commenced at his suggestion, and when he vis- ited London he constantly attended them. But when 25 he grew old, and when gout, brought on partly by mental irritation, confined him to his retreat, he was desirous of having a glimpse of that gay and brilliant world from which he was exiled, and he pressed Fan- nikin to send him full accounts of her father 's evening 30 parties. A few of her letters to him have been pub- lished ; and it is impossible to read them without dis- cerning in them all the powers which afterwards pro- duced Evelina and Cecilia, the quickness in catching every odd peculiarity of character and manner, the 35 MADAME D'AEBLAY. I79 skill in grrouping, the humour, often richly comic, sometimes even farcical. Fanny's propensity to novel-writing had for a time, been kept down. It now rose up stronger than ever. 5 The heroes and heroines of the tales which had per- ished in the flames, were still present to the eye of her mind. One favourite story, in particular, haunted her imagination. It was about a certain Caroline Evelyn, a beautiful damsel who made an unfortunate 10 love match, and died, leaving an infant daughter. Frances began to image to herself the various scenes, tragic and comic, through which the poor motherless girl, highly connected on one side, meanly connected on the other, might have to pass. A crowd of unreal 15 things, good and bad, grave and ludicrous, surrounded the pretty, timid, young orphan ; a coarse sea captain ; an ugly insolent fop, blazing in a superb court dress ; another fop, as ugly and as insolent, but lodged on Snow Hill, and tricked out in secondhand finery for 20 the Hampstead ball; an old woman, all wrinkles and rouge, flirting her fan with the air of a miss of sev- enteen, and screaming in a dialect made up of vulgar French and vulgar English ; a poet lean and ragged, with a broad Scotch accent. By degrees these shadows 25 acquired stronger and stronger consistence ; the im- pulse which urged Frances to write became irre- sistible; and the result was the history of Evelina. Then came, naturally enough, a wish, mingled with many fears, to appear before the public; for, timid 30 as Frances was, and bashful, and altogether unaccus- tomed to hear her own praises, it is clear that she wanted neither a strong passion for distinction, nor a just confidence in her own powers. Her scheme was to become, if possible, a candidate for fame without 35 running any risk of disgrace. She had not money to 180 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. bear the expense of printing. It was therefore neces- sary that some bookseller should be induced to take .the risk; and such a bookseller was not readily found. Dodsley refused even to look at the manuscript un- less he were intrusted w^th the name of the author. 5 A publisher in Fleet Street, named Lowndes, was more complaisant. Some correspondence took place between this person and ]\Iiss Burney, who took the name of Grafton, and desired that the letters ad- dressed to her might be left at the Orange Coffee- lo house. But, before the bargain was finally struck, Fanny thought it her duty to obtain her father's con- sent. She told him that she had written a book, that she wished to have his permission to publish it anony- mously, but that she hoped that he would not insist 15 upon seeing it. What followed may serve to illus- trate what we meant when we said that Dr. Burney was as bad a father as so goodhearted a man could possibly be. It never seems to have crossed his mind that Fanny was about to take a step on which the 20 whole happiness of her life might depend, a step which might raise her to an honourable eminence, or cover her with ridicule and contempt. Several people had already been trusted, and strict concealment was therefore not to be expected. On so grave an occa-25 sion, it was surely his duty to give his best counsel to his daughter, to win her confidence, to prevent her from exposing herself if her book were a bad one, and, if it were a good one, to see that the terms which she made with the publisher were likely to be bene- 30 ficial to her. Instead of this, he only stared, burst out a-laughing, kissed her, gave her leave to do as she liked, and never even asked the name of her Avork. The contract with Lowndes was speedily concluded. Twenty pounds were given for the copyright, and 35 MADAME D'ARBLAY. Igl were accepted by Fanny with delight. Her father's inexcusable neglect of his duty happily caused her no worse evil than the loss of twelve or fifteen hundred pounds. 5 After many delays Evelina appeared in January, 1778. Poor Fanny was sick with terror, and durst hardly stir out of doors. Some days passed before anything was heard of the book. It had, indeed, nothing but its own merits to push it into public lO favour. Its author was unknown. The house by which it was published, was not, we believe, held in high estimation. No body of partisans had been en- gaged to applaud. The better class of readers ex- pected little from a novel about a young lady's en- 15 trance into the world. There was, indeed, at that time a disposition among the most respectable people to condemn novels generally ; nor was this disposition by any means without excuse ; for works of that sort were then almost always silly, and very frequently 20 wicked. Soon, however, the first faint accents of praise be- gan to be heard. The keepers of the circulating li- braries reported that everybody was asking for Eve- lina, and that some person had guessed Anstey to be 25 the author. Then came a favourable notice in the London Review; then another still more favourable in the IMonthly. And now the book found its way to tables which had seldom been polluted by marble covered volumes. Scholars and statesmen, who con- 30 temptuously abandoned the crowd of romances to ]\Iiss Lydia Languish and Miss Sukey Saunter, were not ashamed to own that they could not tear them- selves away from Evelina. Fine carriages and rich liveries, not often seen east of Temple Bar, were at- sstracted to the publisher's shop in Fleet Street. Ig2 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. Lowndes was daily questioned about the author, but was himself as much in the dark as any of the ques- tioners. The mystery, however, could not remain a mystery long. It was known to brothers and sisters, aunts and cousins; and they were far too proud and 5 too happy to be discreet. Dr. Burney wept over the book in rapture. Daddy Crisp shook his fist at his Fannikin in affectionate anger at not having been admitted to her confidence. The truth was whispered to Mrs. Thrale; and then it began to spread fast. lo The book had been admired while it was ascribed to men of letters long conversant with the world, and accustomed to composition. But when it was known that a reserved, silent young woman had produced the best work of fiction that had appeared since the 15 death of Smollett, the acclamations were redoubled. What she had done Avas, indeed, extraordinary. But, as usual, various reports improved the story till it be- came miraculous. Evelina, it is said, was the work of a girl of seventeen. Incredible as this tale was, 20 it continued to be repeated down to our own time. Frances was too honest to confirm it. Probably she was too much a woman to contradict it; and it was long before any of her detractors thought of this mode of annoyance. Yet there was no want of low minds 25 and bad hearts in the generation which witnessed her first appearance. There was the envious Kenrick and the savage Wolcot, the asp George Steevens, and the polecat John Williams. It did not, however, oc- cur to them to search the parish register of Lynn, in 30 order that they might be able to twit a lady with having concealed her age. That truly chivalrous ex- ploit was reserved for a bad writer of our own time, whose spite she had provoked by not furnisliing him with materials for a worthless edition of Boswell'sss MADAME D'AEBLAY. 183 Life of Johnson, some sheets of which our readers have doubtless seen round parcels of better books. But we must return to our story. The triumph was complete. The timid and obscure girl found her- 5 self on the highest pinnacle of fame. Great men, on whom she had gazed at a distance with humble rever- ence, addressed her with admiration, tempered by the tenderness due to her sex and age. Burke^ Wiadliajn, Gibbon, Reynolds, Sheridan, were among her most 10 ardent eulogists. Cumberland acknowledged her merit, after his fashion, by biting his lips and wrig- gling in his chair whenever her name was mentioned. But it was at Streatham that she tasted, in the high- est perfection, the sweets of flattery, mingled with 15 the sweets of friendship. Mrs. Thrale, then at the height of prosperity and popularity, with gay spirits, quick wit, showy though superficial acquirements, pleasing though not refined manners, a singularly amiable temper, and a loving heart, felt towards 20 Fanny as towards a younger sister. With the Thrales Johnson was domesticated. He was an old friend of Dr. Burney; but he had probably taken little notice of Dr. Burney 's daughters, and Fanny, we imagine, had never in her life dared to speak to him, unless 25 to ask whether he wanted a nineteenth or a twentieth cup of tea. He was charmed by her tale, and pre- ferred it to the novels of Fielding, to whom, indeed, he had always been grossly unjust. He did not, in- deed, carry his partiality so far as to place Evelina 30 by the side of Clarissa and Sir Charles Grandison ; yet he said that his little favourite had done enough to have made even Richardson feel uneasy. With Johnson's cordial approbation of the book was min- gled a fondness, half gallant, half paternal, for the 35 writer, and this fondness his age and character en- 184 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. titled him to show without restraint. He begen by putting her hand to his lips. But he soon clasped her in his huge arms, and implored her to be a good girl. She was his pet, his dear love, his dear little Burney, his little character-monger. At one time, 5 he broke forth in praise of the good taste of her caps. At another time he insisted on teaching her Latin. That, with all his coarseness and irritability, he was a man of sterling benevolence, has long been acknowl- edged. But how gentle and endearing his deport- lo ment could be, was not known till the Recollections of Madame D'Arblay were published. We have mentioned a few of the most eminent of those who paid their homage to the author of Evelina. The crowd of inferior admirers would require a cata- 15 logue as long as that in the second book of the Iliad. In that catalogue would be Mrs. Cholmondeley, the sayer of odd things, and Seward, much given to yawning, and Baretti, who slew the man in the Hay- market, and Paoli, talking broken English, and Lang- 20 ton, taller by the head than any other member of the club, and Lady Millar, who kept a vase wherein fools were wont to put bad verses, and Jerningham, who wrote verses fit to be put into the vase of Lady Millar, and Dr. Franklin, not, as some have dreamed, 25 the great Pennsylvanian Dr. Franklin, who could not then have paid his respects to Miss Burney with- out much risk of being hanged, drawn, and quartered, but Dr. Franklin the less, A?as 30 fX€L(x)v^ ovTL Tocro? y€ o(J05 TeA.a//-wi/t(os Atas dAAo, TToXv fX€LU)V. It would not have been surprising if such success had turned even a strong head, and corrupted even a MADAME D'ARBLAY. Ig5 generous and affectionate nature. But, in the Diary, we can find no trace of any feeling inconsistent with a truly modest and amiable disposition. There is, indeed, abundant proof that Frances enjoyed with 5 an intense, though a troubled, joy, the honours which her genius had won; but it is equally clear that her happiness sprang from the happiness of her father, her sister, and her dear Daddy Crisp. While flat- tered by the great, the opulent, and the learned, while 10 followed along the Steyne at Brighton, and the Pan- tiles at Tunbridge "Wells, by the gaze of admiring crowds, her heart seems to have been still with the little domestic circle in Saint Martin's Street. If she recorded with minute diligence all the compli- 15 ments, delicate and coarse, w^hich she heard wherever she turned, she recorded them for the eyes of two or three persons who had loved her from infancy, who had loved her in obscurity, and to whom her fame gave the purest and most exquisite delight. 20 Nothing can be more unjust than to confound these outpourings of a kind heart, sure of perfect sympa- thy, with the egotism of a bluestocking, who prates to all who come near her about her own novel or her own volume of sonnets. 25 It was natural that the triumphant issue of Miss Burney's first venture should tempt her to try a second. Evelina, though it had raised her fame, had added nothing to her fortune. Some of her friends urged her to write for the stage. Johnson promised 30 to give her his advice as to the composition. IMurphy, who was supposed to understand the temper of the pit as well as any man of his time, undertook to in- struct her as to stage effect. Sheridan declar^4~that he would accept a play from her without even read- 35 ing it. Thus encouraged, she wrote a comedy named 186 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. The Witlings. Fortunately it was never acted or printed. We can, we think, easily perceive, from the little which is said on the subject in the Diary, that -5%e-.^itlings would have been damned and that Murphy and Sheridan thought so, though they were 5 too polite to say so. Happily Frances had a friend who was not afraid to give her pain. Crisp, wiser for her than he had been for himself, read the manu- script in his lonely retreat, and manfully told her that she had failed, that to remove blemishes here and lo there would be useless, that the piece had abundance of wit but no interest, that it was bad as a whole, that it would remind every reader of the Femmes Savant es, which, strange to say, she had never read, and that she could not sustain so close a comparison 15 with Moliere. This opinion, in which Dr. Burney concurred, was sent to Frances, in what she called ''a hissing, groaning, catcalling epistle.'' But she had too much sense not to know that it was better to be hissed and catcalled by her Daddy, than by a whole 20 sea of heads in the pit of Drury Lane Theatre; and she had too good a heart not to be grateful for so rare an act of friendship. She returned an answer, which shows how well she deserved to have a judicious, faithful, and affectionate adviser. ''I intend," she 25 wrote, ''to console mj^self for your censure by this greatest proof I have ever received of the sincerity, candour, and, let me add, esteem, of my dear daddy. And as I happen to love myself more than my play, this consolation is not a very trifling, one.* This, how- 30 ever, seriously I do believe, that when my two daddies put their heads together to concert that hissing, groaning, catcalling epistle they sent me, they felt as sorry for poor little Miss Bayes as she could pos^ sibly do for herself. You see I do not attempt to re- 35 MADAME D'AEBLAY. 187 pay your frankness with an air of pretended care- lessness. But, though somewhat disconcerted just now, I will promise not to let my vexation live out another day. Adieu, my dear daddy, I won't be 5 mortified, and I won't be downed; but I will be proud to find I have, out of my own family, as well as in it, a friend who loves me well enough to speak plain truth to me." Frances now turned from her dramatic schemes to 10 an undertaking far better suited to her talents. She determined to write a new tale, on a plan excellently contrived for the display of the powers in which her superiority to other writers lay. It was in truth a grand and various picture gallery, which presented to 15 the eye a long series of men and women, each marked by some strong peculiar feature. There were avarice and prodigality, the pride of blood and the pride of money, morbid restlessness and morbid apathy, frivo- lous garrulity, supercilious silence, a Democritus to 20 laugh at everything, and a Heraclitus to lament over everything. The work proceeded fast, and in twelve months was completed. It wanted something of fEe; simplicity which had been among the most attractive charms of Evelina ; but it furnished ample proof that] 25 the four years, which had elapsed since Evelina ap- peared, had not been unprofitably spent. Those who sawjjecilia in manuscript pronounced it the best novel of the age. Mrs. Thrale laughed and wept over it. Crisp was even vehement in applause, and offered to 30 insure the rapid and complete success of the book for half a crown. What Miss Burney received for the copyright is not mentioned in the Diary ; but we have observed several expressions from which we infer that the sum was considerable. That the sale would 35 be great nobody could doubt; and Frances now had ^s^j 138 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. shrewd and experienced advisers, who would not suf- fer her to wrong herself. We have been told that the publishers gave her two thousand pounds, and we have no doubt that they might have given a still larger sum without being losers. 5 Cecilia was published in the summer of 1782. The curiosity of the town w^as intense. We have been in- formed by persons who remember those days that no romance of Sir Walter Scott was more impatiently awaited, or more eagerly snatched from the counters lo of the booksellers. High as public expectation was, it was amply satisfied; and Cecilia was placed, by general acclamation, among the classical novels of England. Miss Burney was now thirty. Her youth had been 15 singularly prosperous ; but clouds soon began to gather over that clear and radiant dawn. Events deeply painful to a heart so kind as that of Frances followed each other in rapid succession. She was first called upon to attend the deathbed of her best friend, Sam- 20 uel Crisp. When she returned to St. Martin's Street, after performing this melancholy duty, she w^as ap- palled by hearing that Johnson had been struck with paralysis; and, not many months later, she parted from him for the last time with solemn tenderness. 25 He wished to look on her once more ; and on the day before his death she long remained in tears on the stairs leading to his bedroom, in the hope that she might be called in to receive his blessing. He was then sinking fast, and though he sent her an affec-30 tionate message, was unable to see her. But this was not the worst. There are separations far more cruel than those which are made by death. She might w^eep with proud affection for Crisp and Johnson. She had to blush as well as to weep for IMrs. Thrale. 35 MADAME D'ARBLAV. 189 Life, however, still smiled upon Frances. Domes- tic happiness, friendship, independence, leisure, let- ters, all these things were hers; and she flung them all away. 5 Among the distinguished persons to whom she had been introduced, none appears to have stood higher in her regard than Mrs. Delany. This lady was an interesting and venerable relic of a past age. She was the niece of George Granville, Lord Lansdowne, 10 who, in his youth, exchanged verses and compli- ments with Edmund Waller, and who was among the first to applaud the opening genius of Pope. She had married Dr. Delany, a man known to his contempo- raries as a profound scholar and an eloquent preacher, 15 but remembered in our time chiefly as one of that small circle in which the fierce spirit of Swift, tor- tured by disappointed ambition, by remorse, and by the approaches of madness, sought for amusement and repose. Doctor Delany had long been dead. His 20 widow, nobly descended, eminently accomplished, and retaining, in spite of the infirmities of advanced age, the vigour of her faculties and the serenity of her temper, enjoyed and deserved the favour of the royal family. She had a pension of three hundred a year ; 25 and a house at Windsor, belonging to the crown, had been fitted up for her accommodation. At this house the King and Queen sometimes called and found a very natural pleasure in thus catching an occasional glimpse of the private life of English families. 30 In December, 1785, Miss Burney was on a visit to ^Irs. Delany at Windsor. The dinner was over. The old lady was taking a nap. Her grandniece, a little girl of seven, was playing at some Christmas game with the visitors, when the door opened, and a stout 35 gentleman entered unannounced, with a star on his 190 MACAULAY^S ESSAYS. breast, and ''What? what? what?" in his mouth. A cry of ' ' The King ! ' ' was set up. A general scam- pering followed. Miss Burney owns that she could not have been more terrified if she had seen a ghost. But Mrs. Delany came forward to pay her duty to her 5 royal friend, and the disturbance was quieted. Frances was then presented, and underwent a long examination and cross-examination about all that she had written and all that she meant to write. The Queen soon made her appearance, and his Majesty 10 repeated, for the benefit of his consort, the informa- tion which he had extracted from Lliss Burney. The good nature of the royal pair might have softened even the authors of the Probationary Odes, and could not but be delightful to a young lady who had been 15 brought up a Tory. In a few days the visit was re- peated. IMiss Burney was more at ease than before. His Majesty, instead of seeking for information, con- descended to impart it, and passed sentence on many great writers, English and foreign. Voltaire he pro- 20 nounced a monster. Rousseau he liked rather better. ''But was there ever," he cried, ^'such stuff as great part of Shakspeare ? Only one must not say so. But what think you? What? Is there not sad stuff? What? What?" 25 The next day Frances enjoyed the privilege of listening to some equally valuable criticism uttered by the Queen touching Goethe and Klopstock, and might have learned an important lesson of economy from the mode in which her Majesty's library had been formed. 30 "I picked the book up on a stall," said the Queen. *'0h, it is amazing what good books there are on stalls ! ' ' Mrs. Delany, who seems to have understood from these words that her Majesty was in the habit of exploring the booths of Moorfields and Holywell 35 MADAME D'ARBLAY. '191 Street in person, could not suppress an exclamation of surprise. ''Why," said the Queen, ''I don't pick them up myself. But I have a servant very clever; and, if they are not to be had at the booksellers, they 5 are not for me more than for another. ' ' Miss Burney describes this conversation as delightful ; and, indeed we cannot wonder that, with her literary tastes, she should be delighted at hearing in how magnificent a manner the greatest lady in the land encouraged .0 literature. The truth is, that Frances was fascinated by the condescending kindness of the two great personages to whom she had been presented. Her father was even more infatuated than herself. The result was a .5 step of which we cannot think with patience, but which, recorded as it is, with all its consequences, in these volumes, deserves at least this praise, that it has furnished a most impressive warning. A German lady of the name of Haggerdorn, one of iothe keepers of the Queen's robes, retired about this time ; and her Majesty offered the vacant post to Miss Burney. When we consider that Miss Burney was decidedly the most popular writer of fictitious nar- rative then living, that competence, if not opulence, !5was within her reach, and that she was more than usually happy in her domestic circle, and when we compare the sacrifice which she was invited to make with the remuneration which was held out to her, we are divided between laughter and indignation. 10 What was demanded of her was that she should consent to be almost as completely separated from her family and friends as if she had gone to Calcutta, and almost as close a prisoner as if she had been sent to gaol for a libel; that with talents which had in- Bstructed and delighted the highest living minds, she 192- MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. should now be employed only in mixing snuff and sticking pins; that she should be summoned by a waiting woman's bell to a waiting woman's duties; that she should pass her whole life under the re- straints of a paltry etiquette, should sometimes fasts till she was ready to swoon with hunger, should sometimes stand till her knees gave way with fatigue ; that she should not dare to speak or move without considering how her mistress might like her words and gestures. Instead of those distinguished memo and women, the flower of all political parties, with whom she had been in the habit of mixing on terms of equal friendship, she was to have for her per- petual companion the chief keeper of the robes, an old hag from Germany, of mean understanding, of 15 insolent manners, and of temper which, naturally savage, had now been exasperated by disease. Now and then, indeed, poor Frances might console herself for the loss of Burke's and Windham's society, by joining in the ' ' celestial colloquy sublime ' ' of his 20 Majesty's Equerries. And what was the consideration for which she was to sell herself to this slavery ? A peerage in her own right? A pension of two thousand a year for life? A seventy-four for her brother in the navy? A 25 deanery for her brother in the church ? Not so. The price at which she was valued was her Board, her lodging, the attendance of a man-servant, and two hundred pounds a year. The man who, even when hard pressed by hunger, 30 sells his birthright for a mess of pottage, is unwise. But what shall we say of him who parts with his birth- right, and does not get even the pottage in return? It is not necessary to inquire whether opulence be an adequate compensation for the sacrifice of bodily and 35 MADAME D'AEBLAY. I93 mental freedom; for Frances Burney paid for leave to be a prisoner and a menial. It was evidently un- derstood as one of the terms of her engagement, that, while she was a member of the royal household, she 5 was not to appear before the public as an author : and, even had there been no such understanding, her avocations were such as left her no leisure for any considerable intellectual effort. That her place was incompatible with her literary pursuits was indeed 10 frankly acknowledged by the King when she resigned, ' ' She has given up, ' ' he said, ' ' five years of her pen. ' ' That during those five years she might, without pain- ful exertion, without any exertion that would not have been a pleasure, have earned enough to buy an 15 annuity for life much larger than the precarious salary which she received at court, is quite , certain. The same income, too, which in Saint Martin's Street would have afforded her every comfort, must have been found scanty at Saint James's. We cannot ven- 20 ture to speak confidently of the price of millinery and jewellery; but we are greatly deceived if a lady who had to attend Queen Charlotte on many public occasions, could possibly save a farthing out of a salary of two hundred a year. The principle of the 25 arrangement was, in short, simply this, that Frances Burney should become a slave, and should be re- warded by being made a beggar. With what object their Majesties brought her to tlieir palace, we must own ourselves unable to conceive. 30 Their object could not be to encourage her literary exertions ; for they took her from a situation in which it was almost certain that she would write, and put her into a situation in which it was impossible for her to write. Their object could not be to promote her 35 pecuniary interest ; for they took her from a situa- 194 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. tion where she was likely to become rich, and put her into a situation in which she could not but continue poor. Their object could not be to obtain an emi- nently useful waiting maid; for it is clear that, though ]\Iiss Burney was the only woman of her time 5 who could have described the death of Harrel, thou- sands might have been found more expert in tying ribands and filling snuff boxes. To grant her a pension on the civil list would have been an act of judicious liberality honourable to the court. If thisio was impracticable, the next best thing was to let her alone. That the King and Queen meant her nothing but kindness, w^e do not in the least doubt. But their kindness was the kindness of persons raised high above the mass of mankind, accustomed to be ad- 15 dressed with profound deference, accustomed to see all who approach them mortified by their coldness and elated by their smiles. They fancied that to be noticed by them, to be near them, to serve them, was in itself a kind of happiness ; and that Frances Bur- 20 ney ought to be full of gratitude for being permitted to purchase, by the sacrifice of health, wealth, free- dom, domestic affection, and literary fame, the privilege of standing behind a royal chair, and hold- ing a pair of royal gloves. 25 And who can blame them? Who can wonder that princes should be under such a delusion, when they are encouraged in it by the very persons who suffer from it most cruelly? Was it to be expected that George the Third and Queen Charlotte should under- 30 stand the interest of Frances Burney better, or pro- mote it with more zeal than herself and her father? No deception was practised. The conditions of the house of bondage were set forth with all simplicity. The hook was presented without a bait; the net was 35 MADAME D'AKBLAY. I95 spread in sight of the bird: and the naked hook was greedily swallowed, and the silly bird made haste to entangle herself in the net. It is not strange indeed that an invitation to court 5 should have caused a fluttering in the bosom of an inexperienced young woman. But it was the duty of the parent to watch over the child, and to show her that on one side were only infantine vanities and chimerical hopes, on the other liberty, peace of mind, 10 affluence, social enjoyments, honourable distinctions. Strange to say, the only hesitation was on the part of Frances. Dr. Burney was transported out of him- self with delight. Not such are the raptures of a Circassian father who has sold his pretty daughter 15 well to a Turkish slave-merchant. Yet Dr. Burney was an amiable man, a man of good abilities, a man who had seen much of the world. But he seems to have thought that going to court was like going to heaven ; that to see princes and princesses was a kind 20 of beatific vision ; that the exquisite felicity enjoyed by royal persons was not confined to themselves, but was communicated by some mysterious efflux or re- flection to all who were suffered to stand at their toilettes, or to bear their trains. He overruled all his 25 daughter's objections, and himself escorted her to her prison. The door closed. The key was turned. She, looking back with tender regret on all that she had left, and forward with anxiety and terror to the new life on which she was entering, was unable to speak 30 or stand ; and he went on his way homeward rejoicing in her marvellous prosperity. And now began a slavery of five years, a five j^ears taken from the best part of life, and wasted in menial drudgery or in recreations duller than even menial 35 drudgery, under galling restraints and amidst un- 196 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. friendly or uninteresting companions. The history of an ordinary day was this. Miss Burney had to rise and dress herself early, that she might be ready to answer the royal bell, which rang at half after seven. Till about eight she attended in the Queen's 5 dressing room, and had the honour of lacing her august mistress's stays, and of putting on the hoop, gown, and neckhandkerchief. The morning was chiefly spent in rummaging drawers and laying fine clothes in their proper places. Then the Queen was 10 to be powdered and dressed for the day. Twice a week her Majesty's hair was curled and craped; and this operation appears to have added a full hour to the business of the toilette. It was generally three before Miss Burney was at liberty. Then she had 15 two hours at her own disposal. To these hours we owe great part of her Diary. At five she had to attend her colleague, IMadame Schwellenberg, a hateful old toad- eater, as illiterate as a chambermaid, as proud as a whole German Chapter, rude, peevish, unable to bear 20 solitude, unable to conduct herself with common de- cency in society. With this delightful associate, Frances Burney had to dine, and pass the evening. The pair generally remained together from five to eleven, and often had no other company the whole 25 time, except during the hour from eight to nine, when the equerries came to tea. If poor Frances attempted to escape to her own apartment, and to forget her wretchedness over a book, the execrable old woman railed and stormed, and complained that she was neg- 30 lected. Yet, when Frances stayed, she was constantly assailed with insolent reproaches. Literary fame was, in the eyes of the German crone, a blemish, a proof that the person who enjoyed it was meanly born, and out of the pale of good society. All her scanty stock 35 MADAME D'AEBLAY. 197 of broken English was employed to express the con- tempt with which she regarded the author of Evelina and Cecilia. Frances detested cards, and indeed knew nothing about them ; but she soon found that the least 5 miserable way of passing an evening with Madame Schwellenberg was at the card-table and consented, with patient sadness, to give hours, which might have called forth the laughter and the tears of many genera- tions, to the king of clubs and the knave of spades. 10 Between eleven and twelve the bell rang again. Miss Burney had to pass twenty minutes or half an hour in undressing the Queen, and was then at liberty to retire, and to dream that she was chatting with her brother by the quiet hearth in Saint Martin's Street, 15 that she was the centre of an admiring assemblage at Mrs. Crewe's, that Burke was calling her the first woman of the age, or that Dilly was giving her a cheque for two thousand guineas. IMen, we must suppose, are less patient than women ; 20 for we are utterly at a loss to conceive how any hu- man being could endure such a life, while there re- mained a vacant garret in Grub Street, a crossing in want of a sweeper, a parish workhouse, or a parish vault. And it was for such a life that Frances Bur- 25 ney had given up liberty and peace, a happy fireside, attached friends, a wide and splendid circle of ac- quaintance, intellectual pursuits in which she wa^ qualified to excel, and the sure hope of what to her would have been affluence. 30 There is nothing new under the sun. The last great master of Attic eloquence and Attic wit has left us a forcible and touching description of the misery of a man of letters, who, lured by hopes similar to those of Frances, had entered the service of one of the mag- 35 nates of Rome. *' Unhappy that I am," cries the 198 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. victim of his own childish ambition: *' would nothing content me but that I must leave mine old pursuits and mine old companions, and the life which was without care, and the sleep which had no limit save mine own pleasure, and the walks which I was frees to take where I listed, and fling myself into the lowest pit of a dungeon like this ? And, O God ! for what ? Was there no way by which I might have enjoyed in freedom comforts even greater than those which I now earn by servitude? Like a lion which has beenio made so tame that men may lead him about by a thread, I am dragged up and down, with broken and humbled spirit, at the heels of those to whom, in mine own domain, I should have been an object of awe and wonder. And, worst of all, I feel that here I gain no 15 credit, that here I give no pleasure. The talents and accomplishments, which charmed a far different circle, are here out of place. I am rude in the arts of palaces, and can ill bear comparison with those whose calling, from their youth up, has been to flatter and to sue. 20 Have I, then, two lives, that, after I have wasted one in the service of others, there may yet remain to me a second, which I may live unto myself?'' Now and then, indeed, events occurred which dis- turbed the wretched monotony of Frances Burney'szs life. The court moved from Kew to "Windsor, and from Windsor back to Kew. One dull colonel went out of waiting, and another dull colonel came into waiting. An impertinent servant made a blunder , about tea, and caused a misunderstanding between the 30 gentlemen and the ladies. A half witted French Protestant minister talked oddly about conjugal fidel- ity. An unlucky member of the household mentioned a passage in the IMorning Herald, reflecting on the Queen; and forthwith Madame Schwellenberg began 35 MADAME D'AKBLAY. I99 to storm in bad English, and told him that he made her 'Svhat you call perspire!" A more important occurrence was the King's visit to Oxford. Miss Burney went in the royal train to 5 Nuneham, was utterly neglected there in the crowd, and could with difficulty find a servant to show the way to her bedroom, or a hairdresser to arrange her curls. She had the honor of entering Oxford in the last of a long string of carriages which formed the 10 royal procession, of walking after the Queen all day tlirough refectories and chapels, and of standing, half dead with fatigue and hunger, while her august mis- tress was seated at an excellent cold collation. At IMagdalene College, Frances was left for a moment* 15 in a parlour, where she sank down on a chair. A goodnatured equerry saw that she was exhausted, and shared with her some apj-icots and bread, which he had wisely put into his pockets. At that moment the door opened ; the Queen entered ; the wearied attend- 20 ants sprang up ; the bread and fruit were hastily con- cealed. ''I found," says poor Miss Burney, ''that our appetites were to be supposed annihilated, at the same moment that our strength was to be invincible." Yet Oxford, seen even under such disadvantages, 25 ' ' revived in her, ' ' to use her own words, ' ' a conscious- ness to pleasure which had long lain nearly dormant." She forgot, during one moment, that she was a wait- ing maid, and felt as a woman of true genius might ])e expected to feel amidst venerable remains of antiq- 30 uity, beautiful works of art, vast repositories of knowl- edge, and memorials of the illustrious dead. Had she still been wliat she was before her father induced her to take the most fatal step of her life, we can easily imagine what pleasure she would have derived from a 35 visit to the noblest of English cities. She might, in- 200 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. deed, have been forced to travel in a hack chaise, and might not have worn so fine a gown of Chambery gauze as that in which she tottered after the royal party; but with what delight would she have then paced the cloisters of IMagdalene, compared the an- 5 tique gloom of Merton with the splendour of Christ Church, and looked down from the dome of Radcliffe Library on the magnificent sea of turrets and battle- ments below ! How gladly would learned men have laid aside for a few hours Pindar's Odes and Aris-io totle's Ethics, to escort the author of Cecilia from college to college ! What neat little banquets would she have found set out in their monastic cells ! With what eagerness would pictures, medals, and illuminated missals have been brought forth from the most mys-15 terious cabinets for her amusement ! How much she would have had to hear and to tell about Johnson, as she walked over Pembroke, and about Reynolds in the antechapel of New College! But these indulgences were not for one who had sold herself into bondage. 20 About eighteen months after the visit to Oxford, another event diversified the wearisome life which Frances led at court. Warren Hastings was brought to the bar of the House of Peers. The Queen and Princesses Avere present when the trial commenced, 25 and Miss Burney was permitted to attend. During the subsequent proceedings a day rule for the same purpose was occasionally granted to her; for the Queen took the strongest interest in the trial, and, when she could not go herself to Westminster Hall, 30 liked to receive a report of what had passed from a person who had singular powers of observation, and who was, moreover, acquainted with some of the most distinguished managers. The portion of the Diary which relates to this celebrated proceeding is lively 35 MADAME D'AKBLAY. 201 and picturesque. Yet we read it, we own, with pain ; for it seems to us to prove that the fine understand- ing of Frances Burney was beginning to feel the pernicious influence of a mode of life which is as 5 incompatible with health of mind as the air of the Pomptine marshes with health of body. From the first day she espouses the cause of Hastings with a pre- sumptuous vehemence and acrimony quite inconsistent with the modesty and suavity of her ordinary deport- 10 ment. She shudders when Burke enters the Hall at the head of the Commons. She pronounces him the cruel oppressor of an innocent man. She is at a loss to conceive how the managers can look at the defendant, and not blush. Windham comes to her from the man- isager's box, to offer her refreshment. ''But,'* says she, ''I could not break bread with him." Then, again, she exclaims, "Ah, Mr. Windham, how came you ever engaged in so cruel, so unjust a cause?" ''Mr. Burke saw me," she says, "and he bowed with 20 the most marked civility of manner." This, be it observed, was just after his opening speech, a speech which had produced a mighty effect, and which, cer- tainly, no other orator that ever lived could have made. "My curtsy," she continues, "was the most un- 25 grateful, distant, and cold ; I could not do otherwise ; so hurt I felt to see him the head of such a cause." Now, not only had Burke treated her with constant kindness, but the very last act which he performed on the day on which he was turned out of the Pay Office, 30 about four years before this trial, was to make Doctor Burney organist of Chelsea Hospital. When, at the Westminster election. Doctor Burney was divided be- 1ween liis gratitude for this favour and liis Tory opin- ions, Burke in the noblest manner disclaimed all right 35 to exact a sacrifice of principle. "You have little or 202 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. no obligations to me," he wrote; ''but if you had as many as I really wish it were in my power, as it is cer- tainly in my desire, to lay on you, I hope you do not think me capable of conferring them, in order to sub- ject your mind or your affairs to a painful and mis- 5 chievous servitude." Was this a man to be uncivilly treated by a daughter of Doctor Burney, because she chose to differ from him respecting a vast and most complicated question, which he had studied deeply during many years, and which she had never studied 10 at all ? It is clear, from Miss Burney 's own narrative, that when she behaved so unkindly to Mr. Burke, she did not even know of what Hastings was accused. One thing, however, she must have known, that Burke had been able to convince a House of Commons, bit- 15 terly prejudiced against himself, that the charges were well founded, and that Pitt and Dundas had concurred with Fox and Sheridan, in supporting the impeach- ment. Surely a woman of far inferior abilities to Miss Burney might have been expected to see that this 20 never could have happened unless there had been a strong case against the late Governor General. And there was, as all reasonable men now admit, a strong case against him. That there were great public serv- ices to be set off against his great crimes is perfectly 25 true. But his services and his crimes were equally unknown to the lady who so confidently asserted his perfect innocence, and imputed to his accusers, that is to say, to all the greatest men of all parties in the state, not merely error, but gross injustice and 30 barbarity. She had, it is true, occasionally seen Mr. Hastings, and had found his manners and conversation agree- able. But surely she could not be so weak as to infer from the gentleness of his deportment in the drawing 35 MADAME D'ARBLAY. 203 room, that he was incapable of committing a great state crime, under the influence of ambition and re- venge. A silly Miss, fresh from a boarding school, might fall into such a mistake; but the woman who 5 had drawn the character of Mr. Monckton should have known better. The truth is that she had been too long at Court. She was sinking into a slavery worse than that of the body. The iron was beginning to enter into the 10 soul. Accustomed during many months to watch the eye of a mistress, to receive with boundless gratitude the slightest mark of royal condescension, to feel wretched at every symptom of royal displeasure, to associate only with spirits long tamed and broken in, 15 she was degenerating into something fit for her place. Queen Charlotte was a violent partisan of Hastings, had received presents from him, and had so far de- l^arted from the severity of her virtue as to lend her countenance to his wife, whose conduct had certainly 20 been as reprehensible as that of any of the frail beau- ties who were then rigidly excluded from the English Court. The King, it was well known, took the same side. To the King and Queen all the members of the household looked submissively for guidance. The 25 impeachment, therefore, was an atrocious persecution ; the managers were rascals; the defendant was the most deserving and the worst used man in the king- dom. This was the cant of the \Vhole palace, from Gold Stick in Waiting, down to the Table Deckers and soYeoinen of the Silver Scullery; and Miss Burney canted like the rest, though in livelier tones, and with less bitter feelings. The account which she has given of the King's ill- ness contains much excellent narrative and deserip- 35 tion, and will, we think, be as much valued by the 204 MACAIILAY'S ESSAYS. historians of a future age as any equal portion of Pepys' or Evelyn's Diaries. That account shows also how affectionate and compassionate her nature was. But it shows also, we must say, that her way of life was rapidly impairing her powers of reasoning and 5 her sense of justice. We do not mean to discuss, in this place, the question, whether the views of Mr. Pitt or those of Mr. Fox respecting the regency were the more correct. It is, indeed, quite needless to discuss that question: for the censure of Miss Burney falls 10 alike on Pitt and Fox, on majority and minority. She is angry with the House of Commons for presuming to inquire whether the King was mad or not, and whether there was a chance of his recovering his senses. * ' A melancholy day, ' ' she writes ; ' ' news 15 bad both at home and abroad. At home the dear unhappy king still worse; abroad new examinations voted of the physicians. Good heavens! what an insult does this seem from Parliamentary power, to investigate and bring forth to the world every cir- 20 cumstance of such a malady as is ever held sacred to secrecy in the most private families ! How indignant we all feel here, no words can say." It is proper to observe, that the motion which roused all this indig- nation at Kew w^as made by ]\Ir. Pitt himself. We 25 see, therefore, that the loyalty of the minister, who was then generally regarded as the most heroic cham- pion of his Prince, was lukewarm indeed when com- pared with the boiling zeal which filled the pages of the backstairs and the women of the bedchamber. Of 30 the Regency bill, Pitt's own bill, IMiss Burney speaks with horror. *'I shuddered," she says, ''to hear it named." And again, "Oh, how dreadful will be the day when that unhappy bill takes place I I cannot ap- prove the plan of it." The truth is, that Mr. Pitt, 35 MADAME D'AKBLAY. 205 whether a wise and upright statesman or not, was a statesman; and whatever motives he might have for imposing restrictions on the regent, felt that in some way or other there must be some provision made for 5 the execution of some part of the kingly office, or that no government would be left in the country. But this was a matter of which the household never thought. It never occurred, as far as we can see, to the Exons and Keepers of the Robes, that it was necessary that 10 there should be somewhere or other, a power in the state to pass laws, to preserve order, to pardon crim- inals, to fill up offices, to negotiate with foreign govern- ments, to command the army and navy. Nay, these enlightened politicians, and Miss Burney among the 15 rest, seem to have thought that any person who con- sidered the subject with reference to the public inter- est, showed himself to be a badhearted man. Nobody wonders at this in a gentleman usher ; but it is melan- choly to see genius sinking into such debasement. 20 During more than two years after the King's re- covery, Frances dragged on a miserable existence at the palace. The consolations, which had for a time mitigated the wretchedness of servitude, were one by one withdrawn. Mrs. Delany, whose society had been 25 a great resource when the Court was at Windsor, was now dead. One of the gentlemen of the royal estab- lishment. Colonel Digby, appears to have been a man of sense, of taste, of some reading, and of prepossessing manners. Agreeable associates were scarce in the 30 prison house, and he and ]\Iiss Burney therefore natu- rally became attached to each other. She owns that she valued him as a friend ; and it would not have been strange if his attentions had led her to entertain for him a sentiment warmer than friendship. He quitted 35 the Court, and married in a way which astonished ]\Iiss 206 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. Burney greatly, and which evidently wounded her feelings, and lowered him in her esteem. The palace grew duller and duller; Madame Schwellenberg be- came more and more savage and insolent ; and now the health of poor Frances began to give way ; and all who 5 saw her pale face, her emaciated figure, and her feeble walk, predicted that her sufferings would soon be over. Frances uniformly speaks of her royal mistress, and of the princesses, with respect and affection. The princesses seem to have well deserved all the praise 10 which is bestowed on them in the Diary. They were, we doubt not, most amiable women. But "the sweet Queen, ' ' as she is constantly called, in these volumes, is not by any means an object of admiration to us. She had undoubtedly sense enough to know what kind of 15 deportment suited her high station, and self-command enough to maintain that deportment invariably. She was, in her intercourse with Miss Burney, generally gracious and affable, sometimes, when displeased, cold and reserved, but never, under any circumstances, 20 rude, peevish, or violent. She knew how to dispense, gracefully and skilfully, those little civilities which, when paid by a sovereign, are prized at many times their intrinsic value; how to pay a compliment: how to lend a book; how to ask after a relation. But she 23 seems to have been utterly regardless of the comfort, the health, the life of her attendants, when her own convenience was concerned. Weak, feverish, hardly able to stand, Frances had still to rise before seven, in order to dress the sweet Queen, and sit up tillao midnight, in order to undress the sweet Queen. The indisposition of the handmaid could not, and did not, escape the notice of her royal mistress. But the estab- lished doctrine of the Court was, that all sickness was to be considered as a pretence until it proved 35 MADAME D'ARBLAY. 207 fatal. The only way in which the invalid could clear herself from the suspicion of malingering, as it is called in the army, was to go on lacing and unlacing, till she fell down dead at the royal feet. *^This,'' 5 Miss Burney wrote, when she was suffering cruelly from sickness, watching, and labour, **is by no means from hardness of heart; far otherwise. There is no hardness of heart in any one of them ; but it is preju- dice and want of personal experience.'* 10 IMany strangers sympathized with the bodily and mental sufferings of this distinguished woman. All who saw her saw that her frame was sinking, that her heart was breaking. The last, it should seem, to ob- serve the change, was her father. At length, in spite 15 of himself, his eyes were opened. In May, 1790, his daughter had an interview of three hours with him, the only long interview which they had had since he took her to Windsor in 1786. She told him that she was miserable, that she was worn with attendance and 20 want of sleep, that she had no comfort in life, nothing to love, nothing to hope, that her family and friends were to her as though they were not, and were remem- bered by her as men remember the dead. From day- break to midnight the same killing labour, the same 25 recreations, more hateful than labour itself, followed each other without variety, without any interval of liberty and repose. The Doctor was greatly dejected by this news ; but was too goodnatured a man not to say that, if she 30 wished to resign, his house and arms were open to her. Still, however, he could not bear to remove her from the Court. His veneration for royalty amounted in truth to idolatry. It can be compared only to the grovelling superstition of those Syrian devotees who 35 made their children pass through the fire to IMoloch. 208 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. When he induced his daughter to accept the place of keeper of the robes, he entertained, as she tells us, a hope that some worldly advantage or other, not set down in the contract of service, would be the result of her connection with the Court. What advantages he expected we do not know, nor did he probably know himself. But, whatever he expected, he certainly got nothing. ]\Iiss Burney had been hired for board, lodg- ing, and two hundred a year. Board, lodging, and two hundred a year, she had duly received. We haveio looked carefully through the Diary, in the hope of finding some trace of those extraordinary benefactions on which the Doctor reckoned. But we can discover only a promise, never performed, of a gown : and for this promise Miss Burney was expected to return is thanks, such as might have suited the beggar with whom Saint Martin in the legend divided his cloak. The experience of four years was, however, insufficient to dispel the illusion which had taken possession of the Doctor's mind; and, between the dear father and the 20 sweet Queen, there seemed to be little doubt that some day or other Frances would drop down a corpse. Six months had elapsed since the interview between the parent and the daughter. The resignation was not sent in. The sufferer grew worse and worse. She 25 took bark; but it soon ceased to produce a beneficial effect. She was stimulated with wine ; she was soothed with opium; but in vain. Her breath began to fail. The whisper that she was in a decline spread through the Court. The pains in her side became so severe 30 that she was forced to crawl from the card-table of the old Fury to whom she was tethered, three or four times in an evening, for the purpose of taking harts- horn. Had she been a negro slave, a humane planter would have excused her from work. But her IMajesty 35 MADAME D'ARBLAY. 209 showed no mercy. Thrice a day the accursed bell still rang ; the Queen was still to be dressed for the morn- ing at seven, and to be dressed for the day at noon, and to be undressed at midnight. 5 But there had arisen, in literary and fashionable society, a general feeling of compassion for Miss Burney, and of indignation against both her father and the Queen. ' ' Is it possible, ' ' said a great French lady to the Doctor, ^'that your daughter is in a situa- 10 tion where she is never allowed a holiday ? ' ' Horace Walpole wrote to Frances, to express his sympathy. Boswell, boiling over with goodnatured rage, almost forced an entrance into the palace to see her. *'My dear ma'am, why do you stay? It won't do, ma'am, 15 you must resign. We can put up with it no longer. Some very violent measures, I assure you, will be taken. We shall address Dr. Burney in a body." Burke and Reynolds, though less noisy, were zealous in the same cause. Windham spoke to Dr. Burney, 20 but found him still irresolute. "I will set the club upon him, ' ' cried Windham ; ' ' Miss Burney has some very true admirers there, and I am sure they will eagerly assist." Indeed the Burney family seem to have been apprehensive that some public affront, such 25 as the Doctor's unpardonable folly, to use the mildest term, had richly deserved, would be put upon him. The medical men spoke out, and plainly told him that his daughter must resign or die. At last paternal affection, medical authority, and 30 the voice of all London crying shame, triumphed over Dr. Burney 's love of courts. He determined that Frances should write a letter of resignation. It was with difficulty that, though her life was at stake, she mustered spirit to put the paper into the Queen's 35 hands. ''I could not," so runs the Diary, ''summon 210 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. courage to present my memorial: my heart always failed me from seeing the Queen's entire freedom from such an expectation. For though I was fre- quently so ill in her presence that I could hardly stand, I saw she concluded me, while life remained, 5 inevitably hers." At last with a trembling hand the paper was deliv- ered. Then came the storm. Juno, as in the ^neid, delegated the work of vengeance to Alecto. The Queen was calm and gentle ; but Madame Schwellen- lo berg raved like a maniac in the incurable ward of Bed- lam ! Such insolence ! Such ingratitude ! Such folly ! Would Miss Burney bring utter destruction on herself and her family? Would she throw away the inesti- mable advantage of royal protection ! Would she part 15 with privileges which, once relinquished, could never be regained? It was idle to talk of health and life. If people could not live in the palace, the best thing that could befall them was to die in it. The resigna- tion was not accepted. The language of the medical 20 men became stronger and stronger. Dr. Burney 's parental fears were fully roused; and he explicitly declared, in a letter meant to be shown to the Queen, that his daughter must retire. The Schwellenberg raged like a wild cat. *'A scene almost horrible 25 ensued," says Miss Burney. ^'She was too much enraged for disguise, and uttered the most furious ex- pressions of indignant contempt at our proceedings. I am sure she would gladly have confined us both in the Bastile, had England such a misery, as a fit place to 30 bring us to ourselves, from a daring so outrageous against imperial wishes." This passage deserves no- tice, as being the only one in the Diary, so far as we have observed, which shows ]\Iiss Burney to have been aware that she was a native of a free country, 35 MADAME D'AEBLAY. 211 that she could not be pressed for a waiting maid against her will, and that she had just as good a right to live, if she chose, in Saint Martin 's Street, as Queen Charlotte had to live at Saint James's. 5 The Queen promised that, after the next birthday. Miss Burney should be set at liberty. But the promise was ill kept ; and her Majesty showed great displeasure at being reminded of it. At length Frances was in- formed that in a fortnight her attendance should 10 cease. "I heard this," she says, ''with a fearful pre- sentiment I should surely never go through another fortnight, in so weak and languishing and painful a state of health. ... As the time of separation approached, the Queen's cordiality rather diminished, 15 and traces of internal displeasure appeared some- times, arising from an opinion I ought rather to have struggled on, live or die, than to quit her. Yet I am sure she saw how poor was my own chance, except ])y a change in the mode of life, and at least ceased 20 to wonder, though she could not approve." Sweet Queen ! What noble candour, to admit that the undu- tifulness of people, who did not think the honour of adjusting her tuckers worth the sacrifice of their own lives, was, though highly criminal, not altogether 25 unnatural ! We perfectly understand her Majesty's contempt for the lives of others where her own pleasure was concerned. But what pleasure she can have found in having Miss Burney about her, it is not so easy to 30 comprehend. That Miss Burney was an eminently skilful keeper of the robes is not very probable. Few women, indeed, had paid less attention to dress. Now and then, in the course of five years, she had been asked to read aloud or to write a copy of verses. But 35 better readers might easily have been found: and 212 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. her verses were worse than even the Poet Laureate's Birthday Odes. Perhaps that economy, which was among her Majesty's most conspicuous virtues, had something to do with her conduct on this occasion. Miss Burney had never hinted that she expected as retiring pension ; and indeed would gladly have given the little that she had for freedom. But her Majesty knew what the public thought, and what became her own dignity. She could not for very shame suffer a woman of distinguished genius, who had quitted aio lucrative career to wait on her, who had served her faithfully for a pittance during five years, and whose constitution had been impaired by labour and watch- ing, to leave the court without some mark of royal liberality. George the Third, who, on all occasions 15 where Miss Burney was concerned, seems to have be- haved like an honest, goodnatured gentleman, felt this, and said plainly that she was entitled to a provision. At length, in return for all the misery which she had undergone, and for the health which she had sacri-20 ficed, an annuity of one hundred pounds was granted to her, dependent on the Queen's pleasure. Then the prison was opened, and Frances was free once more. Johnson, as Burke observed, might have added a striking page to his poem on the Vanity of 25 Human Wishes, if he had lived to see his little Burney as she went into the palace and as she came out of it. The pleasures, so long untasted, of liberty, of friend- ship, of domestic affection, were almost too acute for her shattered frame. But happy days and tranquil 30 nights soon restored the health which the Queen's toilette and Madame Schwellenberg's card-table had impaired. Kind and anxious faces surrounded the invalid. Conversation the most polished and brilliant revived her spirits. Travelling was recommended to 35 MADAME D'ARBLAY. 213 her; and she rainl)led hy easy journeys from cathedral to cathedral, and from watering place to watering place. She crossed the New Forest, and visited Stone- henge and Wilton, the cliffs of Lyme, and the beautiful 5 valley of Sidmouth. Thence she journeyed to Powder- ham Castle, and by the ruins of Glastonbury Abbey to Bath, and from Bath, when the winter was ap- proaching, returned well and cheerful to London. There she visited her old dungeon, and found her suc- 10 cessor already far on the way to the grave, and kept to strict duty, from morning till midnight, with a sprained ankle and a nervous fever. At this time England swarmed with French exiles driven from their country by the Revolution. A coL i5ony of these refugees settled at Juniper Hall, in Sur- rey, not far from Norbury Park, where Mr. Locke, an intimate friend of the Burney family, resided. Frances visited Norbury and was introduced to the strangers. She had strong prejudices against them; 20 for her Toryism was far beyond, we do not say that of Mr. Pitt, but that of Mr. Reeves ; and the inmates of Juniper Hall were all attached to the constitution of 1791, and were therefore more detested by the roy- alists of the first emigration than Petion or Marat. 25 But such a woman as ]\Iiss Burney could not long resist the fascination of that remarkable society. She had lived with Johnson and Wyndham, with ]\Irs. Montague and ]\Irs. Thrale. Yet she was forced to own that she had never heard conversation before. 30 The most animated eloquence, the keenest observa- tion, the most sparkling wit, the most courtly grace, were united to charm her. For Madame de Stael was there, and M. de Talleyrand. There too was M. de Narbonne, a noble representative of French aris- Satocracy; and with M. de Narbonne was his friend 214 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. and follower General D'Arblay, an honourable and amiable man, with a handsome person, frank soldier- like manner, and some taste for letters. The prejudice which Frances had conceived against the constitutional royalists of France rapidly van- 5 ished. She listened with rapture to Talleyrand and Madame de Stael, joined with M. D'Arblay in exe- crating the Jacobins and in weeping for the unhappy Bourbons, took French lessons from him, fell in love with him, and married him on no better provision than lo a precarious annuity of one hundred pounds. Here the Diary stops for the present. We will, therefore, bring our narrative to a speedy close, by rapidly recounting the most important events which we know to have befallen Madame D'Arblay during 15 the latter part of her life. M. D'Arblay 's fortune had perished in the general wreck of the French Revolution; and in a foreign country his talents, whatever they may have been, could scarcely make him rich. The task of providing 20 for the family devolved on his wife. In the year 1796, she published by subscription her third novel, Ca- milla. It was impatiently expected by the public ; and the sum which she obtained for it was, we believe, greater than had ever at that time been received for 25 a novel. We have heard that she cleared more than three thousand guineas. But we give this merely as a rumour. Camilla, however, never attained popularity like that which Evelina and Cecilia had enjoyed ; and it must be allowed that there was a perceptible falling 30 off, not indeed in humour or in power of portraying character, but in grace and in purity of style. We have heard that, about this time, a tragedy by Madame D'Arblay was performed without success. We do not know whether it was ever printed; nor 35 MADAME D'AEBLAY. 215 indeed have we had time to make any researches into its history or merits. During the short truce which followed the treaty of Amiens, M. D'Arblay visited France. Lauriston and 5 La Fayette represented his claims to the French gov- ernment, and obtained a promise that he should be reinstated in his military rank. M, D'Arblay, how- ever, insisted that he should never be required to serve against the countrymen of his wife. The First Consul, 10 of course, would not hear of such a condition, and ordered the general's commission to be instantly revoked. Madame D'Arblay joined her husband at Paris, a short time before the war of 1803 broke out, and re- I5mained in France ten years, cut off from almost all intercourse with the land of her birth. At length, when Napoleon was on his march to Moscow, she with great difficulty obtained from his ministers permission to visit her own country, in company with her son, 20 who was a native of England. She returned in time to receive the last blessing of her father, who died in his eighty-seventh year. In 1814 she published her last novel, the Wanderer, a book which no judicious friend to her memory will attempt to draw from the 25 oblivion into which it has justly fallen. In the same year, her son Alexander was sent to Cambridge. He obtained an honourable place among the wranglers of his year, and was elected a fellow of Christ's College. But his reputation at the University was higher than 3Q might be inferred from his success in academical con- tests. His French education had not fitted him for the examinations of the Senate House ; but, in pure mathe- matics, we have been assured by some of his competi- tors that he had very few equals. He went into acthe church, and it was thought likely that he would 216 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. attain high eminence as a preacher ; but he died before his mother. All that we have heard of him leads us to believe that he was such a son as such a mother de- served to have. In 1832, Madame D 'Arblay published the memoirs of her father ; and on the sixth of Jan- 5 . uary, 1840, she died in her eighty-eighth year. We now turn from the life of Madame D'Arblay to her writings. There can, we apprehend, be little difference of opinion as to the nature of her merit, whatever differences may exist as to its degree. She 10 was emphatically what Johnson called her, a charac- ter-monger. It was in the exhibition of human pas- sions and whims that her strength lay; and in this department of art she had, we think, very distin- guished skill. 15 But in order that we may, according to our duty as kings at arms, versed in the laws of literary prece- dence, marshal her to the exact seat to which she is entitled, we must carry our examination somewhat further. 20 There is, in one respect, a remarkable analogy be- tween the faces and the minds of men. No two faces are alike ; and yet very few faces deviate very widely from the common standard. Among the eighteen hundred thousand human beings who inhabit London, 25 there is not one who could be taken by his acquaint- ance for another ; yet we may walk from Paddington to Mile End without seeing one person in whom any feature is so overcharged that we turn round to stare at it. An infinite number of varieties lies between 30 limits which are not very far asunder. The specimens which pass those limits on either side, form a very small minority. It is the same with the characters of men. Here, too, the variety passes all enumeration. But the cases 35 MADAME D'AEBLAY. 217 in which the deviation from the common standard is striking and grotesque, are very few. In one mind avarice predominates; in another, pride; in a third, love of pleasure ; just as in one countenance the nose 5 is the most marked feature, while in others the chief expression lies in the brow, or in the lines of the mouth. But there are very few countenances in which nose, brow, and mouth do not contribute, though in unequal degrees, to the general effect ; and so there are 10 very few characters in which one overgrown propen- sity makes all others utterly insignificant. It is evident that a portrait painter, who was able only to represent faces and figures such as those which we pay money to see at fairs, would not, however 15 spirited his execution might be, take rank among the highest artists. He must always be placed below those who have skill to seize peculiarities which do not amount to deformity. The slighter those pecu- liarities, the greater is the merit of the limner who can 20 catch them and transfer them to his canvas. To paint Daniel Lambert or the living skeleton, the pig faced lady or the Siamese twins so that nobody can mistake them, is an exploit within the reach of a sign- painter. A third-rate artist might give us the squint 25 of Wilkes, and the depressed nose and protuberant cheeks of Gibbon. It would require a much higher degree of skill to paint two such men as Mr. Canning and Sir Thomas Lawrence, so that nobody who had ever seen them could for a moment hesitate to assign 30 each picture to its original. Here the mere carica- turist would be quite at fault. He would find in neither face any thing on which he could lay hold for the purpose of making a distinction. Two ample bald foreheads, two regular profiles, two full faces 35 of the same oval form, would baffle his art; and he 218 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. would be reduced to the miserable shift of writing their names at the foot of his picture. Yet there was a great difference; and a person who had seen them once would no more have mistaken one of them for the other, than he would have mistaken ]\Ir. Pitts for Mr. Fox. But the difference lay in delicate lineaments and shades, reserved for pencils of a rare order. This distinction runs through all the imitative arts. Foote 's mimicry was exquisitely ludicrous, but it was lo all caricature. He could take off only some strange peculiarity, a stammer or a lisp, a Northumbrian burr or an Irish brogue, a stoop or a shuffle. *'If a man," said Johnson, ' ' hops on one leg, Foote can hop on one leg. ' ^ Garrick, on the other hand, could seize those 15 differences of manner and pronunciation, which, though highly characteristic, are yet too slight to be described. Foote, we have no doubt, could have made , the Haymarket theatre shake with laughter by imitat- ing a conversation between a Scotchman and a Som- 20 ersetshireman. But Garrick could have imitated a conversation between two fashionable men, both mod- els of the best breeding. Lord Chesterfield, for exam- ple, and Lord Albemarle, so that no person could doubt which was which, although no person could say 25 that, in any point, either Lord Chesterfield or Lord Albemarle spoke or moved otherwise than in con- formity with the usages of the best society. The same distinction is found in the drama and in fictitious narrative. Highest among those who have 30 exhibited human nature by means of dialogue, stands Shakspeare. His variety is like the variety of nature, endless diversity, scarcely any monstrosity. The char- acters of which he has given us an impression, as vivid as that which we receive from the characters of our 35 MADAME D'ARBLAY. 219 own associates, are to be reckoned by scores. Yet in all these scores hardly one character is to be found which deviates widely from the common standard, and which we should call very eccentric if we met it in real 5 life. The silly notion that every man has one ruling passion, and that this clue, once known, unravels all the mysteries of his conduct, finds no countenance in the plays of Shakspeare. There man appears as he is, made up of a crowd of passions, which contend for the 10 mastery over him and govern him in turn. What is Hamlet's ruling passion? Or Othello's? Or Harry the Fifth's? Or Wolsey's? Or Lear's? Or Shy- lock's? Or Benedick's? Or Macbeth 's? Or that of Cassius ? Or that of Falconbridge ? But we might 15 go on forever. Take a single example, Shylock. Is he so eager for money as to be indifferent to revenge ? Or so eager for revenge as to be indifferent to money ? Or so bent on both together as to be indifferent to the honour of his nation and the law of Moses? All his 20 propensities are mingled with each other, so that, in trying to apportion to each its proper part, we find the same difficulty which constantly meets us in real life. A superficial critic may say, that hatred is Shylock 's ruling passion. But how many passions have amalga- 25 mated to form that hatred ? It is partly the result of wounded pride: Antonio has called him dog. It is partly the result of covetousness : Antonio has hin- dered him of half a million; and, when Antonio is gone, there will be no limit to the gains of usury. It 30 is partly the result of national and religious feeling : Antonio has spit on the Jewish gaberdine; and the oath of revenge has been sworn by the Jewish Sab- bath. We might go through all the characters which we have mentioned, and through fifty more in 35 the same way ; for it is the constant manner of Shak- 220 MACAULAY^S ESSAYS. speare to represent the human mind as lying, not under the absolute dominion of one despotic pro- pensity, but under a mixed government, in which a hundred powers balance each other. Admirable as he was in all parts of his art, we most admire him 5 for this, that while he has left us a greater number of striking portraits than all other dramatists put together, he has scarcely left us a single caricature. Shakspeare has had neither equal nor second. But among the writers who, in the point which we have lo noticed, have approached nearest to the manner of the great master, we have no hesitation in placing Jane Austen, a woman of whom England is justly proud. She has given us a multitude of characters, all, in a certain sense, commonplace, all such as we meet every 15 day. Yet they are all as perfectly discriminated from each other as if they were the most eccentric of human beings. There are, for instance, four clergymen, none of whom, we should be surprised to find in any parson- age in the kingdom, ]\Ir. Edward Ferrars, I\Ir. Henry 20 Tilney, Mr. Edmund Bertram, and Mr. Elton. They are all specimens of the upper part of the middle class. They have all been liberally educated. They all lie under the restraints of the same sacred profession. They are all young. They are all in love. Not one 25 of them has any hobby horse, to use the phrase of Sterne. Not one has a ruling passion, such as we read of in Pope. Who would not have expected them to be insipid likenesses of each other? No such thing. Harpagon is not more unlike to Jourdain, Joseph 30 Surface is not more unlike to Sir Lucius 'Trigger, than every one of Miss Austen's young divines to all his reverend brethren. And almost all this is done by touches so delicate, that they elude analysis, that they defy the powers of description, and that we know 35 MADAME D'AEBLAY. 221 them to exist only by the general effect to which they have contributed. A line must be drawn, we conceive, between artists of this class, and those poets and novelists whose skill 5 lies in the exhibiting of what Ben Jonson called hu- mours. The words of Ben are so much to the purpose that we will quote them : ''When some one peculiar quality Doth so possess a man, that it doth draw 10 All his affects, his spirits, and his powers, In their confluxions all to run one way. This may be truly said to be a humour." There are undoubtedly persons, in whom humours such as Ben describes have attained a complete ascen- 15 dency. The avarice of Elwes, the insane desire of Sir Egerton Brydges for a barony to which he had no more right than to the crown of Spain, the malevolence which long meditation on imaginary wrongs generated in the gloomy mind of Bellingham, are instances. The 20 feeling which animated Clarkson and other virtuous men against the slave trade and slavery, is an instance of a more honourable kind. Seeing that such humours exist, we cannot deny that they are proper subjects for the imitations of art. 25 But we conceive that the imitation of such humours, however skilful and amusing, is not an achievement of the highest order; and, as such humours are rare in real life, they ought, we conceive, to be sparingly intro- duced into works which profess to be pictures of real 30 life. Nevertheless, a writer may show so much genius in the exhibition of these humours as to be fairly enti- tled to a distinguished and permanent rank among classics. The chief seats of all, however, the places on the dais and under the canopy, are reserved for the 222 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. few who have excelled in the difficult art of portraying characters in which no single feature is extravagantly overcharged. If we have expounded the law soundly, we can have no difficulty in applying it to the particular case be- 5 fore us. ]\Iadame D'Arblay has left us scarcely any thing but humours. Almost every one of her men and women has some one propensity developed to a morbid degree. In Cecilia, for example, Mr. Delvile never opens his lips without some allusion to his own birth lo and station; or Mr. Briggs, without some allusion to- the hoarding of money; or Mr. Hobson, without be- traying the self-indulgence and self-importance of a purse-proud upstart ; or Mr. Simkins, without uttering some sneaking remark for the purpose of currying fa- 15 vour with his customers; or ]\Ir. Meadows, without expressing apathy and weariness of life; or Mr. Al- bany, without declaiming about the vices of the rich and the misery of the poor ; or Mrs. Belfield, without some indelicate eulogy on her son ; or Lady Margaret, 20 without indicating jealousy of her husband. ]\Ior- rice is all skipping, officious impertinence, Mr. Gosport all sarcasm. Lady Honoria all lively prattle. Miss La- rolles all silly prattle. If ever Madame D'Arblay aimed at more, we do not think that she succeeded 25 well. "We are, therefore, forced to refuse to Madame D'Arblay a place in the highest rank of art; but we cannot deny that, in the rank to which she belonged, she had few equals, and scarcely any superior. The 30 variety of humours which is to be found in her novels is immense ; and though the talk of each person sepa- rately is monotonous, the general effect is not mo- notony, but a very lively and agreeable diversity. Her plots are rudely constructed and improbable, if we 35 MADAME D'AEBLAY. 223 consider them in themselves. But they are admirably framed for the purpose of exhibiting striking groups of eccentric characters, each governed by his own pe- culiar whim, each talking his own peculiar jargon, and 5 each bringing out by opposition the oddities of all the rest. We will give one example out of many which occur to us. All probability is violated in order to bring Mr. Delvile, Mr. Briggs, Mr. Hobson, and Mr. Albany into a room together. But when we have 10 them there, we soon forget probability in the exqui- sitely ludicrous effect which is produced by the conflict of four old fools, each raging with a monomania of his own, each talking a dialect of his own, and each inflaming all the others anew every time he opens his 15 mouth. ]\Iadame D'Arblay was most successful in comedy, and indeed in comedy which bordered on farce. But we are inclined to infer from some passages, both in Cecilia and Camilla, that she might have attained 20 equal distinction in the pathetic. We have formed this judgment, less from those ambitious scenes of distress which lie near the catastrophe of each of those novels, than from some exquisite strokes of natural tenderness which take us here and there by 25 surprise. We would mention as examples, Mrs. Hill *s account of her little boy's death in Cecilia, and the parting of Sir Hugh Tyrold and Camilla, when the honest baronet thinks himself dying. It is melancholy to think that the whole fame of 30 Madame D 'Arblay rests on what she did during the earlier half of her life, and that every thing which she published during the forty-three years which preceded her death, lowered her reputation. Yet we have no reason to think that at the time when her faculties 35 ought to have been in their maturity, they were 224 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. smitten with any blight. In the Wanderer, we catch now and then a gleam of her genius. Even in the Memoirs of her father, there is no trace of dotage. They are very bad ; but they are so, as it seems to us, not from a decay of power, but from a total perversion 5 of power. The truth is, that Madame D 'Arblay^s^jle^ under- went a gradual and most pernicious change, a change which, in degree at least, we believe to be unexampled in literary history, and of which it may be useful to lo trace the progress. When she wrote her letters to Mr. Crisp, her early journals, and her first novel, her style was not indeed brilliant or energetic ; but it was easy, clear, and free from all offensive faults. When she wrote Cecilia she 15 aimed higher. She had then lived much in a circle of which Johnson was the centre ; and she was herself one of his most submissive worshippers. It seems never to have crossed her mind that the style even of his best writings was by no means faultless, and that 20 even had it been faultless, it might not be wise in her to imitate it. Phraseology which is proper in a disqui- sition on the Unities, or in a preface to a Dictionary, may be quite out of place in a tale of fashionable life. Old gentlemen do not criticize the reigning modes, nor 25 do young gentlemen make love, with the balanced epi- thets and sonorous cadences which, on occasions of great dignity, a skilful writer may use with happy effect. In an evil hour the author of Evelina took the Ram- 30 bier for her model. This would not have been wise even if she could have imitated her pattern as well as Hawkesworth did. But such imitation was beyond her power. She had her own style. It was a tolerably good one ; and might, without any violent change, have 35 MADAME D'AEBLAY. 225 been improved into a very good one. She deter- mined to throw it away, and to adopt a style in which she could attain excellence only by achieving an almost miraculous victory over nature and over habit. She 5 could cease to be Fanny Burney ; it was not so easy to become Samuel Johnson. In Cecilia the change of manner began to appear. But in Cecilia the imitation of Johnson, though not always in the best taste, is sometimes eminently 10 happy ; and the passages which are so verbose as to be positively offensive, are few, Inhere were people who whispered that Johnson had assisted his young friend, and that the novel owed all its finest passages to his hand. This was merely the fabrication of envy. 15 Miss Burney 's real excellences were as much beyond the reach of Johnson, as his real excellences were beyond her reach. He could no- more have written the Masquerade scene, or the Vauxhall scene, than she could have written the Life of Cowley or the Review 20 of Soame Jenyns. But we have not the smallest doubt that he revised Cecilia, and that he retouched the style of many passages. We know that he was in the habit of giving assistance of this kind most freely. Goldsmith, Hawkesworth, Boswell, Lord 25 Hailes, Mrs. Williams, were among those who obtained his help. Nay, he even corrected the poetry of Mr. Crabbe, whom, we believe, he had never seen. When ]\Iiss Burney though of writing a comedy, he prom- ised to give her his best counsel, though he owned 30 that he was not particularly well qualified to advise on matters relating to the stage. We therefore think it in the highest degree improbable that his little Fanny, when living in habits of the most affectionate inter- course with him, would have brought out an important 35 work without consulting him ; and, when we look into 226 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. Cecilia, we see such traces of his hand in the grave and elevated passages as it is impossible to mistake. Before we conclude this article, we will give two or three examples. When next Madame D'Arblay appeared before the 5 world as a writer, she was in a very different situation. She would not content herself with the simple English in which Evelina had been written. She had no longer the friend who, we are confident, had polished and strengthened the style of Cecilia. She had to lo write in Johnson's manner without Johnson's aid. The consequence was, that in C^illa every passage which she meant to be fine is detestable ; and that the book has been saved from condemnation only by the admirable spirit and force of those scenes in which she 15 was content to be familiar. But there was to be a still deeper descent. After the publication of Camilla, Madame D'Arblay resided ten years at Paris. During those years there was scarcely any intercourse between France and England. 20 It was with difficulty that a short letter could occa- sionally be transmitted. All Madame D'Arblay 's companions were French. She must have written, spoken, thought, in French. Ovid expressed his fear that a shorter exile might have affected the purity of 25 his Latin. During a shorter exile, Gibbon unlearned his native English. Madame D'Arblay had carried a bad style to France. She brought back a style which we are really at a loss to describe. It is a sort of broken Johnsonese, a barbarous patois, bearing the 30 same relation to the language of Rasselas, which the gibberish of the Negroes of Jamaica bears to the English of the House of Lords. Sometimes it reminds us of the finest, that is to say, the vilest parts, of Mr. Gait 's novels ; sometimes of the perorations of Exeter 35 MADAME D'AEBLAY. 227 Hall ; sometimes of the leading articles of the Morning Post. But it most resembles the puffs of J\Ir. Rowland and Dr. Goss. It matters not -what ideas are clothed in such a style. The genius of Shakspeare and Bacon 5 united would not save a work so written from general derision. It is only by means of specimens that we can enable our readers to judge how widely Madame D'Arblay's three styles differed from each other. 10 The following passage was written before she be- came intimate with Johnson. It is from Evelina. ''His son seems weaker in his understanding, and more gay in his temper; but his gaiety is that of a foolish overgrown schoolboy, whose mirth consists in noise and disturbance. He 15 disdains his father for his close attention to business and love of money, though he seems himself to have no talents, spirit, or generosity to make him superior to either. His chief delight appears to be in tormenting and ridiculing his sisters, who in return most cordially despise him. Miss Branghton, the eldest 20 daughter, is by no means ugly ; but looks proud, ill-tempered, and conceited. She hates the city, though without knowing why; for it is easy to discover she has lived nowhere else. Miss Polly Branghton is rather pretty, very foolish, very ignorant, very giddy, and, I believe, very goodnatured. ' ^ 25 This is not a fine style, but simply perspicuous and agreeable. We now come to Cecilia, written during Miss Burney's intimacy with Johnson; and we leave it to our readers to judge whether the following pas- sage was not at least corrected by his hand. 30 *'lt is rather an imaginary than an actual evil, and though a deep wound to pride, no offence to morality. Thus have I laid open to you my whole heart, confessed my perplexities, acknowledged my vainglory, and exposed with equal sincei'ity the sources of my doubts and the motives of my decision. But 35 now, indeed, how to proceed I know not. The difficulties which are yet to encounter I fear to enumerate, and the petition I have to urge F have scarce courage to mention. My family, mistaking ambition for honour, and rank for dignity, have long planned a sjdendid connection for me, to which, though my 40 invariable repugnance has stopped any advances, their wishes 228 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. and their views immoveably adhere. I arm but too certain they will now listen to no other. I dread, therefore, to make a trial where I despair of success. I know not how to risk a prayer with those who may silence me by a command." Take now a specimen of Madame D'Arblay's later 5 style. This is the way in which she tells us that her father, on his journey back from the Continent, caught the rheumatism. "He was assaulted, during his precipitated return, by the rudest fierceness of wintry elemental strife; through which, 10 wuth bad accommodations and innumerable accidents, he became a prey to the merciless pangs of the acutest spasmodic rheuma- tism, which barely suffered him to reach his home, ere, long and piteously, it confined him, a tortured prisoner, to his bed. Such was the check that almost instantly curbed, though it could not 15 subdue, the rising pleasure of his hopes of entering upon a new species of existence — that of an approved man of letters; for it was on the bed of sickness, exchanging the light wines of Prance, Italy, and Germany, for the black and loathsome potions of the Apothecaries ' Hall, writhed by darting stitches, 20 and burning with fiery fever, that he felt the full force of that sublunary equipoise that seemed evermore to hang suspended over the attainment of long-sought and uncomnron felicity, just as it is ripening to burst forth with enjoyment! " Here is a second passage from Evelina. 25 "Mrs. Selwyn is very kind and attentive to me. She is extremely clever. Her understanding, indeed, may be called masculine; but unfortunately her manners deserve the same epithet; for, in studying to acquire the knowledge of the other sex, she has lost all the softness of her own. In regard to 30 myself, however, as I have neither courage nor inclination to argue with her, I have never been personally hurt at her want of gentleness, a virtue which nevertheless seems so essential a part of the female character, that I find myself more awkward and less at ease with a wonrnn who wants it than I do with a 35 man. " This is a good style of its kind; and the following passage from Cecilia is also in a good style, though not in a faultless one. We say with confidence either Sam Johnson or the Devil. MADAME D'ARBLAY. 229 ''Even the imperious Mr. Delvile was more supportable here than in London. Secure in his own castle, he looked round him with a pride of power and possession which softened while it swelled him. His superiority was undisputed: his will was with- 5 out control. He was not, as in the great capital of the king- dom, surrounded by competitors. No rivalry disturbed his peace; no equality mortified his greatness. All he saw were either vassals of his power, or guests bending to his pleasure. He abated, therefore, considerably the stern gloom of his 10 haughtiness, and soothed his proud mind by the courtesy of , condescension. ' ' We will stake our reputation for critical sagacity on this, that no such paragraph as that which we have last quoted can be found in any of Madame D'Ar- isblay's works except Cecilia. Compare with it the fol- lowing sample of her later style. "If beneficence be judged by the happiness which it diffuses, whose claim, by that proof, shall stand higher than that of Mrs. Montagu from the munificence with which she celebrated her 20 annual festival for those hapless artificers who perform the most abject offices of any authorized calling, in being the active guar- dians of our blazing hearths? Not to vain glory, then, but to kindness of heart, should be adjudged the publicity of that superb charity which made its jetty objects, for one bright 25 morning, cease to consider themselves as degraded outcasts from all society." We add one or two shorter samples. Sheridan re- fused to permit his lovely wife to sing in public, and was warmly praised on this account by Johnson. 30 ''The last of men," says Madame D'Arblay, ''was Doctor Johnson to have abetted squandering the deli- cacy of integrity by nullifying the labours of talents. ' ' The Club, Johnson's Club, did itself no honour by rejecting on political grounds two distinguished men, 35 one a Tory, the other a Whig. Madame D'Arblay tells the story thus : "A similar ebullition of political rancour with that which so difficultly had been con- quered for Mr. Canning foamed over the ballot box to the exclusion of Mr. Rogers." 230 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. An offence punishable with imprisonment is, in this language, an offence ''which produces incarceration." To be starved to death is " to sink from inanition into nonentity." Sir Isaac Newton is ''the developer of the skies in their embodied movements"; and Mrs. 5 Thrale, when a party of clever people sat silent, is said to have been ' ' provoked by the dullness of a taci- turnity that, in the midst of such renowned interlocu- tors, produced as narcotic a torpor as could have been caused by a dearth the most barren of all human facul- lo ties. ' * In truth, it is impossible to look at any page of Madame D'Arblay's later works without finding flow- ers of rhetoric like these. Nothing in the language of those jargonists at whom Mr. Gosport laughed, noth- ing in the language of Sir Sedley Clarendel, ap-i5 proaches this new Euphuism. It is from no unfriendly feeling to Madame D'Ar- blay's memory that we have expressed ourselves so strongly on the subject of her style. On the contrary, we conceive that we have really rendered a service to 20 her reputation. That her later works were complete failures, is a fact too notorious to be dissembled : and some persons, we believe, have consequently taken up a notion that she was from the first an overrated writer, and that she had not the powers which were 25 necessary to maintain her on the eminence on which good luck and fashion had placed her. We believe, on the contrary, that her early popularity was no more than the just reward of distinguished merit, and would never have undergone an eclipse, if she had only been 30 content to go on writing in her mother tongue. If she failed when she quitted her own province, and at- tempted to occupy one in which she had neither part nor lot, this reproach is common to her with a crowd of distino^uished men. Newton failed when he turned 35 MADAME D'AEBLAY. 231 from the courses of the stars, and the ebb and flow of the ocean, to apocalyptic seals and vials. Bentley failed when he turned from Homer and Aristophanes, to edite the Paradise Lost. Inigo failed when he 5 attempted to rival the Gothic churches of the four- teenth century. Wilkie failed when he took it into his head that the Blind Fiddler and the Rent Day were unworthy of his powers, and challenged compe- tition with Lawrence as a portrait painter. Such 10 failures should be noted for the instruction of pos- terity ; but they detract little from the permanent rep- utation of those who have really done great things. Yet one word more. It is not only on account of the intrinsic merit of Madame D'Arblay's early works 15 that she is entitled to honourable mention. Her ap- pearance is an important_epoch in our literary history. Evelina was the first tale written by a woman, and purporting to be a picture of life and manners, that lived or deserved to live. The Female Quixote is no 20 exception. That work has undoubtedly great merit, when considered as a wild satirical harlequinade ; but, if we consider it as a picture of life and manners, we must pronounce it more absurd than any of the ro- mances which it was designed to ridicule. 25 Indeed, most of the popular novels which preceded Evelina were such as no lady would have written; and many of them were such as no lady could with- out confusion own that she had read. The very name of novel was held in horror among religious people. 30 In decent families, which did not profess extraordi- nary sanctity, there was a strong feeling against all such works. Sir Anthony Absolute, two or three years i before Evelina appeared, spoke the sense of the great / body of sober fathers and husbands, when he pro-/ 35nounced the circulating library an evergreen tree of 232 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS. diabolical knowledge. This feeling, on the part of the grave and reflecting, increased the evil from which it had sprung. The novelist having little character to lose, and having few readers among serious people, took without scruple liberties which in our generation 5 seem almost incredible. IMiss Burney did for the English novel what Jeremy /Collier did for the English drama ; and she did it in a 'better way. She first showed that a tale might be written in which both the fashionable and the vulgar 10 life of London might be exhibited with great force, and with broad comic humour, and which yet should not contain a single line inconsistent with rigid moral- ity, or even with virgin delicacy. She took aAvay the reproach which lay on a most useful and delightful 15 species of composition. She vindicated the right of her sex to an equal share in a fair and noble province of letters. Several accomplished women have followed in her track. At present, the novels which we owe to English ladies form no small part of the literary glory 20 of our country. No class of works is more honourably distinguished by fine observation, by grace, by delicate wit, by pure moral feeling. Several among the suc- cessors of ]\Iadame D 'Arblay have equalled her ; two, we think, have surpassed her. But the fact that she 25 has been surpassed gives her an additional claim to our respect and gratitude; for, in truth, we owe to her not only Evelina, Cecilia, and Camilla, but also Mansfield Park and the Absentee. NOTES Tho Introduction to this volume lias boon prepared \Yitli a specific view to affording a starting-point for an analytical study of Macanlay's style and matter. These notes are therefore confined almost exclusively to corrections of tho text and the elucidation of obscure points. Explanations of names and unusual words not discussed here shpuld be sought in the Glossary. OLIVER GOLDSMITH In the latter part of his life, after he had settled down In earnest to the composition of his History of England, Macaulay ceased to write essays, as he had long been accustomed to do, for the Edinburgh Review. He was, however, induced to turn aside from his major occupation long enough to contribute five articles to the Encyclopwdia Britannica, namely, the biographies of Atterbury, Bunyan, Goldsmith, Johnson, and Pitt. The sketch of Goldsmith belongs to the year 1856, and is therefore one of the latest productions of his pen. The article has been retained in the new (eleventh) edition of the Britannica, with slight corrections and retouches by Austin Dobson, which will bo found duly noted below. Page 41 : Line 15. At Pallas. Late investigations make it probable that his birth-place was Smith-Hill House, Elphin, Roscommon, the residence of his mother's father. 42 : 12. An old quartermaster. Namely, Tliomas Byrne, who had been a soldier in Queen Anne's wars in Spain. Compare the "village master" who "taught his little school," in The Deserted Village, lines 193-218. 42: 34. The Olorious and Immortal Memory. It was long the cus- tom of Protestant admirers to toast, in these terms, the memory of William III, who became king of England after tho Revolution of 1688, when James was deposed and banished. 43 : 8. The adinirahle portrait of him at KnowJe. This should be Knole, or Knole Park, which is twenty miles southeast of London. It is a great baronial estate, the seat of Lord Sackville. The portrait referred to is by Reynolds, and is the original of the copy to be seen in the National Gallery. 43 : 26. In his seventeenth year. Read "sixteenth year" ; the date was 1744. 43 : 35. Is still read witJi interest. The pane of glass containing the name is now in the manuscript room of Trinity College. 233 234 NOTES. 44: 30. A dispute a'bout play. That is, a quarrel over cards. 45 : 3. A Generous kinsman. His uncle, Mr. Contarine. 45: 31. iSfo regardless of truth. While there are diflBculties and discrepancies in Goldsmith's narrative of this occurrence, Austin Dobson (Life of Goldsmith, p. 40) considers that it is not necessary to conclude that Goldsmith had not, at some time or place, seen and heard Voltaire. 46 : 14. A swarm of beggars, ichich made its nest in Axe Yard. This rests on Goldsmith's statement that he had once lived "among the beggars in Axe-Lane." Possibly Goldsmith referred to the old "Axe and Bottle Yard," in Southwark, which became King Street in 1768 ; or, more likely, there was really an "Axe Lane," and Macaulay has confused the two names. These slight inaccuracies are highly interesting, as showing what reliance Macaulay placed on his remarkable memory. 46 : 33. A miserable court, . . . Fleet Ditch . . . Break- neck Steps. The court was Green Arbor Court, near Ludgate Hill, in central London. A full description of the region, now quite obliter- ated by the South-Eastern and Chatham Railway works, may be found in Notes and Queries, Series III, volume vii, page 233 (1865). The following extract is pertinent : "Originally, perhaps Breakneck Court had a few steps down to, as it was called, the 'Ditch-Side' ; though we are not called upon to suppose that at any time Oliver Goldsmith, Bishop Percy, or anybody else, had to 'climb from the brink of Fleet Ditch,' — which, by the bye. was covered in to a point beyond the south corners of Ludgate Hill and Fleet Street, and occupied by the old Fleet Market, as early as 1737, full twenty years before Goldsmith went to reside above the Breakneck Steps of our own times." Washington Irving visited Green Arbor Court before its destruction, and described it as a region of washerwomen, "to judge from the old garments and frippery that fluttered from every window." 47 : 9. The once far-famed shop. The shop of John Newbery, a publisher and originator of children's books. 49: 13. The novel ichich was thus ushered into the world. For this story, see Boswell's Life of Johnson for the year 1763. Austin Dobson makes the following comment : "Unfortunately for this time- honored version of the circumstances, it has of late years been dis- covered that as early as October, 1762, Goldsmith had already sold a third of the Vicar to one Benjamin Collins, of Salisbury, a printer, by whom it was eventually printed for F. Newbery [the successor of John Newbery], and it is difficult to reconcile this fact with Johnson's narrative." 51 : 35. The finest poem in the Latin language. The De Rerum Natura of Lucretius, a poem setting forth the philosophy of Epi- NOTES. 235 cnreanism ; a noble poem, and rightly understood, a by no means ignoble philosophy. Macaulay is quite out of his element when he undertakes to express an opinion in the field of philosophy or morality. See Introduction, 16. 57: 4. Damning ivifh faint praise. From Tope's Trologue to the 8atires, 1. 201 : "Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, And, without sneering, teach the rest to sneer." 51) : 4. He died on the third of April. The correct date is April 4th. 59 : 6. T7ie spot teas not marked. A flat stone, bearing Goldsmith's name, was placed there In 1868. 59 : 14. A little poem appeared. This was Retaliation, a poem containing playful but quite kindly epitaphs upon various friends of Goldsmith ; e. g.: "Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man . . ." "Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind. He has not left a wiser or better behind . , ." 59: 35. Johnson wrote the inscription. The inscription is written in Latin and contains the famous line, NnllKm quod tetigit non ornavit. It has been translated by Croker as follows : "Of Oliver Goldsmith — a Poet, Naturalist, and Historian, who left scarcely any style of writing untouched, and touched nothing that he did not adorn ; of all the passions, whether smiles were to be moved or tears, a powerful yet gentle master ; in genius, sublime, vivid, versatile ; in style, elevated, clear, elegant — the love of Companions, the fidelity of Friends, and the veneration of Readers, have by this monument honored the memory. He was born in Ireland, at a place called Pallas, in the parish of Forney and county of Longford, on the 29th November, 1731. Educated at the University of Dublin, and died in London, 4th April, 1774." 60: 16. Fortunate in his Mographers. Sir James Prior's Life of Goldsmith appeared in 1837, Washington Irving's in 1844-49, and John Forster's in 1848, second edition 1854. Since then have appeared William Black's biography in 1878, and Austin Dobson's in 1888. FREDERIC THE GREAT This essay appeared in the Edinburgh Review for April, 1842, and warf one of the later of Macaulay's contributions to that journal, following the essays on Clive and Hastings, and just preceding those on Madame D'Arblay and Addison. In December, 1841, he wrote 236 NOTES. ^ to Napier, the editor : "You do not seem to like what T suggestea about Henry the Fifth. Nor do I. on full consideration. What do you say to an article on Frederic the Great? Tom Campbell is bringing out a book about his majesty. . . . There are many characters and events which will occupy little or no space in my 'History," yet with which, in the course of my historical researches, I shall necessarily become familiar. There can be no better instance than Frederic the Great. ... In order to write the 'History of England' it will be necessary to turn over all the memoirs, and all the writings, of Frederic, connected with us, as he was, in a most Important war. In this way my reviews would benefit by my historical researches, and yet would not forestall my 'History,' or materially impede its progress." A month later, he wrote : "As to Frederic, I do not see that I can deal with him well under seventy pages. I shall try to give a life of him after the manner of Plutarch. That, I think, is my forte. The paper on Clive took greatly. That on Hastings, though in my own opinion by no means equal to that on Clive, has been even more successful. I ought to produce something much better than either of those articles with so excellent a subject as Frederic. Keep the last place for me if you can. I greatly regret my never having seen Berlin and Potsdam." When the article was forwarded to Napier, it brought forth some criticism from him in regard to the style, to which Macaulay's response is interesting : "The charge to which I am most sensible is that of interlarding my sentences with French terms. It is however, a practice to which I am extremely averse, and into which I could fall only by inadvertence. I do not really know to what you allude. . . , The other charge, I confess, does not appear to me to be equally serious. I certainly should not, in regular history, use some of the phrases which you censure. But I do not consider a review of this sort as regular history, and I really think that, from the highest and most unquestionable authority, I could vindicate my practice. Take Addison, the model of pure and graceful writing. In his Spectators I find 'wench,' 'baggage,' 'queer old put,' 'prig,' 'fearing that they should smoke the Knight.' All these expressions I met this morning, in turning over two or three of his papers at breakfast. I would no more use the word 'bore' or 'awkward squad' in a composition meant to be uniformly serious and earnest, than Addison would in a state paper have called Louis an 'old put,' or have described Shrewsbury and Argyle as 'smoking' the design to bring in the Pretender. But I did not mean my article to be uniformly serious and earnest. If you judge of it as you would judge of a regular history, your censure ought to go very much deeper than it does, and be directed against the substance as well as against the diction. The tone of many passages, nay, of whole pages, would justly be called flippant in a regular history. But I conceive that this sort of composition has its own character and its own laws." In regard to the book which Macaulay was professedly reviewing, NOTES. 237 and which he found at least "an amusing compilation," little need be said. Thomas Campbell was a much bettor poet than he was a historian. Some time after his death, Macaulay wrote of hira, with less consideration than in this essay : "I looked at the Life of Campbell, by a foolish Dr. Beattie : a glorious specimen of the book- making of this age. Campbell may have written in all his life three hundred good lines, rather less than more. His letters, his conversa- tion, were mere trash." But, as Macaulay says, his memoirs of Frederic were only a compilation. Today, the best history of L'rederic for English readers is the monumental work of Carlyle, published about twenty years afterward. This essay of Macaulay's can be made the basis of some very interesting historical studies by following out the analogies that are frequently suggested between the characters of men and the posture of events in Frederic's time and those in other periods of history. On Macaulay's faculty for drawing analogies, see Intro- duction, 8. 61 : 20. 7'he Prussian Monarchy. Prussia is the principal state of the German Empire ; its king is the German emperor. The state originated, as Macaulay says, with the mark, or marquisate, of Brandenburg, which in 1618 united with the duchy of Prussia. It developed in that century under Frederic William, the "Groat Elector" (1620-16S8), whose son and successor, Frederic, assumed the title of King of Prussia in 1701. The succession then was as follows : Frederic I, 1701-1713. Frederic William I, 1713-1740. Frederic II, "The Great," 1740-1786. The chief events of Frederic the Great's reign were the acquisition of Silesia in 1742, and the Seven Years' War of 1756-1763 against the alliance of Austria, France, and Russia, which, with Great Britain, made up the other great European states. The result of this war raised Prussia to a position among these powers, and redounded also greatly to the profit of Great Britain, who assisted her. This latter fact partly accounts for the interest which British historians have taken in Frederic the Great. C4 : 22. One Irislivian. This was probably Kirkman. described by Carlyle (Frederic the Qrcai, Bk. IV, chap, v.) : "James Kirkman, an Irish recruit of good inches, cost him 1200?. boforo ho could be got inveigled, shipped and brought safe to hand. The documents are yet in existence . . . .Giant 'Macdoll' — who was to bo married, no consent asked on either side, to the tall young woman . . .,— he also was an Irish Giant, his name probably McDowal." 86 : 11. Daughter of the Cwsars. That is, daughter of the long line of emperors, who, from the time of the Roman Empire, were often called by the generic name of Cwsar, the word passing into the German Kaiser and the Russian Czar. 238 NOTES 92: 32. A Richelieu or a Mazarin, etc. Macaulay has selected here five French ministers of the 17th century who successively held positions in the royal cabinet, and who present a descending scale of ability and renown. 107 : 9. The vengeance ichich he took on Freron and Desfonlaines. As an example of the vengeance which Voltaire took on the critics and journalists of the time who incurred his displeasure, the following epigram may be cited : "L'autre jour, au fond d'un vallon, Un serpent mordit Jean Freron. Que pensez-vous qu'il arriva? Ce fut le serpent qui creva." The other day, down in the brake, Freron was bitten by a snake. Alas ! you think. But you are wide ; It was the snake, not he, that died. 109 : 2. The magnanimous patience with tchich Milton and Bentlept etc. See the dignified passage in Paradise Lost, Book VII, 23-31 : "Standing on Earth, not rapt above the pole, More safe I sing with mortal voice, unchanged To hoarse or mute, though fallen on evil days. On evil days though fallen, and evil tongues. In darkness, and with dangers compassed round, And solitude ; yet not alone, while thou Visit'st my slumbers nightly, or when Morn Purples the East. Still govern thou my song, Urania, and fit audience find, though few." As for Bentley, it was apparently only once that he showed such patience of temper and "returned no railing for the railing of his enemies." (Macaulay: Essay on Sir William Temple.) 117 : 9. His long tear. This refers to Voltaire's antagonism to the Bible and most of the dogmas of the Church, which he prosecuted with so much vigor in his retirement at Ferney, 1758-1778. As an example of his "repairing cruel wrongs," he spent several years in getting jus- tice done to the family of one Jean Galas, a Protestant who had been put to death on the false charge of killing one of his sons to prevent his turning Catholic. On the whole, Macaulay is far from doing adequate justice to the greatness of Voltaire. He finds him such a good mark for the kind of persiflage he likes to indulge in that the better qualities of the man are scarcely allowed to appear. 120 : 6. Clothed in the Roman purple. That is, wearing the royal robes of the descendants of the emperors of the Holy Roman Empire and clothed with the authority of the Church of Rome. The persecu- NOTES 239 tions referred to are those which took place with such frequoncy in France during the century following the Reformation. Consult the article on "Huguenots" in any encyclopedia. 121 : 16. While the lion and tiger ivere tearing each other. See Aesop's fable of the Lion, the Tiger, and the Jackal (or, as it stands in some translations, the Fox). 125: 15. A less forniidahJe confederacy. The League of Cambray against Venice in 1508 ; the Grand Alliance of The Hague against France in 1701 ; and the Alliance of European powers against Napoleon in 1813. 128: 22. In India, the sovereignty of the Carnatic, etc. See Macaulay's Essay on Clive. 131 : 14. Suhjectos tanquam suos, viles tanquam alienos. Macaulay evidently quotes from memory. The passage is in Tacitus, Hist. i. 37. Otho is speaking about the favorite Vinius : nunc et suhjectos nos hahuit tanquam suos, et viles ut alienos; "as it is, he has deemed us as much under his control as though we belonged to him, and as worthless as though we belonged to another man." 132 : 19. A hundred and thirty years before. The reference is to the Thirty Years' War. It began when the Protestants of Bohemia rose against Ferdinand II and chose for their king the elector palatine Frederic V. They were at first successful, but after the emperor had allied himself with Spain and with the Catholic League under Maxi- milian of Bavaria, they were signally defeated at the White Hill, near Prague, 1620, putting an end to Protestantism in Bohemia. 134: 8, 20. Olory had departed. Made a by-icord. Macaulay's fre- quent indebtedness to the Bible for phrases and turns of expression should not be overlooked. Compare 156, 23, 136 : 1. Hateful to gods and men. A familiar phrase in the clas- sics ; compare Pope's Odyssey, xxii. 382 : "For dear to gods and men is sacred song." 138 : 2. Then the King ansicers. Of course, Macaulay is translat- ing into his own style. One may be sure that the short, snappy sen- tences which follow were never written by a German. 139: 21. From his hermitage near the Alps. Namely, the mag- nificent chateau and estate of Ferney, near Geneva, where Voltaire spent the last twenty years of his life. See the earlier paragraph beginning "He took refuge on the beautiful shores of Lake Leman." 149 : 19. A defeat far more tremendous. The victory of Napoleon over the Prussians at Jena, October 14, 1806. 155 : 10. The retirement of Mr. Pitt. The resignation of Pitt as Secretary of State in 1761 and the succession of Lord Bute, together with the other matters here referred to, are recounted at length by Macaulay in his two essays on William Pitt, Earl of Chatham. It was while Pitt was supporting the subsidies tu Frederic that he assured his countrymen "that th(>y should be no losers, and that he would conquer 240 NOTES America for them in Germany." Of course the success of Frederic against the French meant advantage to the English in their own con- test against the French, who were disputing America with them. 158 : 9. The tear icas over. This closing paragraph is a good pres- entation of the material effects of war. It ought to be supplemented by a similar picture of the moral effects, but for that we should have to look to a writer more deeply concerned with moral issues than Macaulay was — to Carlyle, for instance, or Ruskin. MADAME D'ARBLAY Madame D'Arblay, better known to the world as Frances or Fanny Burney, the author of Evelina and Cecilia, died in 1840, aged eighty- eight. In 1842 a considerable portion of her Journal and Letters, edited by her niece, Charlotte Barrett, was published, the remainder appearing in 1846. The work has been several times reprinted, a good edition in four volumes appearing in 1893. Like Boswell's Ldfe of Johnson, it is of great value as an intimate and faithful portraiture of the social conditions of the time. A proper appreciation of Macaulay's essay is scarcely possible without some acquaintance with this work ; and there is important additional matter to be found in a supplement. The Early Diary of Frances Burney, 1768-1778, edited by Annie R. Ellis and published in 1889. When the first volumes of the Journal appeared, Macaulay under- took to review it for the Edinburgh Review. He wrote to Napier : "I have no objection to try 'Madame D'Arblay' for the October number. I have only one scruple — that some months ago Leigh Hunt told me that he thought of proposing that subject to you, and I approved of his doing so. Now, I should have no scruple in taking a subject out of Brougham's hands, because he can take care of himself, if he thinks himself ill-used. But I would not do anything that could hurt the feelings of a man whose spirit seems to be quite broken by adversity, and who lies under some obligation to me." As Macaulay was busy with his History, the review did not appear until January, 1843. It cannot be regarded, on the whole, as a very successful essay. Mr. J. Cotter Morison goes so far as to say that "the articles on Madame D'Arblay's Memoirs and on Frederic the Great are thin, crude, per- functory, and valueless, except as first-rate padding for a periodical review." This is to be accounted for, no doubt, by the fact that Macaulay was then so deeply absorbed in his History. At the same time, the essay exhibits nearly all the familiar traits of the author's mind — its wide, if somewhat superficial, range, its enormous command of facts and illustrations, and its unfailing energy and vivacity. With the present text, the attempt has been made to supply, in the notes or the glossary, all the information in regard to the persons and places alluded to by Macaulay that could conceivably be desired. As explained in the Preface, a few matters have been omitted because of their general familiarity, and a few others because there is absolutely NOTES 241 nofhinj? more to bo said about thorn than is said in the text. It la Macaulay's inveterate habit to be concroto and explicit. When the lojiil family moves. It moves "from Kow to Windsor, and from Windsor bacli to Kew ;" but the moving is the only matter of importance. When Miss Burney arranges with her publisher to have her letters addressed to her at the "Orange Coffee House," Macaulay repeats both the fact and the name. It is quite possible that Macaulay himself knew noth- ing more about the Orange Coffee House, and there is certainly no reason why we should try to locate it exactly among the several thou- sand similar establishments of its time. After all, Macaulay's allusions are seldom recondite, except when he descends to some matter of such, purely local or temporary interest that it is scarcely worth the trouble of ferreting it out. 162 : 13. Gathered to the novels of Afra Behn. This is an interesting example of how an author may repeat himself, perhaps unconsciously. Twelve years earlier, in his essay on Mr. Rohert Mont- (/omery's Poems, Macaulay wrote: "It is, indeed, amusing to turn over some late volumes of periodical works, and to see how many immortal productions have, within a few months, been gathered to the poems of r.lackmore and the novels of Mrs. Behn." The word "gathered" is echoed from the Biblical phrase, "gathered unto their fathers," Judges ii. 10, where it is perhaps a figure drawn from the harvest. Cp. 134, 8, and note. 164: 16. A son distinguished hy learning. The Rev. Charles Burney (1757-1817), an eminent classical scholar and collector of rare books. 167: 31. St. Clement's church. The church of St. Clement Danes, where Dr. Johnson was a regular and devout attendant. His seat was in the north gallery, and a brass tablet, commemorating the fact, was in 1851 affixed to a pillar adjoining it. 167: 35. Burney's admiration . . . bordered on idolatry. In the essay as originally printed, this statement is supported by the fol- lowing instance : "He gave a singular proof of this at his first visit to Johnson's ill- furnished garret. The master of the apartment was not at home. The enthusiastic visitor looked about for some relic which lie could carry away, but he could see nothing lighter than the chairs and the fire- irons. At last he discovered an old broom, tore some bristles from the stump, wrapped them in silver paper, and departed as happy as Louis IX when the holy nail of St. Denis was found." rossibly some one pointed out to Macaulay a slip of memory here, which caused him to cancel the passage. For by consulting Boswell {Life of Johnson, July, 1781) one discovers that Dr. Burney carried away the bristle of Johnson's hearth-broom, not for himself, but for a friend, William Bewley, who was a distant admirer of Johnson. 174: 1. Do to Dryden the justice which has never been done hy Wordsworth. Wordsworth was a leader of the romantic revolt against 242 NOTES the classical school of poetry. In an essay published with his 181J volume of poems, he condemned as "vague, bombastic, and senseless' the lines in Dryden's The Indian Emperor, beginning : "All things are hush'd as Nature's self lay dead ; The mountains seem to nod their drowsy head. The little Birds in dreams their songs repeat. And sleeping Flowers beneath the Night-dew sweat." 1S2 : 33. A bad xcriter of our oicn time. This refers to John Wil son Croker, a politician and writer, who published an edition of Bos well's Life of Johnson in 1831. He was a political and personal enemj of Macaulay's, and Macaulay's feelings toward him may be seen ir the latter's review of his book — Macaulay's first essay on Johnson. 184: 11. The Recollections of Madame D'ArWay. These were the Memoirs of Dr. Bitrney, published in 1832, and referred to by Macaulaj in the third paragraph of the present essay. 184: 15. A catalogue as long as that in the second hook of tin Iliad. Namely, the famous catalogue of the ships and the hosts thai went on the expedition against Troy. 197 : 30. The last great master of Attic eloquence. Lucian, a Greet writer, born in Syria about the year 120. The quotation is from hit satire Upon Hired Companions, or, as the title runs in Fowler's trans lation, The Dependent Scholar. 208: 14. Only a promise, never performed, of a goicn. Though i1 is not a matter of vital import in the records of time, let it be said in justice to the sweet Queen and Madame Schwellenberg that Miss Burney got the gown — a "lilac tabby." 212 : 1, Worse than even the Poet Laureate's Birthday Odes. William Whitehead was poet-laureate from 1757 to 1785. His verses were freely ridiculed. 213 : 22. The constitution of 1791. The constitution drawn up by the French National Assembly, embodying the principles of the French Revolutionists — a declaration of popular rights against privilege. The "royalists of the first emigration" were the nobles who fled from France after the fall of the Bastile in July, 1789. 214: 33. A tragedy hy Madame D'Arhlay. This tragedy, entitled Edicy and Elgiva, was acted by Kemble and Mrs. Siddons at Drury Lane in 1795, but failed. It has never been printed. 219: 32. Sworn hy the Jewish Sahhath. See The Merchant of Venice, iv. 1, 36. 220 : 26. To use the phrase of Sterne. In Tristram Shandy, chapter viii : "De gustihus non est disputundum ; — that is, there is no dis- puting against Hobby-horses Be it known to you that I keep a couple of pads myself, upon which ... I frequently ride out and take the air." NOTES 243 220 : 27. Such as loe read of in Pope. It was Pope who gave cur- rency to the phrase "the ruling passion," which occurs once in his Essay on Man (ii. 138) and five times in his Moral Essays. The two best known examples are in the latter (i. 263, and iii. 153) : "And you, brave Cobham, to the latest breath, Shall feel your ruling passion strong in death." "The ruling passion, be it what it will. The ruling passion conquers reason still." 221 : 6. The words of Ben. The quotation is from the Introduction to Every Man out of his Humour. 225: 20. But ice have not the smallest doubt that he revised Cecilia. Macaulay is probably wrong. In the Diary, Nov. 4, 1782, Dr. Johnson is reported to have said of Cecilia^ "I never saw one word- before it was published." 226 : 24. Ovid expressed his fear. Ovid, the Roman poet, was, at the age of fifty, banished from Rome to a place among the barbarous Goths and Sarmatians. He wrote much thereafter of the hardship of his lot in being deprived of the courtly society of the Roman capital. 226 : 26. Gibbon unlearned his native English. At the age of six- teen, Gibbon was sent by his father to Switzerland, under the tutelage of a Calvinist minister, with the object of reclaiming him from Roman Catholicism. He attained there such a mastery of French that at the end of his five years' exile he found French more natural and familiar to him than English. 227: 2. The puffs of Mr. Rowland and Dr. Goss. The allusion hero is to the advertising of certain nostrums by contemporary quacks. Two passages in Macaulay's essay on Mr. Robert Montgomery's Poems give us all the light that is needed : "All the pens that ever were employed in magnifying Bish's lucky otfice, Romanis's fleecy hosiery, I'ackwood's razor straps, uud Row- land's Kalydor. — all tbe placard-bearers of Dr. Eady, — all the wall- chalkers of Day and Martin, — seem to have taken service with the poets and novelists of this generation." "The fulsome eulogy makes its appearance on the covers of all the Reviews and Magazines, with 'Times' or 'Globe' aflSxed, though the editors of the Times and the Globe have no more to do with it than with Goss's way of making old rakes young again." 229 : 27. Sheridan refused fo permit his lovely wife to sing in public. Sheridan married Elizabeth Ann Lindley, a celebrated beauty and talented singer. At the time of their marriage, she was under an engagi>ment to sing which Sheridan was with dilliculty persuaded to allow her to fulfill. When once the question was raised whether he was not either foolishly delicate or foolishly proud. Dr. Johnson declared : "He resolved wisely and nobly, to be sure. He is a brave man. Would not a gentleman be disgraced by having his wife singing 244 NOTES publicly for hire ? No, sir, there can be no doubt here. I know not if I should not prepare myself for a public singer as readily as let my wife be one." (Boswell's Life of Johnson, April, 1775.) 231 : 4. Inigo failed. By Inigo is meant Inigo Jones'. Since he is not elsewhere spoken of by his first name alone, this is either a bit of unwarranted familiarity on Macaulay's part, or, quite as likely, another slight slip of memory ; for, writing rapidly, he may have recalled only the more distinctive name and used it under the impression that it was the surname. Jones was an artist and architect of the time of James the First, who was frequently associated with Ben Jonson in the production of court masques, preparing the scenery and costumes for them. He was engaged to restore the cathedral of St. Paul's, and planned to rebuild it. After building a magnificent west front in the classic style, trouble arose and the rebuilding was stopped. Jones was then condemned for placing a classic portico before a Gothic cathedral ; and this is probably all the basis there is to the charge of "failure." 232: 25. Tico, ice thinks have surpassed her. These two, as might be guessed even without the mention of Mansfield Park and The Ahsentce, are Jane Austen and Maria Kdgeworth. GLOSSARY Absolute, Sir Anthony. A char- acter in Sheridan's comedy, The Rivals (1775). 231:32. Agincourt. The scene of the famous victory of Henry V over the French against great odds, 1415. 143:10. Agujarl, Lucretia (d. 1783). A popular Italian singer who was once engaged at the Pantheon, London, to sing two songs nightly, for which she was paid £100. 168:33. A't'as fieioiv, etc. "Ajax the less, by no means so great as the Telamonian Ajax, but far less." Iliad ii. 527. 184:30. Alba, or Alva, Duke of (1508- 1582). A Spanish general, uncle of Charles V. He was notorious for his cruelty as governor of the Netherlands, where he established the "Council of Blood," putting to death 1800 persons in three months. 151:1. Albemarle, Lord. A number of distinguished men have borne this title. Macaulay probably refers to the second Earl, William Anne Keppel, who was an ambassador to Paris and a contemporary of Ches- terfield. 218:24. Alclna. A fairy and enchantress, in the poems of Boiardo; the personification of carnal pleas- ures. She changed her lovers into stones, trees, or beasts at- will. 106:9. Alecto. One of the Furies, sum- moned from the lower world by Juno to enrage the mother of Lavinia against the lat- ter's marriage with Aeneas. Aeneid vii. 323. ff. 210:9. Aleppo. A city in Asiatic Tur- key. 64:21. Alexandrine. A verse of six iambic feet; the leading meas- ure in French heroic and dra- matic poetry. 89:13. Algarotti, Count Francesco (1712- 1764). A noted Italian man of letters and art. 102:22. Amiens, Treaty of. The treaty of 1802 between England, France, and Spain. 215:4. Anstey, Christopher (1724-1805). A writer of occasional verses. 181:24. Antichrist. The coming of the Antichrist is foretold in 1 John ii. 18. 117:32. Arminius (18 B. C.-21 A. D.). A German chieftain; liberator of Germany from Roman domin- ion. 143:31. Ashburnham, Lord. A Groom of the Stole and First Lord of the Bedchamber; hence his "gold key." 169:13. Augustus. The first Roman em- peror, under whom Roman literature reached its highest point. 101:21. Augustus III. Elector of Sax- ony, 1733-1763. He supported Prussia in the first Silesian war, but in the second, and in the Seven Years' War. he was on the side of Austria. 125:6. 245 246 GLOSSAEY. Austen, Jane (1775-1817). An English novelist, author of Sense and Sensibility, Pride and Prejudice, Mansfield Park, etc. 220:13. Badajoz. A city of Portugal, often besieged — by the Allies in 1705, by the French in 1811, and by the British in 1811-12. 80:26. Bannockburn. The scene of the victory of Robert Bruce of Scotland over the English un- der Edward II, 1314. 143:10. banshee. "A woman of the fairies." See Scott's Ladij of the Lake, III, vii, and Scott's note thereon. 42:15. Baretti, Giuseppe (1719-1789). An Italian scholar who taught in London; a friend of John- son and Mrs. Thrale; author of an Italian and English dic- tionary. He once stabbed a man in self-defence, and Dr. Johnson was called into court to testify to his character. See Boswell's Life, Oct. 20, 1769. 168:23; 184:19. Bareuth. Properly Bayreuth, or Baireuth. A former German principality, in what is now the northern part of Bavaria. 66:13. Barry, James (1741-1806). An Irish painter, who was brought by Burke from Dublin to Lon- don and introduced to Reyn- olds and others. 168:24. Bastiani, Abb6. An Italian ad- venturer who succeeded in getting into the good graces of Frederic the Great. He died at Potsdam in 1787. 102:22. Bayard, Chevalier de (1475-1524). A celebrated French knight. "the knight without fear and without reproach." 69:33. Bayes. A character in the Duke of Buckingham's farce. The Rehearsal (1671), meant to ridicule contemporary aspir- ants for literary laurels, and particularly Dryden, the poet- laureate. Bayes is represented as the author of a mock trag- edy. 51:26; 186:34. Beauclerk, Topham (1739-1780). An English book collector of refined tastes; a friend of Dr. Johnson. 55:10. Beggar's Opera, The. By John Gay. It was produced in Lon- don in 1728 and ran for sixty- three nights. 176:27. Behn, Afra, or Aphra (1640- 1689). One of the earliest fe- male writers of England, pop- ular in her day as a dramatist and novelist. 162:14. Belle- Isle, Duke of. Charles Louis Augustus Fouquet (1684- 1761). One of the chief com- manders of the French forces in the War of the Austrian Succession. He captured Prague, 1741. 83:6. Bellingham, John. A bankrupt, who, having a grievance against the government, as- sassinated the prime minis- ter, Perceval Spencer, in the lobby of the House of Com- mons, May 11, 1812. 221:19. Bender. A town and fortress in Russia, near which Charles XII of Sweden resided, 1709- 1712. 84:21. Bentley, Richard (1662-1742). A famous English classical scholar, long engaged in a controversy over the genuine- ness of certain "Epistles of Phalaris." 109:3. His rather GLOSSARY. 247 unsympathetic edition of Mil- ton's Paradise Lost appeared in 1732. 231:2. Betty, William Henry West (1791-1874). "Master Betty," "The Young Roscius." He went on the stage at Belfast and Dublin at the age of twelve, playing such parts as Romeo, Hamlet, and Prince Ar- thur. Two years later, at London, he added the roles of Richard III and Macbeth. He retired from the stage in 1823. 172:29. Blackmore, Sir Richard (1650- 1729). An English physician; author of a long poem on The Creation. 162:15. Blenheim. In Bavaria; scene of the defeat of the French and Bavarians by the Allies under the Duke of Marlborough and Prince Eugene, 1704. 84:20. 3oileau - Despreaux, Nicholas (1636-1711). A famous French critic and poet, who aimed to be an arbiter of taste and elegance in literary art. 144:18. Borodino. A village in Russia, the scene of one of Napoleon's costly victories in 1812. 80:27. Bossuet (1627-1704). A cele- brated French pulpit orator. 74:30. Boswell, James (1740-1795). The admirer and biographer of Dr. .Johnson. 55:25. 3ourbons. The royal house of France, Spain, and Naples. The first French king of the line was Henry IV, 1589. 119:26. mass Otho. A brass or bronze coin of the reign of Otho, or Otto, the Great (912-973). The only bronze coins of his reign were struck in the colonies, at Antloch, and are very rare 64:31. Brighton. A seaside resort in Sussex, developed in the latter part of the ISth century. "The Old Steine" (or "Steyne") is a square with a grass-plot and fountains, named from a reef which jutted into the sea there. 185:10. Brownrigg, Elizabeth. A notori- ous London midwife, who bar- barously murdered her appren- tice and was hanged at Ty- burn, 1767. 68:6. Bruce, James (1730-1794). A cele- brated African traveller, who penetrated to the source of the Blue Nile. 169:10. Bruhl, Count Heinrich von. A Saxon politician v/ho took sides against Prussia in the Seven Years' War. 116:30. Brydges, Sir Samuel Egerton (1762-1837). A barrister and bibliographer, who urged his brother to claim the barony of Chandos. 221:16. Buffon (1707-1788). A celebrated French naturalist. 107:28. bulk. A shed. 106:25. Calderon (1600-1681). A Spanish dramatist and poet. 73:11. Calvinist. An adherent of John Calvin, a celebrated theologian of the time of the Reforma- tion. 67:23. Cambray. 126:10. See note on 125:15. Canning, George (1770-1827). An English statesman and orator; premier in 1827. 217:27. Capuchins. A mendicant order of Franciscan monks. 117:31. Carolan, or O'Carolan, Turlogh (16707-1738). An Irish wander- 248 GLOSSAEY. ing bard, who became blind from the small -poX. 42:25. Carteret, John, Lord (1690-1763). An English statesman, oppo- nent of Walpole; became sec- retary of state in 1742, 85:26. Catalans. A people of Catalonia, a former province in north- eastern Spain, who were con- quered and forced to give up their constitution by Philip V In 1714. 155:32. See Utrecht, Peace of. Cave and Osborne. London book- sellers of the 18th century. See Macaulay's Essay on John- son, paragraph 13, or Boswell's Life of Johnson. 71:19. Cavendish, Lord Frederick (1729- 1803). An English ensign (later field-marshal) who served in Germany in 1757. 145:35. Caxtons. Books printed by Will- iam Caxton, the first English printer (between 1474 and 1491). 64:10. "Celestial colloquy sublime." Paradise Lost, VIII, 455. 192:20. Chambery. A city of Savoie, France, with manufactures of silk gauze. 200:2. Chapter. The members of a re- ligious order, or of an order of knights. 196:20. Chamier, Anthony (1725-1780). An English government oflScial of French extraction; a friend of Dr. Johnson. 55:23. Chauh'eu, Abbot of (1639-1720). A French poet who wrote drinking and love songs, and skeptical epistles. 136:3. Chesterfield, Lord (1694-1773). Philip Dormer Stanhope, statesman, wit, and letter- writer. 218:23. Cholmondeley, Mrs. A sister of the celebrated actress. Peg WoflSngton; "a very airy lady' (Boswell). 184:17. Christ Church. One of the larg- est and most fashionable col- leges of Oxford. 200:6. Churchill, Charles (1731-1764) An English poet, now little read; author of TJie Rosciad etc. 166:28. Cibber, Colley (1671-1757). Brit- ish poet-laureate, and the here of Pope's Dunciad. 136:12. Clarendel, Sir Sedley. A fop ir Miss Burney's third novel Camilla. 230:15. Clarkson, Thomas (1760-1846) An English abolitionist anc agitator. 221:20. Clive, Robert (1725-1774). Gov- ernor of Bengal. See Ma- caulay's Essay on Clive. 57:35 Club, The. Johnson's Club, con- sisting of himself, Reynolds Burke, Goldsmith, Beauclerk and four others, and later Gar- rick, Boswell, and others. Thej supped together once a weel at the Turk's Head. 48:24. Colbert, Jean Baptiste (1619 1683). A French statesman minister of finance unde; Louis XIV. 92:33. Colle, Charles (1709-1783). J French song-writer and dram atist. 123:20. Collier, Jeremy (1650-1726). Ai English clergyman and contro versialist, famous for his at tack upon the coarseness o the theater in his Short Viei of the Immorality and Profane ncss of the English Stage (1698) 232:8. Colman, George, the elder (1732 1794). A British dramatis and friend of Garrick. 168:22 Commissary. Any officer dele gated with power from i GLOSSAEY. 249 higher authority. 63:6. Commodus, Emperor of Rome, 180-192; dissipated and cruel. 105:11. Conde, Prince de (1621-1688). "The Great Conde." A cele- brated French general. 91:3. Corneille, Pierre (1606-1684). A celebrated French dramatist; author of Le Cid, Horace, etc. 108:30. Coromandel. A portion of the eastern coast of the Indian peninsula. 83:32. Cossacks. A warlike people of southern Russia, usually serv- ing as light cavalry. 152:12. Covent Garden Theater. In Bow Street, London; built 1731. 53:3. Coventry, Lady (1733-1760). Maria Gunning, a famous Irish beauty who married the sixth earl of Coventry. 174:31. Coventry, Thomas. Lord Keeper, or official custodian of the great seal, 1625. 67:8. Cowper, William (1731-1800). A celebrated English poet. He began writing late in life, publishing nothing except a few hymns before 1781. 161:21. Crabbe, George (1754-1832). An English poet, author of The Villafjc, 1783, etc. 225:27. Crebillon, Prosper (1674-1762). A French tragic poet, and mem- ber of the Academy. He lived for the most part in poverty. 108:14. Crebillon the Younger (Claude- Prosper, the son of Prosper). A French novelist who de- picted the social vices of his time. 139:28. Crewe, Lady (d. 1818). A fash- ionable beauty, and friend of Fox. Burke, and Sheridan. 197:16. crimps. Men who made a busi- ness of decoying other men into military service. 64:22. Croat. A Slavonic inhabitant of Croatia, Hungary. The Croats served as light cavalry in the Austrian army. 88:18. Culloden. A Scottish moor, the scene of the victory of the Royalists over the Highland- ers in 1746. The Duke of Cum- berland led the victors. 83:27. Cumberland, Richard (1732-1811). A British dramatist, author of both tragedies and sentimental comedies, 53:15. Darwin, Erasmus (1731-1802). An English naturalist (grand- father of Charles Darwin) who versified his scientific learning in The Botanic Garden, Loves of the Plants, etc. 162:11. De gnstibus non est disputandus (properly disputandum) . "About tastes there is no disputing." 71:5. Delia Crusca. The "Delia Crus- cans" were a group of senti- mental English versifiers, in- cluding Robert Merry, James Boswell, Mrs. Piozzi, and others, who originally met in Florence about 1785. They took their name from the Florentine Accademia della Crusca (Academy of the Chaff), an association for the purification of the Italian language and literature. 162:6. Democritus. "The Laughing Philosopher." An ancient Greek philosopher of cheerful disposition. 187:19. Diatribe of Doctor Akakia. This lampoon, in which Voltaire 250 GLOSSARY. posed as Doctor Akakia (a Greek word meaning "without malice") was publicly burned In Paris, but was republished by Voltaire. 114:29. Dilly, Charles (1739-1807). A London publisher and book- seller. He published Boswell's Life of Johnson. 197:17. Dodsley, James. A London bookseller who edited a col- lection - of English poems in 1782. 72:31. Douw, or Dow, Gerard (1613- 1675). A noted Dutch painter of scenes from common life. 173:31. Dunciad, The. A satirical poem by Pope, directed against con- temporary writers (1712; en- larged form, 1728-29). 49:24; 114:14. Dundas, Henry (1742-1811). A Scotch statesman, friend of William Pitt the Younger. 202:17. Dundas, Sir Lawrence. A Com- missary to the British army in Germany, who made a great fortune out of his of- fice. 58:1. Elector. One of the princes who, under the Holy Roman Empire, had the right of elect- ing the emperor. 62:9. Elwes of Meggott, John (1714- 1789). A wealthy Englishman who was not avaricious, but who had a marked aversion to spending money on his personal wants, and whose name became a byword for penury. 221:15. Erskine, Thomas (1750-1823). A British jurist and orator; called to the bar in 1778; en- tered parliament 1783. 161:24. Eugene, Prince. An Austrian general, of French birth, who distinguished himself in the war of the Spanish succes- sion. 69:9. Euphuism. A highly artificial style of writing and speaking that was cultivated for a short period during the reign of Elizabeth. The name is de- rived from Lyly's Euphucs, the Anatomt/ of Wit (1579). 230:16. Evelyn, John (1620-1706). A sec- retary to the Royal Society, ^and a virtuoso, who left memoirs in the form of a diary. 204:2. Exeter Hall. A building in the Strand, London, used for re- ligious and miscellaneous as- semblies. 226:35. Exons. Officers of the British court In command of the yeo- men of the royal guard. 205:8. Eyiau. A town in East Prussia where in 1807 Napoleon fought a bloody but indecisive battle against the Russians and Prussians. 80:27. False Delicacy. A comedy by Hugh Kelly, produced by Gar- rick at Drury Lane in 1768. 51:10. Faistaff, Jack. The wild com- panion of Prince Hal. For his repudiation by Hal, see Shakespeare's Henry IV j Part II, Act V, sc. V. 75:33. Female Quixote, The (1752). A novel by Mrs. Charlotte Len- nox, meant to ridicule the ro- mantic school of Scudery. 231:19. Femmes Savantes, Les. "The Learned Women." A comedy by Moliere. 186:13. GLOSSARY. 251 F6nelon (1651-1715). A French prelate and author. His works include The Adventures of Telemachus. Telemachus. the son of Ulysses, is the type of a model son. 75:26. Ferney. 140:21. See note on 139:21, Fielding, Henry (1707-1754), An English novelist; author of Tom Jones, Amelia, etc. 161:13; 183:27. First Consul. The title assumed .by Napoleon in 1800. 215:9. Fleury, Andrg (1653-1743). A French statesman and prelate; prime minister. 82:35. Fontenelle (1657-1757). A French philosopher, poet, and miscel- laneous writer. 45:33. Fontenoy. A village in Belgium; the scene of the costly victory of the French under Saxe over the allied forces led by the Duke of Cumberland, 1745. 83:26. Foote, Samuel (1720-1777). A dramatist and actor who played comedy parts at Drury Lane, the Haymarket, and elsewhere. 218:10. Franklin (or Francklin), Thomas (1721-1784). A professor of Greek, chaplain to the Royal Academy, and miscellaneous writer. 184:25. Gabrielli, Catarina (1730-1796). An Italian singer, famous for her prodigality and eccentric- ity. She refused to appear before a London audience, though a later and lesser Ga- brielli (Frangoise, "La Gabri- ellina") sang for several sea- sons there about 1786. 169:2. Gait, John (1779-1839). A nov- elist who portrayed the hu- mors of Scottish country life; author of Annals of the Parish, etc. So long as he kept to the lowly life and dialect of his characters, he was success- ful. 226:35. Garrick, David (1717-1779). A celebrated English actor, man- ager of Drury Lane Theater, and friend of Dr. Johnson. 168:6. Gibbon, Edward (1737-1794). A great English historian, author of The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. 183:9. Gideon. The fifth judge of Israel. He was a leader of his peo- ple in the defeat of the Midianite host {Judges viii. 10). 145:6. Godfrey of Bouillon (1061-1100). A leader of the first Crusades. 150:35. Godwin, William (1756-1836). An English political writer, and author of the once popular novel, Caleb Williams (1794). 162:10. Golden Bull. A bull, or edict, is- sued by Charles IV at the Diet of Nuremberg, 1356, de- termining the method of elect- ing German emperors. 70:27. Gold Stick in Waiting, An of- ficial of the royal household, who bears a gilt stick on state occasions. See the article on the "Royal Household" in the Encijc. Britannica. 203:29. Goodman's Fields, A London theater of the 18th century, made famous by David Gar- rick. 164:2. Gosport, Mr. A character in Miss Burney's Cecilia. The account of the sect of "jar- gonists" is in Book IV, Chap- ter II. 230:14. 252 GLOSSARY. Greville, Fulke. The most fa- mous member of the Greville family was the first baron, a friend and biographer of Sir Philip Sidney. 164:24. Grosvenor Square. A fashion- able square in West London. 167:16. Grotius (Hugo) and Tillotson (John). Theological writers of Holland and England re- spectively. 74:5, Grub Street, London. Now Mil- ton street; formerly noted as the abode of poor writers. 114:13. Gustavus II. Adolphus. King of Sweden, 1611-1632. Though a Protestant, the French, at the instigation of Cardinal Richelieu, formed an alliance with him in his opposition to the encroachments of the Ger- man Emperor, 120:14. Hailes, Lord. Sir David Dal- rymple, a Scottish judge. Dr. Johnson revised his Annals of Scotland r 1776. 225:25. Hampstead. A suburb of Lon- don, formerly noted for its mineral springs and as a so- cial and literary center. 179:20. Hapsburg. A German princely family. Its reign extended from Rudolph I in 1273 to the death of Charles VI in 1740. 77:27. Harpagon. A miser in Moliere's comedy, L'Avare.* 112:1. Harrel. A character in Miss Burney's Cecilia; one of the guardians of the heroine, who borrows money from her, gam- bles it away, and commits suicide. 194:6, Harris, James, of Salisbury (1709-1780). Author of Hermes, a work on universal gram- mar; secretary to George Ill's queen. 168:23. Hawkesworth, John (1715?-1773). A friend and imitator of Dr. Johnson, with whom he car- ried on the periodical, The Adventurer, 1752-1754. 224:33. Hayley, William (1745-1820). A mediocre English poet. 136:12. Henriade. An epic poem by Voltaire, intended to set forth the crime of war undertaken in the name of religion. 68:29, Heraclitus. A Greek philosopher of ancient Ephesus, who lived a life of solitary meditation, but who did not deserve the title of "The Weeping Philoso- pher" which has been tradi- tionally given to him. 187:20. Hippocrene. A fountain on Mt, Helicon, sacred to the Muses; hence, inspired poetry (Ma- caulay's quotation marks are manifestly intended to throw doubt on the inspiration). 136:2. Howard, Sir George (1720?- 1796). British commander of a brigade in Germany during the Seven Years' War, 145:35. Hume, Joseph (1777-1855), A politician and army surgeon in the East India service; a strong advocate of retrench- ment in public expenditure. 96:9, Hussar. A light-horse trooper, originally Hungarian, armed with saber and carbine, 88:19. I forewarn thee, etc. From Mil- ton's Paradise Lost, II, 810- 814. 113:1. GLOSSARY. 253 slam. The Mohammedan peo- ploR, countries, or religion. 88:17. Jack Sheppard. A sensational p'.ay by John Buckstone, founded on the life of the celebrated English robber. 172:30. Jacobins. The name adopted by the more violent French revo- lutionary clubs. 214:8. Jenyns, Soame (1704-1787). A miscellaneous writer. His Free Enquiry into the Nature and Orif/in of Evil was reviewed by Dr. Johnson in the Literary Mar/a.zine. 225:20. Joshua. The successor of Moses, who led the Israelites into the land of promise. 145:5. Jourdain, Monsieur. A character in Moliere's comedy, Lc Bour- geois Gentilhomme ; a rich up- start who tries to wear the manners of a gentleman. 63:16; 220:30. Keith, George. See 102:2. Kelly, Hugh (1739-1777). A bar- rister and playwright; author of False Delicacy, A Word to the Wise, etc. 53:15. Kenrick, William (1725?-1779). A miscellaneous writer who took pleasure in libelling suc- cessful authors and actors. 182:27. King-at-arms. An officer hav- ing jurisdiction over heralds (used metaphorically by Ma- caulay). 216:17. Klopstock, Friedrich (1724-1803). A noted German poet and dramatist. 190:28. Kotzebue, August F. F. von (1761-1819). A prolific German writer of cheaply emotional comedies, who ruled the Ger- man stage about the end of the 18th century. 162:7. La Clos, Pierre (1741-1803). A French general and writer of licentious novels. 139:28. La Fayette, Marquis de (1757- 1834). A celebrated French general and statesman; served in the American revolutionary army; was a member of the National Assembly of France, 1789. 215:5. Lake Leman. The French name of the Lake of Geneva, Switz- erland. 117:6. Lambert, Daniel (1770-1809). The most celebrated example of corpulency on record; he weighed 756 pounds. See "Cor- pulence" in the Encycl. Britan- nica. 217:21. Langton, Bennet (1737-1801). A Greek scholar and member of Dr. Johnson's Literary Club. 184:20. Languish, Miss Lydia, and Miss Sukey Saunter. Characters in Sheridan's The Rivals; indo- lent young women devoted to novel-reading. See the play. Act I, sc. 2. 181:31. Lauriston, Marquis de (1768- 1828). A French marshal, dip- lomatist, and minister, charged with bearing to London the ratification of the Treaty of Amiens. 215:4. Lawrence, Sir Thomas (1769- 1830). A celebrated portrait painter, president of the Royal Academy. 217:28. Lives of the Poets. Dr. John- son's last important work, 1779-1781. 60:4. Lorenzo de' Medici. A cele- brated Florentine statesman 254 GLOSSARY. and patron of letters and art in the 15th century. 101:21. Louvois, Marquis de. A French statesman, minister of war under Louis XIV, 1666-1691. 92:33. Machiavelli, Niccolo (1469-1527). A Florentine statesman, au- thor of II Principe, "The Prince." His name has be- come synonymous with deceit in statecraft; hence the irony of Frederic's posing as an "Anti-Machiavel." 74:32. Magdalen College. One of the most beautiful colleges of Ox- ford; founded in 1457. 200:5. Malplaquet. A village in north- ern France; the scene of a bloody victory by the Allies under Marlborough and Prince Eugene over the French, 1709. 85:31. Marat, Jean Paul (1744-1793). A French revolutionist, one of the most radical of the Ja- cobin party. 213:24. Margrave. Formerly the lord of a German mark (march, bor- der), corresponding to the English marquis. 62:13. Margravine. The wife of a Mar- grave. 66:12. Marlborough, Duke of. John Churchill (1650-^722). An Eng- lish statesman and general. With Eugene of Savoy, in the War of the Spanish Succes- sion, he was a leading spirit in the alliance against France. Victor at Blenheim and Mal- plaquet. 84:19. Marquisate. The rank or dig- nity of marquis (next below duke). 62:2. Martin, Saint. A popular saint, patron of beggars and drunk- ards. Once before his conver sion, while a military tribune at Amiens in midwinter, hi is said to have divided hi military cloak with a begga who asked him for alms. 208 17. Massillon, Jean Baptiste (1663 1742). A French pulpit orato: and academician. 70:8. Maupertuis, Pierre L. M. d( (1698-1759). A French astrono mer and philosopher. 54:16 102:25. Mazarin, Jules (1602-1661). I French statesman and cardi nal; succeeded Richelieu a; prime minister in 1642. 92:33 Medicean age. The age of th( Florentine Medici, great pa- trons of learning and art 75:27. Meltonian ardor. Melton Mow- bray, in Leicestershire, is £ famous fox-hunting center 169:33, Merton College, Oxford. The oldest college in the university founded in 1264. 200:6. Metastasio (1698-1782). An Ital- ian poet, remarkable for bea ut j of style. 71:7. Mithridates the Great. King ol Pontus 120-63 B. C. After .suf- fering defeat, he tried to kill himself by poison. 136:23. Moliere (1622-1673). The great- est French writer of comedies. 63:15. Moloch. A sun-god, widelj' wor- shiped in ancient times with human sacrifices. 66:11; 207:35. Monckton, Mr. One of the char- acters in Miss Burney's Cecilia, a man who schemes to secure the heroine's fortune. 203:5. Monmouth Street (now Dudley Street). In London. It con- GLOSSARY. 255 tains many shops for old clothes. "With awe-struck heart I walk through that Monmouth street, with its empty suits, as through a San- hedrim of stainless ghosts." Carlyle Sartor Reaartus, III. vi. 97:9. Montagu, Mrs. (Elizabeth Rob- inson, 1720-1800). An English author and social leader, fa- mous for her "blue-stocking" assemblies. 213:28. Montesquieu (1689-1755). A great French writer and academ- ician; author of The Spirit of the Laics. 107:28. Montezuma. An Aztec emperor of the 16th century. 54:5. Morning Post. Macaulay once sent some very sentimental verses to the Mornimj Post — "because that paper is the or- dinary receptacle of trash of the description which I in- tended to ridicule." 227:1. Mount of Defiance. "Near Press- burg is a barrow or tumulus, which the new sovereign as- cends on horse-back, and waves a drawn sword towards the four cardinal points." Will- iam Coxe, History of the House of Austria, chap. 101. 86:26. Murphy, Arthur (1727-1805). An author and actor. He wrote the Life of David Qarrick. 185:30. Nabob. The native governor of an East Indian province. The name was often applied to Anglo-Indian officials who re- turrfed to England with great wealth. 63:6. Naseby. A village in Northamp- tonshire, the scene of the de- feat of the royalists by Crom- well in 1645. 54:1. Nash, Beau. Richard Nash, a fop and gambler, who estab- lished a code of etiquette and dress and made himself auto- crat of Bath in the early 18th century. 47:13. Nemesis. In Greek mythology, the goddess of retribution. 133:16. New College, Oxford. One of the oldest colleges of Oxford, founded in 1379. The large west window in the chapel was executed in 1777 from designs by Reynolds. 200:19. Newdigate and Seatonian poetry. An annual prize for English verse was founded at Oxford by Sir Roger Newdigate in 1805, and a similar one for sacred poetry at Cambridge by Thomas Seaton in 1741. 72:29. Nollekens, Joseph (1737-1823). A British sculptor who executed busts of most of the important people of his day, as well as monuments and other works. 59:34. Oliver Twist. A workhouse or- phan in Dickens's novel of tlie same name. 65:28. Omai. A native Otaheitan (Ta- hitian) taken to England by Captain Cook and lionized by London society. Oberea was the queen of Otaheite, and Sir ,Toseph Banks was her "Opano." See Boswell's Life of Johnson, Apr. 3, 1776. 170:2. Orloff, Count Grigori (1734-1783). A Russian general who served in the Seven Years' War. He conspired to put Catherine II on the throne, and became her paramour; the famous "Orloff 256 GLOSSAEY. diamond" was given to her by him. 169:17. O'Trigger, Sir Lucius. A for- tune-hunting Irishman and duellist in Sheridan's comedy, The Rivals. 220:31. Pacchierotti, Gaspardo (1744- 1821). A celebrated Italian singer who sang for several seasons in London. 168:32. Palissot de Montenoy, Charles (1730-1814). A French writer of satires, comedies, and un- successful tragedies. He as- sailed Rousseau, Helvetius, and the Encyclopedists in his com- edy, Les Philosophes, 1760. 150:8. Pandoor (Pandour, Pandur). One of the foot-soldiers who were levied in the vicinity of Pandur, Hungary, and who were noted for ferocity. 88:18. Paoli, Pascal (1725-1807). A Cor- sican general and patriot who late in life took refuge in Eng- land. He was a member of Johnson's Club. 184:20. Pelletier, Ambroise (1703-1758). A French genealogist and painter of miniatures. 123:21. Pembroke College, Oxford. One of the later colleges of Oxford, attended by Dr. Johnson. 200: 18. Pepys, Samuel (1633-1703). An English secretary of the ad- miralty who left a voluminous, gossipy diary. 204:2. Peterborough, Charles Mordaunt, third Earl of (1658-1735). One of the leaders of the expedi- tionary force to Spain, who surprised Montjuich, and com- pelled the surrender of Barce- lona, deemed impregnable (1705). 42:17. Petion de Villeneuve, Jerome (1753-1794). A French revolu- tionist, president of the As- sembly in 1790; later pro- scribed. 213:24. Pitt, William the Younger (1759- 1806). A celebrated English statesman. He entered par- liament in 1780. 161:22. Place of Victories. The Place (Irs Yictoiies in Paris, con- taining formerly a statue of Louis XIV receiving from Victorj' a laurel crown, later replaced by an equestrian statue of the same monarch. 85:34. Plantagenets. The line of Eng- lish kings extending from Henry II to Richard III (1154- 1485). 63:9. Pomerania. A province of Prus- sia. 84:16. Pompadour, Marquise de (Jeanne Antoinette Poisson, later Madame d'Etioles). A very influential mistress of Louis XV. 123:1. Pomptine (or Pontine) Marshes. A marshy, pestilential region in Latium, Italy. 201:6. Person, Richard (1754-1808). An English Greek scholar; he took his degree at Cambridge in 1782. 161:22. Port Royal. A Cistercian abbey a few miles southwest of Paris. Racine, the poet, re- ceived his early education from the nuns there, and was buried in its cemetery. 108:11. Potsdam. A town sixteen miles southwest of Berlin; the Prussian imperial residence. 62:12. Pragmatic Sanction, The. See 77:30. GLOSSARY. 257 Prague. The capital of Bo- hemia, and now the third city of the Austrian empire. The Thirty Years' War be- gan there, 1618. It was also the scene of Frederic's great victory over the Austrians in 1757. 132:12. Presburg, or Pressburg. The capital of Hungary from 1541 to 1784. 86:21. Preuss, Johann D. E. (1785- 1868). A Prussian historian. His biography of Frederic the Great was published, 1832-34. 79:34. "Probationary Odes." That is, the odes of a probationer or candidate. When Thomas Warton was made poet-lau- reate in 1785 and published his first official ode in honor of the king's birthday, these anonymous odes were pub- lished to cast ridicule upon him. 190:14. Puck. A mischievous elf or imp in Teutonic folklore. 66:11. "Rachael weeping for her chil- dren." Jeremiah, xxxi. 15; Mattheu-, ii. 18. 177:32. Racine, Jean Baptiste (1639- 1699). A French tragic poet, autlior of Iphigenie, Phedre, Athalie, etc. 70:8. Rackrent, Sir Condy. A char- acter in Maria Edgeworth's Castle Racktent, a heedless, good - natured Irish land - owner. 162:23. Radcliffe Library. Macaulay refers to the Camera Bodle- iana, a building in the form of a rotunda, surmounted by a dome. It became the liome of the Radcliffe Library when that was founded in 1837. 200:7. Radcliffe, Mrs. (1764-1823). An English writer of novels of the extravagantly romantic type: TJie Romance of the Forest, The Miisteries of Udolpho, etc. 162:12. Rambler, The. A periodical of the essay type, issued by Dr. Johnson, 1750-1752. 224:30. Rapparees. Irish robber bands of the 17th century. Hugh Balldearg O'Donnell (d. 1704) was a soldier of fortune of considerable renown, fighting not only in Ireland but in Austria and Spain. 42:15. Reeves, John (1752? - 1829). King's printer. In 1795 he pub- lished a pamphlet. Thoughts on the English Qovernment, advancing extreme royalist views, and was prosecuted for libel by the House of Commons. 213:21. Regency Bill. A bill conferring the regency on the Prince of Wales, prepared by Pitt dur- ing the serious illness of George III in 1788. See Ma- caulay's Essay on William Pitt (the Younger: Enc. Brit.). 204:31. Rehearsal, The. 51:27. See Bayes. Reynolds, Sir Joshua (1723- 1792). A celebrated British portrait-painter and writer. 168:23. Richardson, Samuel (1689-1761). An English novelist, author of Pamela, Clarissa Harloue, and Sir Charles Grandison. 183:32. Richelieu, Due de (1696-1788). A French marshal, grand- 258 GLOSSARY nephew of Cardinal Richelieu. 139:24. Richelieu, Duke and Cardinal (1585-1642). A celebrated French statesman, prime minister of Louis XIII. 92:32. rixdollar (rigsdaler). A silver coin of Europe, worth about 54 cents. 76:31. Rogers, Samuel (1763-1855). An English poet whose house was a noted literary center in Macaulay's time. 161:13. Rolian. The name of a family of Brittany (Armorica). Con- spicuous were the brothers Henri de Rohan and Benja- min de Rohan, both Huguenot leaders. Charles, Prince de Soubise, was a later member. 141:2. Rousseau, Jean Jacques (1712- 1788). A celebrated Swiss- French philosopher, who laid the foundations of modern pedagogy. 107:30. Roxburghe Club. A club, found- ed in 1812, for the collection and re-printing of rare books and manuscripts. 64:9. St. James's. A palace in west- ern London long used as a royal residence; the official name of the British court. 63:34. St. James's Square. In west- ern London; crowded with aristocratic mansions and clubs. 167:16. St. Luke's. A hospital and asylum in Old Street, City Road, London. 168:16. St. Sebastian (or San Sebas- tian). A seaport of Spain besieged by Wellington in 1813. 80:26. Saxe, Count Maurice de (1696- 1750). A celebrated French marshal and writer. 110:34. Saxon. As used in the essay on Frederick the Great, this word refers to the country or in- habitants of Saxony. As used in the essay on Gold- smith (41:3), it means Eng- lish, as opposed to Highland Scotch or Irish, who are of Celtic race. Scapin. A tricky valet in Mo- liere's comedy, Les Fourberies de Scapin. 112:2. Schwerin, Count Kurt Christoph (1684-1757). A German gen- eral; field-marshal of Freder- ic the Great; killed at the battle of Prague. 84:15. Scudery, Madeleine de (1607- 1701). A French novelist and poet. Her long romantic novels were very popular. 108:24. Senate House. One of the two houses (regents and non- regents) of the governing body of the University of Cambridge. 215:32. seventy-four. A "seventy-four" means the command of a battleship rated as carrying seventy-four guns. 192:25. Seward, William, F.R.S. (1747- 1799). A friend of Dr. John- son and the Thrales. 184:18. Sheridan, Richard Brinsley (1751-1816). A British dram- atist and orator; author of TJie Rivals and The School for Scandal. 183:9. Siamese twins. Eng and Chang, two Siamese whose bodies were joined from birth. They died in 1874. 217:22. Siddons, Mrs. (Sarah Kemble, 1755-1831). A celebrated tragic GLOSSAKY 259 actress. Her greatest role was Lady Macbeth. 172:28. Sieyes, Abbe (1748-1836). A French statesman, republican, and popular leader during the Revolution. 101:7. Sigismund (1368-1437). Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire. 62:3. Silesia. The region about the upper Oder, where Russia. Austria, and Prussia meet; long an object of contention among those powers. 79:29. Smike. In Dickens's Nicholas Nicklehjj, a much abused boy in the service of Squeers, the cruel master of Dotheboy's Hall. 65:29. Smollett, Tobias George (1721- 1771). An English novelist, author of Roderick Random, Peregrine Pickle, etc. 182:16. Snow Hill. A hill in central London, formerly very steep, now reached by Holborn Via- duct. 179:19. Sobieski. John HI, King of Poland. He relieved Vienna, gaining a great victory over the Turks, in 1683. 151:2. Southey, Robert (1774-1843). An English poet of the Lake School. 161:14. Stael, Madame de (1766-1817). A celebrated French writer; an admirer of Rousseau; an acquaintance of Goethe. Gib- bon, etc.; author of Corinnc. 213:32. Stanhope, James, first Earl .Stanhope (1673-1721). The leader of the Allies at the time of their defeat at Bri- huega. Spain, 1710, in tho wars of Queen Anne. 42:17. Stante pede niorire. Literally, "to die with the foot stand- ing." Apparently an attempt to express in Latin the idea of dying on one's feet, or in action. 71:4. Steevens, George (1736-1800). A Sliakespearean critic and mis- cellaneous writer who con- stantly quarrelled with his associates. 57:9; 182:28. Stephen I, Saint. Crowned first king of Hungary in 1000; be- came the patron saint of Hungary. 86:23. Sterne, Laurence (1713-1768). An English humorist, author of Tristram Shandy and A Sentimental Journey. 220:27. Sternholds. Thomas Sternhold was an old English hymn- writer who versified the Psalms. Macaulay uses his name as a generic term. 142:2. Streatham Park. The home of the Thrales, where Dr. John- son spent much of his time. The Park, or Common, is a district near the present Brit- ish Museum. 183:13. style. Title. 62:29. Surat. In Bombay; a great emporium of India under the Mogul Empire. 64:21. Surface, Joseph. A hypocritical fellow in Sheridan's comedy. The School for Scandal. 220:31. Talleyrand (1754-1838). A fa- mous French statesman and diplomatist; envoy in Eng- land in 1742. 213:33. Tanals. The ancient name of the river Don, Russia. 119:19. Temple, The. A lodge in Lon- don, formerly of the Knights Templars; in late years given over to barristers. 57:32. 260 GLOSSARY Temple Bar. A famous gate- way in London which divided Fleet Street on the east from its continuation, the Strand, on the west; now supplanted by a monument. 181:34. Thiebault, Dieudonne (1733- 1807). A French man of let- ters called by Frederic the Great to be instructor in the military academy at Berlin; the author of some curious memoirs, "Twenty Years So- journ at Berlin." Carlyle makes a passing allusion to his having once narrowly es- caped a horse-whipping for circulating a scandal about Frederic's sister. 77:13. Thrale, Mrs. (1741-1831). The wife of a London brewer and long a friend of Dr. Johnson. After the death of her hus- band she married Gabriel Plozzi, an Italian Roman Catholic musician — a mar- riage disapproved by the so- ciety of the time. 182:10. Three Bishoprics, The. The bishoprics of Metz, Toul, and Verdun. They were taken by France in 1552. 88:28. Torcy, Marquis de. Jean Bap- tiste Colbert, a nephew of the great Colbert. He was secre- tary for foreign affairs in 1690. 92:33. Tot verhas, tot spondera. Prob- ably for tot vcrha, tot pond era, "so many words, so many weights," "every word weighty." Carlyle exclaims over this phrase. "What can any commentator make of that?" 71:5. Trissotin. A ridiculous pedant in Moli^re's Les Fcnimes Sav- anles. 136:23. Tudors. The English sover- eigns from Henry VII to Elizabeth, 1485-1603. 80:17. Tulip mania. A speculative craze for tulip bulVjs which started in Holland and spread over Europe, 1634-1637. 64:9. Tunbridge Wells. A well known watering place in Kent. Its main promenade is called "The Pantiles," from the character of its first pave- ment. 185:11. Turin. In northern Italy; taken by the Imperialists under Prince Eugene in 1706. 85:31. Twining, Thomas (1735-18^)4). A musician and linguist; translator of Aristotle's Poet- ics. 168:23. Unities. The three dramatic unities of time, place, and ac- tion, as laid down by Aris- totle and as observed by the French classical dramatists. 224:23. Utrecht, Peace of. A peace con- cluded in 1713 between France on the one side and Great Britain, the Netherlands. Savoy, Prussia, and Portugal on the other, which marked practically the end of the War of the Spanish Succes- sion. The treaty was dis- honorable to England, since in making it she failed to keep faith with her continental allies who had confederated to keep the House of Bourbon from possessing France and Spain; and she had, as Ma- caulay states, given up the Catalans to the vengeance of Philip of Anjou. 155:18. GLOSSARY 261 Van Artevelde, Philip. A play by Henry Taylor, modelled upon the Elizabethan drama; published in 1834. 172:30. Vatican. A hill of Rome, con- taining St. Peter's and the Vatican palace, the residence of the Pope; hence, the papal power of authority. 99:11. Vernon, Edward (1684-1757). An English admiral, who failed before Cartagena in 1741, pub- lished an anonymous attack on the admiralty, and was cashiered in 1746. 145:1. Versailles. Near Paris; site of the royal palace of Louis XIV and his successors; the French court. 63:33. Villars, Due de (1653-1734). A French marshal; victor at Hochstadt. 1703; defeated at Malplaquet, 1709. 95:30. Vinegar Bible. So called from an error, rinef/ar for vinci/ard. in the running headline of Luke xxii. It was printed at Oxford in 1717, and is prized by collectors as a curiosity. 64:31. Virginia. The daughter of Vir- ginius, slain, according to Ro- man legend, by her father to save her from Appius Clau- dius. 174:21. Vitruvius. A Roman military engineer under Caesar and Au- gustus, who wrote a work on the theory of architecture but appears to have been com- paratively inefficient as an architect. 117:14. Voltaire (1694-1778). The as- sumed name of Francois Marie Arouet, a famou.s French philosopher and skep- tic. He was a prolific writer. Among his works are Zaire, Al:;iic, Mcrope, Tancrcdc, and Mahomet, tragedies, La Hen- riGde, an epic poem, and a life of Charles XIL 73:10. Waller, Edmund (1606-1687). An extremely popular poet con- temporary with Milton. 189:11. Walpole, Horace (1717-1797). An English author and collector of articles of vertu. 55:20. Walpole, Sir Robert (1676-1745). English statesman;. prime minister under George II. 85:23. Whitefield, George (1714-1770). An English clergyman, one of the founders of Methodism. 145:6. Wilkes, John (1727-1797). An English politician who had a stormy career. "His features were irregular to the point of ugliness, and a squint lent them a sinister expression, maliciously exaggerated in the celebrated caricature by 71ogarth." (Diet. Nat. Bioy.) 217:25. Wilkie, Sir David (1775-1841). A noted Scotch genre painter and etcher. 231:6. Williams, Mrs. Anna (1706-1783). A poet and friend of Dr. .Johnson. 225:25. Williams, John (1761-1818). A satirist and miscellaneous writer. "That malignant and filthy baboon. John Williams, who called himself Anthony Pasquin." (Macaulay: Warren Ifa.stiiifjs.) 182:29, Windham, William (1750-1810). One of the members of parlia- ment cliarged with the im- l^eachment of Hastings; a friend of Johnson and Burke. 183:8. 262 GLOSSARY. Wolcot, John (1738-1819). A poet and satirist who pub- lished under the name of "Peter Pindar." 182:28. wranglers (University of Cam- bridge). Those who have obi tained first grade in the fina examinations in mathematic; 215:27. MAY !2 J9I3