“This morning about three o’clock, my people woke me, with word that there was a Stafette come with Letters,”–from your Majesty or Heaven knows whom! “I spring up in all haste; and opening the Letter,–find it is from the Prince of Mirow; who informs me that ‘he will be here to-day at noon.’ I have got all things in readiness to receive him, as if he were the Kaiser in person; and I hope there will be material for some amusement to my Most All-gracious Father, by next post.”–Next post is half a week hence:–
“TO HIS PRUSSIAN MAJESTY (from the Crown-Prince).
“REINSBERG, 11th Novemher.
… “The Prince of Mirow’s visit was so curious, I must give my Most All-gracious Father a particular report of it. In my last, I mentioned how General Praetorius had come to us: he was in the room, when I entered with the Prince of Mirow; at sight of him Praetorius exclaimed, loud enough to be heard by everybody, ‘VOILA LE PRINCE CAJUCA!’ [Nickname out of some Romance, fallen extinct long since.] Not one of us could help laughing; and I had my own trouble to turn it so that he did not get angry.
“Scarcely was the Prince got in, when they came to tell me, for his worse luck, that Prince Heinrich,” the Ill Margraf, “was come; –who accordingly trotted him out, in such a way that we thought we should all have died with laughing. Incessant praises were given him, especially for his fine clothes, his fine air, and his uncommon agility in dancing. And indeed I thought the dancing would never end.
“In the afternoon, to spoil his fine coat,”–a contrivance of the Ill Margraf’s, I should think,–“we stept out to shoot at target in the rain: he would not speak of it, but one could observe he was in much anxiety about the coat. In the evening, he got a glass or two in his head, and grew extremely merry; said at last, ‘He was sorry that, for divers state-reasons and businesses of moment, he must of necessity return home;’–which, however, he put off till about two in the morning. I think, next day he would not remember very much of it.
“Prince Heinrich is gone to his Regiment again; “Praetorius too is off;–and we end with the proper KOW-TOW. [
Frederic,
These Strelitzers, we said, are juniors to infatuated Schwerin; and poor Mirow is again junior to Strelitz: plainly one of the least opulent of Residences. At present, it is Dowager Apanage (WITTWEN-SITZ) to the Widow of the late Strelitz of blessed memory: here, with her one Child, a boy now grown to what manhood we see, has the Serene Dowager lived, these twenty-eight years past; a Schwartzburg by birth, “the cleverest head among them all.” Twenty-eight years in dilapidated Mirow: so long has that Tailoring Duke, her eldest STEP-SON (child of a prior wife) been Supreme Head of Mecklenburg-Strelitz; employed with his needle, or we know not how,–collapsed plainly into tailoring at this date. There was but one other Son; this clever Lady’s, twenty years junior,–“Prince of Mirow” whom we now see. Karl Ludwig Friedrich is the name of this one; age now twenty-eight gone. He, ever since the third month of him, when the poor Serene Father died (“May, 1703”), has been at Mirow with Mamma; getting what education there was,–not too successfully, as would appear. Eight years ago, “in 1726,” Mamma sent him off upon his travels; to Geneva, Italy, France: he looked in upon Vienna, too; got a Lieutenant-Colonelcy in the Kaiser’s Service, but did not like it; soon gave it up; and returned home to vegetate, perhaps to seek a wife,–having prospects of succession in Strelitz. For the Serene Half-Brother proves to have no children: were his tailoring once finished in the world, our Prince of Mirow is Duke in Chief. On this basis the wedded last year; the little Wife has already brought him one child, a Daughter; and has (as Friedrich notices) another under way, if it prosper. No lack of Daughters, nor of Sons by and by: eight years hence came the little Charlotte,–subsequently Mother of England: much to her and our astonishment. [Born (at Mirow) 19th May, 1744; married (London), 8th September, 1761; died, 18th November, 1818 (Michaelis, ii. 445, 446; Hubner, t. 195; OErtel, pp. 43, 22).]
The poor man did not live to be Duke of Strelitz; he died, 1752, in little Charlotte’s eighth year; Tailor Duke SURVIVING him a few months. Little Charlotte’s Brother did then succeed, and lasted till 1794; after whom a second Brother, father of the now Serene Strelitzes;–who also is genealogically notable. For from him there came another still more famous Queen: Louisa of Prussia; beautiful to look upon, as “Aunt Charlotte” was not, in a high degree; and who showed herself a Heroine in Napoleon’s time, as Aunt Charlotte never was called to do. Both Aunt and Niece were women of sense, of probity, propriety; fairly beyond the average of Queens. And as to their early poverty, ridiculous to this gold- nugget generation, I rather guess it may have done them benefits which the gold-nugget generation, in its Queens and otherwise, stands far more in want of than it thinks.
But enough of this Prince of Mirow, whom Friedrich has accidentally unearthed for us. Indeed there is no farther history of him, for or against. He evidently was not thought to have invented gunpowder, by the public. And yet who knows but, in his very simplicity, there lay something far beyond the Ill Margraf to whom he was so quizzable? Poor down-pressed brother mortal; somnambulating so pacifically in Sleepy Hollow yonder, and making no complaint!
He continued, though soon with less enthusiasm, and in the end very rarely, a visitor of Friedrich’s during this Reinsberg time. Patriotic English readers may as well take the few remaining vestiges, too, before quite dismissiug him to Sleepy Hollow. Here they are, swept accurately together, from that Correspondence of Friedrich with Papa:–
“REINSBERG, 18th NOVEMBER, 1736. … report most submissively that the Prince of Mirow has again been here, with his Mother, Wife, Aunt, Hofdames, Cavaliers and entire Household; so that I thought it was the Flight out of Egypt [Exodus of the Jews]. I begin to have a fear of those good people, as they assured me they would have such pleasure in coming often!”
“REINSBERG, 1st FEBRUARY, 1737.” Let us give it in the Original too, as a specimen of German spelling:–
“The Prince of Mirow was here a few days ago; and we let off, in honor of him, a few water-rockets over the Lake: his Wife has been brought to bed of a dead Princess. General Schulenburg [with a small s] came hither to-day; and to-morrow will” …
“REINSBERG, 28th MARCH, 1737. … Prince von Mirow was here yesterday; and tried shooting at the popinjay with us; he cannot see rightly, and shoots always with help of an opera-glass.”
“RUPPIN, 20th OCTOBER, 1737. The Prince of Mirow was with us last Friday; and babbled much in his high way; among other things, white-lied to us, that the Kaiserinn gave him a certain porcelain snuff-box he was handling; but on being questioned more tightly, he confessed to me he had bought it in Vienna.” [
an Vater,
And so let him somnambulate yonder, till the two Queens, like winged Psyches, one after the other, manage to emerge from him.
Friedrich’s Letters to his Father are described by some Prussian Editors as “very attractive, SEHR ANZIEHENDE BRIEFE;” which, to a Foreign reader, seems a strange account of them. Letters very hard to understand completely; and rather insignificant when understood. They turn on Gifts sent to and sent from, “swans,” “hams,” with the unspeakable thanks for them; on recruits of so many inches; on the visitors that have been; they assure us that “there is no sickness in the regiment,” or tell expressly how much:–wholly small facts; nothing of speculation, and of ceremonial pipe-clay a great deal. We know already under what nightmare conditions Friedrich wrote to his Father! The attitude of the Crown-Prince, sincerely reverent and filial, though obliged to appear ineffably so, and on the whole struggling under such mountains of encumbrance, yet loyally maintaining his equilibrium, does at last acquire, in these Letters, silently a kind of beauty to the best class of readers. But that is nearly their sole merit. By far the most human of them, that on the first visit to Mirow, the reader has now seen; and may thank us much that we show him no more of them. [
pp, 1-123 (Berlin, 1856).
Chapter IV.
NEWS OF THE DAY.
While these Mirow visits are about their best, and much else at Reinsberg is in comfortable progress, Friedrich’s first year there just ending, there come accounts from England of quarrels broken out between the Britannic Majesty and his Prince of Wales. Discrepancies risen now to a height; and getting into the very Newspapers;–the Rising Sun too little under the control of the Setting, in that unquiet Country!
Prince Fred of England did not get to the Rhine Campaign, as we saw: he got some increase of Revenue, a Household of his own; and finally a Wife, as he had requested: a Sachsen-Gotha Princess; who, peerless Wilhelmma being unattainable, was welcome to Prince Fred. She is in the family-way, this summer 1737, a very young lady still; result thought to be due–When? Result being potential Heir to the British Nation, there ought to have been good calculation of the time when! But apparently nobody had well turned his attention that way. Or if Fred and Spouse had, as is presumable, Fred had given no notice to the Paternal Majesty,– “Let Paternal Majesty, always so cross to me, look out for himself in that matter.” Certain it is, Fred and Spouse, in the beginning of August, 1737, are out at Hampton Court; potential Heir due before long, and no preparation made for it. August 11th in the evening, out at solitary Hampton Court; the poor young Mother’s pains came on; no Chancellor there, no Archbishop to see the birth,–in fact, hardly the least medical help, and of political altogether none. Fred, in his flurry, or by forethought,–instead of dashing off expresses, at a gallop as of Epsom, to summon the necessary persons and appliances, yoked wheeled vehicles and rolled off to the old unprovided Palace of St. James’s, London, with his poor Wife in person! Unwarned, unprovided; where nevertheless she was safely delivered that same night,–safely, as if by miracle. The crisis might have taken her on the very highway: never was such an imprudence. Owing, I will believe, to Fred’s sudden flurry in the unprovided moment,–unprovided, by reason of prior desuetudes and discouragements to speech, on Papa’s side. A shade of malice there might also be. Papa doubts not, it was malice aforethought all of it. “Had the potential Heir of the British Nation gone to wreck, or been born on the highway, from my quarrels with this bad Fred, what a scrape had I been in!” thinks Papa, and is in a towering permanence of wrath ever since; the very Newspapers and coffee-houses and populaces now all getting vocal with it.
Papa, as it turned out, never more saw the face of Fred. Judicious Mamma, Queen Caroline, could not help a visit, one visit to the poor young Mother, so soon as proper: coming out from the visit, Prince Fred obsequiously escorting her to her carriage, found a crowd of people and populace, in front of St. James’s; and there knelt down on the street, in his fine silk breeches, careless of the mud, to “beg a Mother’s blessing,” and show what a son he was, he for his part, in this sad discrepancy that had risen! Mamma threw a silent glance on him, containing volumes of mixed tenor; drove off; and saw no more of Fred, she either. I fear, this kneeling in the mud tells against Prince Fred; but in truth I do not know, nor even much care. [Lord Hervey,
Memoirs of George the Second,
What a noise in England about nothing at all!–What a noisy Country, your Prussian Majesty! Foolish “rising sun” not restrainable there by the setting or shining one; opposition parties bowling him about among the constellations, like a very mad object!–
But in a month or two, there comes worse news out of England; falling heavy on the heart of Prussian Majesty: news that Queen Caroline herself is dead. [“Sunday evening, 1st December (20th Nov.), 1737.” Ib. pp. 510-539.] Died as she had lived, with much constancy of mind, with a graceful modest courage and endurance; sinking quietly under the load of private miseries long quietly kept hidden, but now become too heavy, and for which the appointed rest was now here. Little George blubbered a good deal; fidgeted and flustered a good deal: much put about, poor foolish little soul. The dying Caroline recommended HIM to Walpole; advised his Majesty to marry again.
From the Eastern regions our Newspapers are very full of events: War with the Turk going on there; Russia and Austria both doing their best against the Turk. The Russians had hardly finished their Polish-Election fighting, when they decided to have a stroke at the Turk,–Turk always an especial eye-sorrow to them, since that “Treaty of the Pruth,” and Czar Peter’s sad rebuff there:– Munnich marched direct out of Poland through the Ukraine, with his eye on the Crimea and furious business in that quarter. This is his second Campaign there, this of 1737; and furious business has not failed. Last year he stormed the Lines of Perecop, tore open the Crimea; took Azoph, he or Lacy under him; took many things: this year he had laid his plans for Oczakow;–takes Oczakow,– fiery event, blazing in all the Newspapers, at Reinsberg and elsewhere. Concerning which will the reader accept this condensed testimony by an eye-witness?
“OCZAKOW, 13th JULY, 1737. Day before yesterday, Feldmarschall Munnich got to Oczakow, as he had planned,”–strong Turkish Town in the nook between the Black Sea and the estuary of the Dnieper; –“with intention to besiege it. Siege-train, stores of every sort, which he had set afloat upon the Dnieper in time enough, were to have been ready for him at Oczakow. But the flotilla had been detained by shallows, by waterfalls; not a boat was come, nor could anybody say when they were coming. Meanwhile nothing is to be had here; the very face of the earth the Turks have burnt: not a blade of grass for cavalry within eight miles, nor a stick of wood for engineers; not a hole for covert, and the ground so hard you cannot raise redoubts on it: Munnich perceives he must attempt, nevertheless.
“On his right, by the sea-shore, Munnich finds some remains of gardens, palisades; scrapes together some vestige of shelter there (five thousand, or even ten thousand pioneers working desperately all that first night, 11th July, with only half success); and on the morrow commences firing with what artillery he has. Much outfired by the Turks inside;–his enterprise as good as desperate, unless the Dnieper flotilla come soon. July 12th, all day the firing continues, and all night; Turks extremely furious: about an hour before daybreak, we notice burning in the interior, ‘Some wooden house kindled by us, town got on fire yonder,’–and, praise to Heaven, they do not seem to succeed in quenching it again. Munnich turns out, in various divisions; intent on trying something, had he the least engineer furniture;–hopes desperately there may be promise for him in that internal burning still visible.
“In the centre of Munnich’s line is one General Keith, a deliberate stalwart Scotch gentleman, whom we shall know better; Munnich himself is to the right: Could not one try it by scalade; keep the internal burning free to spread, at any rate? ‘Advance within musket-shot, General Keith!’ orders Munnich’s Aide-de-Camp cantering up. ‘I have been this good while within it,’ answers Keith, pointing to his dead men. Aide-de-Camp canters up a second time: ‘Advance within half musket-shot, General Keith, and quit any covert you have!’ Keith does so; sends, with his respects to Feldmarschall Munnich, his remonstrance against such a waste of human life. Aide-de-Camp canters up a third time: ‘Feldmarschall Munnich is for trying a scalade; hopes General Keith will do his best to co-operate!’ ‘Forward, then!’ answers Keith; advances close to the glacis; finds a wet ditch twelve feet broad, and has not a stick of engineer furniture. Keith waits there two hours; his men, under fire all the while, trying this and that to get across; Munnich’s scalade going off ineffectual in like manner:– till at length Keith’s men, and all men, tire of such a business, and roll back in great confusion out of shot-range. Munnich gives himself up for lost. And indeed, says Mannstein, had the Turks sallied out in pursuit at that moment, they might have chased us back to Russia. But the Turks did not sally. And the internal conflagration is not quenched, far from it;–and about nine A.M. their Powder-Magazine, conflagration reaching it, roared aloft into the air, and killed seven thousand of them,” [Mannstein, pp. 151-156.]–
So that Oczakow was taken, sure enough; terms, life only: and every remaining Turk packs off from it, some “twenty thousand inhabitants young and old” for one sad item.–A very blazing semi- absurd event, to be read of in Prussian military circles,–where General Keith will be better known one day.
Russian War with the Turk: that means withal, by old Treaties, aid of thirty thousand men from the Kaiser to Russia. Kaiser, so ruined lately, how can he send thirty thousand, and keep them recruited, in such distant expedition? Kaiser, much meditating, is advised it will be better to go frankly into the Turk on his own score, and try for slices of profit from him in this game. Kaiser declares war against the Turk; and what is still more interesting to Friedrich Wilhelm and the Berlin Circles, Seckendorf is named General of it. Feldzeugmeister now Feldmarschall Seckendorf, envy may say what it will, he has marched this season into the Lower-Donau Countries,–going to besiege Widdin, they say,–at the head of a big Army (on paper, almost a hundred and fifty thousand, light troops and heavy)– virtually Commander-in-Chief; though nominally our fine young friend Franz of Lorraine bears the title of Commander, whom Seckendorf is to dry-nurse in the way sometimes practised. Going to besiege Widdin, they say. So has the poor Kaiser been advised. His wise old Eugene is now gone; [Died 30th April, 1736.] I fear his advisers,–a youngish Feldzeugmeister, Prince of Hildburghausen, the chief favorite among them,–are none of the wisest. All Protestants, we observe, these favorite Hildburghausens, Schmettaus, Seckendorfs of his; and Vienna is an orthodox papal Court;–and there is a Hofkriegsrath (Supreme Council of War), which has ruined many a General, poking too meddlesomely into his affairs! On the whole, Seckendorf will have his difficulties. Here is a scene, on the Lower Donau, different enough from that at Oczakow, not far from contemporaneous with it. The Austrian Army is at Kolitz, a march or two beyond Belgrade:–
“KOLITZ, 2d JULY, 1737. This day, the Army not being on march, but allowed to rest itself, Grand Duke Franz went into the woods to hunt. Hunting up and down, he lost himself; did not return at evening; and, as the night closed in and no Generalissimo visible, the Generalissimo AD LATUS (such the title they had contrived for Seckendorf) was in much alarm. Generalissimo AD LATUS ordered out his whole force of drummers, trumpeters: To fling themselves, postwise, deeper and deeper into the woods all round; to drum there, and blow, in ever-widening circle, in prescribed notes, and with all energy, till the Grand Duke were found. Grand Duke being found, Seckendorf remonstrated, rebuked; a thought too earnestly, some say, his temper being flurried,”–voice snuffling somewhat in alt, with lisp to help:–“so that the Grand Duke took offence; flung off in a huff: and always looked askance on the Feldmarschall from that time;” [See
Grafen van Schmettau
i. 27.]–quitting him altogether before long; and marching with Khevenhuller, Wallis, Hildburghausen, or any of the subordinate Generals rather. Probably Widdin will not go the road of Oczakow, nor the Austrians prosper like the Russians, this summer.
Pollnitz, in Tobacco-Parliament, and in certain Berlin circles foolishly agape about this new Feldmarschall, maintains always, Seckendorf will come to nothing; which his Majesty zealously contradicts,–his Majesty, and some short-sighted private individuals still favorable to Seckendorf. [Pollnitz,
Memoiren,
OF BERG AND JULICH AGAIN; AND OF LUISCIUS WITH THE ONE RAZOR.
These remote occurrences are of small interest to his Prussian Majesty, in comparison with the Pfalz affair, the Cleve-Julich succession, which lies so near home. His Majesty is uncommonly anxious to have this matter settled, in peace, if possible. Kaiser and Reich, with the other Mediating Powers, go on mediating; but when will they decide? This year the old Bishop of Augsburg, one Brother of the older Kur-Pfalz Karl Philip, dies; nothing now between us and the event itself, but Karl Philip alone, who is verging towards eighty: the decision, to be peaceable, ought to be speedy! Friedrich Wilhelm, in January last, sent the expert Degenfeld, once of London, to old Karl Philip; and has him still there, with the most conciliatory offers: “Will leave your Sulzbachs a part, then; will be content with part, instead of the whole, which is mine if there be force in sealed parchment; will do anything for peace!” To which the old Kur-Pfalz, foolish old creature, is steadily deaf; answers vaguely, negatively always, in a polite manner; pushing his Majesty upon extremities painful to think of. “We hate war; but cannot quite do without justice, your Serenity,” thinks Friedrich Wilhelm: “must it be the eighty thousand iron ramrods, then?” Obstinate Serenity continues deaf; and Friedrich Wilhelm’s negotiations, there at Mannheim, over in Holland, and through Holland with England, not to speak of Kaiser and Reich close at hand, become very intense; vehemently earnest, about this matter, for the next two years. The details of which, inexpressibly uninteresting, shall be spared the reader.
Summary is, these Mediating Powers will be of no help to his Majesty; not even the Dutch will, with whom he is specially in friendship: nay, in the third year it becomes fatally manifest, the chief Mediating Powers, Kaiser and France, listening rather to political convenience, than to the claims of justice, go direct in Kur-Pfalz’s favor;–by formal treaty of their own, [“Versailles, 13th January, 1739” (Olrich,
Kriege,
Of certain wranglings with the little Town of Herstal,–Prussian Town (part of the Orange Heritage, once KING PEPIN’S Town, if that were any matter now) in the Bishop of Liege’s neighborhood, Town highly insignificant otherwise,–we shall say nothing here, as they will fall to be treated, and be settled, at an after stage. Friedrich Wilhelm was much grieved by the contumacies of that paltry little Herstal; and by the Bishop of Liege’s high-flown procedures in countenancing them;–especially in a recruiting ease that had fallen out there, and brought matters to a head. [“December, 1738,” is crisis of the recruiting case (
1739,” Bishop’s high-flown appearance in it (ib. 67); Kaiser’s in consequence, “10th April, 1739.”] The Kaiser too was afflictively high in countenancing the Bishop;—for which both Kaiser and Bishop got due payment in time. But his Prussian Majesty would not kindle the world for such a paltriness; and so left it hanging in a vexatious condition. Such things, it is remarked, weigh heavier on his now infirm Majesty than they were wont. He is more subject to fits of hypochondria, to talk of abdicating. “All gone wrong!” he would say, if any little flaw rose, about recruiting or the like. “One might go and live at Venice, were one rid of it!” [Forster (place LOST).] And his deep-stung clangorous growl against the Kaiser’s treatment of him bursts out, from time to time; though he oftenest pities the Kaiser, too; seeing him at such a pass with his Turk War and otherwise.
It was in this Pfalz business that Herr Luiscius, the Prussian Minister in Holland, got into trouble; of whom there is a light dash of outline-portraiture by Voltaire, which has made him memorable to readers. This “fat King of Prussia,” says Voltaire, was a dreadfully avaricious fellow, unbeautiful to a high degree in his proceedings with mankind:–
“He had a Minister at the Hague called Luiscius; who certainly of all Ministers of Crowned Heads was the worst paid. This poor man, to warm himself, had made some trees be felled in the Garden of Honslardik, which belonged at that time to the House of Prussia; he thereupon received despatches from the King, intimating that a year of his salary was forfeited. Luiscius, in despair, cut his throat with probably the one razor he had (SEUL RASOIR QU’IL EUT); an old valet came to his assistance, and unhappily saved his life. In after years, I found his Excellency at the Hague; and have occasionally given him an alms at the door of the VIEILLE COUR (Old Court), a Palace belonging to the King of Prussia, where this poor Ambassador had lived a dozen years. It must be owned, Turkey is a republic in comparison to the despotism exercised by Friedrich Wilhelm.” [
Here truly is a witty sketch; consummately dashed off, as nobody but Voltaire could; “round as Giotto’s O,” done at one stroke. Of which the prose facts are only as follows. Luiscius, Prussian Resident, not distinguished by salary or otherwise, had, at one stage of these negotiations, been told, from head-quarters, He might, in casual extra-official ways, if it seemed furthersome, give their High Mightinesses the hope, or notion, that his Majesty did not intend actual war about that Cleve-Julich Succession,– being a pacific Majesty, and unwilling to involve his neighbors and mankind. Luiscius, instead of casual hint delicately dropped in some good way, had proceeded by direct declaration; frank assurance to the High Mightinesses, That there would be no war. Which had never been quite his Majesty’s meaning, and perhaps was now becoming rather the reverse of it. Disavowal of Luiscius had to ensue thereupon; who produced defensively his instruction from head-quarters; but got only rebukes for such heavy-footed clumsy procedure, so unlike Diplomacy with its shoes of felt;– and, in brief, was turned out of the Diplomatic function, as unfit for it; and appointed to manage certain Orange Properties, fragments of the Orange Heritage which his Majesty still has in those Countries. This misadventure sank heavily on the spirits of Luiscius, otherwise none of the strongest-minded of men. Nor did he prosper in managing the Orange Properties: on the contrary, he again fell into mistakes; got soundly rebuked for injudicious conduct there,–“cutting trees,” planting trees, or whatever it was;–and this produced such an effect on Luiscius, that he made an attempt on his own throat, distracted mortal; and was only stopped by somebody rushing in. “It was not the first time he had tried that feat,” says Pollnitz, “and been prevented; nor was it long till he made a new attempt, which was again frustrated: and always afterwards his relations kept him close in view:” Majesty writing comfortable forgiveness to the perturbed creature, and also “settling a pension on him;” adequate, we can hope, and not excessive; “which Luiscius continued to receive, at the Hague, so long as he lived.” These are the prose facts; not definitely dated to us, but perfectly clear otherwise. [Pollnitz, ii. 495, 496;–the “NEW attempt” seems to have been “June, 1739” (
Gentleman’s Magazine,
Voltaire, in his Dutch excursions, did sometimes, in after years, lodge in that old vacant Palace, called VIEILLE COUR, at the Hague; where he gracefully celebrates the decayed forsaken state of matters; dusky vast rooms with dim gilding; forgotten libraries “veiled under the biggest spider-webs in Europe;” for the rest, an uncommonly quiet place, convenient for a writing man, besides costing nothing. A son of this Luiscius, a good young lad, it also appears, was occasionally Voltaire’s amanuensis there; him he did recommend zealously to the new King of Prussia, who was not deaf on the occasion. This, in the fire of satirical wit, is what we can transiently call “giving alms to a Prussian Excellency;”– not now excellent, but pensioned and cracked; and the reader perceives, Luiscius had probably more than one razor, had not one been enough, when he did the rash act. Friedrich employed Luiscius Junior, with no result that we hear of farther; and seems to have thought Luiscius Senior an absurd fellow, not worth mentioning again: “ran away from the Cleve Country [probably some mad-house there] above a year ago, I hear; and what is the matter where such a crack-brain end?” [Voltaire,
(Letter to Friedrich, 7th October, 1740), lxxii. 261; and Fredrich’s answer (wrong dated), ib. 265; Preuss, xxii. 33.]
Chapter V.
VISIT AT LOO.
The Pfalz question being in such a predicament, and Luiscius diplomatizing upon it in such heavy-footed manner, his Majesty thinks a journey to Holland, to visit one’s Kinsfolk there, and incidentally speak a word with the High Mightinesses upon Pfalz, would not be amiss. Such journey is decided on; Crown-Prince to accompany. Summer of 1738: a short visit, quite without fuss; to last only three days;–mere sequel to the Reviews held in those adjacent Cleve Countries; so that the Gazetteers may take no notice. All which was done accordingly: Crown-Prince’s first sight of Holland; and one of the few reportable points of his Reinsberg life, and not quite without memorability to him and us.
On the 8th of July, 1738, the Review Party got upon the road for Wesel: all through July, they did their reviewing in those Cleve Countries; and then struck across for the Palace of Loo in Geldern, where a Prince of Orange countable kinsman to his Prussian Majesty, and a Princess still more nearly connected,– English George’s Daughter, own niece to his Prussian Majesty,–are in waiting for this distinguished honor. The Prince of Orange we have already seen, for a moment once; at the siege of Philipsburg four years ago, when the sale of Chasot’s horses went off so well. “Nothing like selling horses when your company have dined well,” whispered he to Chasot, at that time; since which date we have heard nothing of his Highness.
He is not a beautiful man; he has a crooked back, and features conformable; but is of prompt vivacious nature, and does not want for sense and good-humor. Paternal George, the gossips say, warned his Princess, when this marriage was talked of, “You will find him very ill-looking, though!” “And if I found him a baboon–!” answered she; being so heartily tired of St. James’s. And in fact, for anything I have heard, they do well enough together. She is George II.’s eldest Princess;–next elder to our poor Amelia, who was once so interesting to us! What the Crown-Prince now thought of all that, I do not know; but the Books say, poor Amelia wore the willow, and specially wore the Prince’s miniature on her breast all her days after, which were many. Grew corpulent, somewhat a huddle in appearance and equipment, “eyelids like upper-LIPS,” for one item: but when life itself fled, the miniature was found in its old place, resting on the old heart after some sixty years. O Time, O Sons and Daughters of Time!–
His Majesty’s reception at Loo was of the kind he liked,–cordial, honorable, unceremonious; and these were three pleasant days he had. Pleasant for the Crown-Prince too; as the whole Journey had rather been; Papa, with covert satisfaction, finding him a wise creature, after all, and “more serious” than formerly. “Hm, you don’t know what things are in that Fritz!” his Majesty murmured sometimes, in these later years, with a fine light in his eyes.
Loo itself is a beautiful Palace: “Loo, close by the Village Appeldoorn, is a stately brick edifice, built with architectural regularity; has finely decorated rooms, beautiful gardens, and round are superb alleys of oak and linden.” [Busching,
Erdbeschreibung,
203, the Letter, “Cirey, June, 1738;” Ib. 222, the Answer to it, “Loo, 6th August, 1738.”]
No doubt a glad incident, irradiating, as with a sudden sunburst in gray weather, the commonplace of things. Here is news worth listening to; news as from the empyrean! Free interchange of poetries and proses, of heroic sentiments and opinions, between the Unique of Sages and the Paragon of Crown-Princes; how charming to both! Literary business, we perceive, is brisk on both hands; at Cirey the
DISCOURS” arrives in this packet at Loo, surely a deathless piece of singing); nor is Reinsberg idle: Reinsberg is copiously doing verse, such verse! and in prose, very earnestly, an “ANTI- MACHIAVEL;” which soon afterwards filled all the then world, though it has now fallen so silent again. And at Paris, as Voltaire announces with a flourish, “M. de Maupertuis’s excellent Book,
1738: Maupertuis’s “measurement of a degree,” in the utmost North, 1736-1737 (to prove the Earth flattened there). Vivid Narrative; somewhat gesticulative, but duly brief. The only Book of that great Maupertuis which is now readable to human nature.] M. de Maupertuis, home from the Polar regions and from measuring the Earth there; the sublimest miracle in Paris society at present. Might build, new-build, an ACADEMY OF SCIENCES at Berlin for your Royal Highness, one day? suggests Voltaire, on this occasion: and Friedrich, as we shall see, takes the hint. One passage of the Crown-Prince’s Answer is in these terms;–fixing this Loo visit to its date for us, at any rate:–
“LOO IN HOLLAND, 6th AUGUST, 1739. … I write from a place where there lived once a great man [William III. of England, our Dutch William]; which is now the Prince of Orange’s House. The demon of Ambition sheds its unhappy poisons over his days. He might be the most fortunate of men; and he is devoured by chagrins in his beautiful Palace here, in the middle of his gardens and of a brilliant Court. It is pity in truth; for he is a Prince with no end of wit (INFINIMENT D’ESPRIT), and has respectable qualites.” Not Stadtholder, unluckily; that is where the shoe pinches; the Dutch are on the Republican tack, and will not have a Stadtholder at present. No help for it in one’s beautiful gardens and avenues of oak and linden.
“I have talked a great deal about Newton with the Princess,”– about Newton; never hinted at Amelia; not permissible!–“from Newton we passed to Leibnitz; and from Leibnitz to the Late Queen of England,” Caroline lately gone, “who, the Prince told me, was of Clarke’s sentiment” on that important theological controversy now dead to mankind.–And of Jenkins and his Ear did the Princess say nothing? That is now becoming a high phenomenon in England! But readers must wait a little.
Pity that we cannot give these two Letters in full; that no reader, almost, could be made to understand them, or to care for them when understood. Such the cruelty of Time upon this Voltaire- Friedrich Correspondence, and some others; which were once so rosy, sunny, and are now fallen drearily extinct,–studiable by Editors only! In itself the Friedrich-Voltaire Correspondence, we can see, was charming; very blossomy at present: businesses increasing; mutual admiration now risen to a great height,– admiration sincere on both sides, most so on the Prince’s, and extravagantly expressed on both sides, most so on Voltaire’s.
CROWN-PRINCE BECOMES A FREEMASON; AND IS HARANGUED BY MONSIEUR DE BIELFELD.
His Majesty, we said, had three pleasant days at Loo; discoursing, as with friends, on public matters, or even on more private matters, in a frank unconstrained way. He is not to be called “Majesty” on this occasion; but the fact, at Loo, and by the leading Mightinesses of the Republic, who come copiously to compliment him there, is well remembered. Talk there was, with such leading Mightinesses, about the Julich-and-Berg question, aim of this Journey: earnest enough private talk with some of them: but it availed nothing; and would not be worth reporting now to any creature, if we even knew it. In fact, the Journey itself remains mentionable chiefly by one very trifling circumstance; and then by another, not important either, which followed out of that. The trifling circumstance is,–That Friedrich, in the course of this Journey, became a Freemason: and the unimportant sequel was, That he made acquaintance with one Bielfeld, on the occasion; who afterwards wrote a Book about him, which was once much read, though never much worth reading, and is still citable, with precaution, now and then. [Monsieur le Baron de Bielfeld,
Lettres Familieres et Autres,
2 vols. a Leide, 1767, is the one we use here.] Trifling circumstance, of Freemasonry, as we read in Bielfeld and in many Books after him, befell in manner following.
Among the dinner-guests at Loo, one of those three days, was a Prince of Lippe-Buckeburg,–Prince of small territory, but of great speculation; whose territory lies on the Weser, leading to Dutch connections; and whose speculations stretch over all the Universe, in a high fantastic style:–he was a dinner-guest; and one of the topics that came up was Freemasonry; a phantasmal kind of object, which had kindled itself, or rekindled, in those years, in England first of all; and was now hovering about, a good deal, in Germany and other countries; pretending to be a new light of Heaven, and not a bog-meteor of phosphorated hydrogen, conspicuous in the murk of things. Bog-meteor, foolish putrescent will-o’-wisp, his Majesty promptly defined it to be: Tom-foolery and KINDERSPIEL, what else? Whereupon ingenious Buckeburg, who was himself a Mason, man of forty by this time, and had high things in him of the Quixotic type, ventured on defence; and was so respectful, eloquent, dexterous, ingenious, he quite captivated, if not his Majesty, at least the Crown-Prince, who was more enthusiastic for high things. Crown-Prince, after table, took his Durchlaucht of Buckeburg aside; talked farther on the subject, expressed his admiration, his conviction,–his wish to be admitted into such a Hero Fraternity. Nothing could be welcomer to Durchlaucht. And so, in all privacy, it was made up betweeen them, That Durchlaucht, summoning as many mystic Brothers out of Hamburg as were needful, should be in waiting with them, on the Crown- Prince’s road homeward,–say at Brunswick, night before the Fair, where we are to be,–and there make the Crown-Prince a Mason. [Bielfeld, i. 14-16; Preuss, i. 111; Preuss,
Jedermann,
This is Bielfeld’s account, repeated ever since; substantially correct, except that the scene was not Loo at all: dinner and dialogue, it now appears, took place in Durchlaucht’s own neighborhood, during the Cleve Review time; “probably at Minden, 17th July;” and all was settled into fixed program before Loo came in sight. [
Friedrich’s Letter to this Durchlaucht, “Comte de Schaumbourg- Lippe” he calls him; date, “Moyland, 26th July, 1738: “Moyland, a certain SCHLOSS, or habitable Mansion, of his Majesty’s, few miles to north of Mors in the Cleve Country; where his Majesty used often to pause;–and where (what will be much more remarkable to readers) the Crown-Prince and Voltaire had their first meeting, two years hence.] Bielfeld’s report of the subsequent procedure at Brunswick, as he saw it and was himself part of it, is liable to no mistakes, at least of the involuntary kind; and may, for anything we know, be correct in every particular.
He says (veiling it under discreet asterisks, which are now decipherable enough), The Durchlaucht of Lippe-Buckeburg had summoned six Brethren of the Hamburg Lodge; of whom we mention only a Graf von Kielmannsegge, a Baron von Oberg, both from Hanover, and Bielfeld himself, a Merchant’s Son, of Hamburg; these, with “Kielmannsegge’s Valet to act as Tiler,” Valet being also a Mason, and the rule equality of mankind,–were to have the honor of initiating the Crown-Prince. They arrived at the Western Gate of Brunswick on the 11th of August, as prearranged; Prussian Majesty not yet come, but coming punctually on the morrow. It is Fair-time; all manner of traders, pedlers, showmen rendezvousing; many neighboring Nobility too, as was still the habit. “Such a bulk of light luggage?” said the Custom-house people at the Gate; –but were pacified by slipping them a ducat. Upon which we drove to “Korn’s Hotel” (if anybody now knew it); and there patiently waited. No great things of a Hotel, says Bielfeld; but can be put up with;–worst feature is, we discover a Hanover acquaintance lodging close by, nothing but a wooden partition between us: How if he should overhear!–
Prussian Majesty and suite, under universal cannon-salvos, arrived, Sunday the 12th; to stay till Wednesday (three days) with his august Son-in-law and Daughter here. Durchlaucht Lippe presents himself at Court, the rest of us not; privately settles with the Prince: “Tuesday night, eve of his Majesty’s departure; that shall be the night: at Korn’s Hotel, late enough!” And there, accordingly, on the appointed night, 14th-15th August, 1738, the light-luggage trunks have yielded their stage-properties; Jachin and Boaz are set up, and all things are ready; Tiler (Kielmannsegge’s Valet) watching with drawn sword against the profane. As to our Hanover neighbor, on the other side the partition, says Bielfeld, we waited on him, this day after dinner, successively paying our respects; successively pledged him in so many bumpers, he is lying dead drunk hours ago, could not overhear a cannon-battery, he. And soon after midnight, the Crown-Prince glides in, a Captain Wartensleben accompanying, who is also a candidate; and the mysterious rites are accomplished on both of them, on the Crown-Prince first, without accident, and in the usual way.
Bielfeld could not enough admire the demeanor of this Prince, his clearness, sense, quiet brilliancy; and how he was so “intrepid,” and “possessed himself so gracefully in the most critical instants.” Extremely genial air, and so young, looks younger even than his years: handsome to a degree, though of short stature. Physiognomy, features, quite charming; fine auburn hair (BEAU BRUN), a negligent plenty of it; “his large blue eyes have something at once severe, sweet and gracious.” Eligible Mason indeed. Had better make despatch at present, lest Papa be getting on the road before him!–Bielfeld delivered a small address, composed beforehand; with which the Prince seemed to be content. And so, with masonic grip, they made their adieus for the present; and the Crown-Prince and Wartensleben were back at their posts, ready for the road along with his Majesty.
His Majesty came on Sunday; goes on Wednesday, home now at a stretch; and, we hope, has had a good time of it here, these three days. Daughter Charlotte and her Serene Husband, well with their subjects, well with one another, are doing well; have already two little Children; a Boy the elder, of whom we have heard: Boy’s name is Karl, age now three; sprightly, reckoned very clever, by the fond parents;–who has many things to do in the world, by and by; to attack the French Revolution, and be blown to pieces by it on the Field of Jena, for final thing! That is the fate of little Karl, who frolics about here, so sunshiny and ingenuous at present.
Karl’s Grandmother, the Serene Dowager Duchess, Friedrich’s own Mother-in-law, his Majesty and Friedrich would also of course see here. Fine Younger Sons of hers are coming forward; the reigning Duke beautifully careful about the furtherance of these Cadets of the House. Here is Prince Ferdinand, for instance; just getting ready for the Grand Tour; goes in a month hence: [Mauvillon (FILS, son of him whom we cite otherwise),
Herzogs von Braunschweig-Luneburg
i. 17-25.] a fine eupeptic loyal young fellow; who, in a twenty years more, will be Chatham’s Generalissimo, and fight the French to some purpose. A Brother of his, the next elder, is now fighting the Turks for his Kaiser; does not like it at all, under such Seckendorfs and War-Ministries as there are. Then, elder still, eldest of all the Cadets, there is Anton Ulrich, over at Petersburg for some years past, with outlooks high enough: To wed the Mecklenburg Princess there (Daughter of the unutterable Duke), and be as good as Czar of all the Russias one day. Little to his profit, poor soul!–These, historically ascertainable, are the aspects of the Brunswick Court during those three days of Royal Visit, in Fair-time; and may serve to date the Masonic Transaction for us, which the Crown-Prince has just accomplished over at Korn’s.
As for the Transaction itself, there is intrinsically no harm in this initiation, we will hope: but it behooves to be kept well hidden from Papa. Papa’s good opinion of the Prince has sensibly risen, in the course of this Journey, “so rational, serious, not dangling about among the women as formerly;”–and what a shock would this of Korn’s Hotel be, should Papa hear of it! Poor Papa, from officious tale-bearers he hears many things: is in distress about Voltaire, about Heterodoxies;–and summoned the Crown- Prince, by express, from Reinsberg, on one occasion lately, over to Potsdam, “to take the Communion” there, by way of case- hardening against Voltaire and Heterodoxies! Think of it, human readers!–We will add the following stray particulars, more or less illustrative of the Masonic Transaction; and so end that trifling affair.
The Captain Wartensleben, fellow-recipient of the mysteries at Brunswick, is youngest son, by a second marriage, of old Feldmarschall Wartensleben, now deceased; and is consequently Uncle, Half-Uncle, of poor Lieutenant Katte, though some years younger than Katte would now have been. Tender memories hang by Wartensleben, in a silent way! He is Captain in the Potsdam Giants; somewhat an intimate, and not undeservedly so, of the Crown-Prince;–succeeds Wolden as Hofmarschall at Reinsberg, not many months after this; Wolden having died of an apoplectic stroke. Of Bielfeld comes a Book, slightly citable; from no other of the Brethren, or their Feat at Kern’s, comes (we may say) anything whatever. The Crown-Prince prosecuted his Masonry, at Reinsberg or elsewhere, occasionally, for a year or two; but was never ardent in it; and very soon after his Accession, left off altogether: “Child’s-play and IGNIS FATUUS mainly!” A Royal Lodge was established at Berlin, of which the new King consented to be patron; but he never once entered the place; and only his Portrait (a welcomely good one, still to be found there) presided over the mysteries in that Establishment. Harmless “fire,” but too “fatuous;” mere flame-circles cut in the air, for infants, we know how!–
With Lippe-Buckeburg there ensued some Correspondence, high enough on his Serenity’s side; but it soon languished on the Prince’s side; and in private Poetry, within a two years of this Brunswick scene, we find Lippe used proverbially for a type-specimen of Fools. [“Taciturne, Caton, avec mes bons parents, Aussi fou que la Lippe met les jeunes gens.”
Faussete,
Nor is Bielfeld with his Book a thing of much moment to Friedrich or to us. Bielfeld too has a light airy vein of talk; loves Voltaire and the Philosophies in a light way;–knows the arts of Society, especially the art of flattering; and would fain make himself agreeable to the Crown-Prince, being anxious to rise in the world. His Father is a Hamburg Merchant, Hamburg “Sealing-wax Manufacturer,” not ill off for money: Son has been at schools, high schools, under tutors, posture-masters; swashes about on those terms, with French ESPRIT in his mouth, and lace ruffles at his wrists; still under thirty; showy enough, sharp enough; considerably a coxcomb, as is still evident. He did transiently get about Friedrich, as we shall see; and hoped to have sold his heart to good purpose there;– was, by and by, employed in slight functions; not found fit for grave ones. In the course of some years, he got a title of Baron; and sold his heart more advantageously, to some rich Widow or Fraulein; with whom he retired to Saxony, and there lived on an Estate he had purchased, a stranger to Prussia thenceforth.
His Book (
all turning on Friedrich), which came out in 1763, at the height of Friedrich’s fame, and was much read, is still freely cited by Historians as an Authority. But the reading of a few pages sufficiently intimates that these “Letters” never can have gone through a terrestrial Post-office; that they are an afterthought, composed from vague memory and imagination, in that fine Saxon retreat;–a sorrowful ghost-like “TRAVELS OF ANACHARSIS,” instead of living words by an eye-witness! Not to be cited “freely” at all, but sparingly and under conditions. They abound in small errors, in misdates, mistakes; small fictions even, and impossible pretensions:–foolish mortal, to write down his bit of knowledge in that form! For the man, in spite of his lace ruffles and gesticulations, has brisk eyesight of a superficial kind: he COULD have done us this little service (apparently his one mission in the world, for which Nature gave him bed and board here); and he, the lace ruffles having gone into his soul, has been tempted into misdoing it!–Bielfeld and Bielfeld’s Book, such as they are, appear to be the one conquest Friedrich got of Freemasonry; no other result now traceable to us of that adventure in Korn’s Hotel, crowning event of the Journey to Loo.
SECKENDORF GETS LODGED IN GRATZ.
Feldmarschall Seckendorf, after unheard-of wrestlings with the Turk War, and the Vienna War-Office (HOFKRIEGSRATH), is sitting, for the last three weeks,–where thinks the reader?–in the Fortress of Gratz among the Hills of Styria; a State-Prisoner, not likely to get out soon! Seckendorf led forth, in 1737, “such an Army, for number, spirit and equipment,” say the Vienna people, “as never marched against the Turk before;” and it must be owned, his ill success has been unparalleled. The blame was not altogether his; not chiefly his, except for his rash undertaking of the thing, on such terms as there were. But the truth is, that first scene we saw of him,–an Army all gone out trumpeting and drumming into the woods to FIND its Commander-in-Chief,–was an emblem of the Campaign in general. Excellent Army; but commanded by nobody in particular; commanded by a HOFKRIEGSRATH at Vienna, by a Franz Duke of Tuscany, by Feldmarschall Seckendorf, and by subordinates who were disobedient to him: which accordingly, almost without help of the Turk and his disorderly ferocity, rubbed itself to pieces before long. Roamed about, now hither now thither, with plans laid and then with plans suddenly altered, Captain being Chaos mainly; in swampy countries, by overflowing rivers, in hunger, hot weather, forced marches; till it was marched gradualIy off its feet; and the clouds of chaotic Turks, who did finally show face, had a cheap pennyworth of it. Never was such a campaign seen as this of Seckendorf in 1737, said mankind. Except indeed that the present one, Campaign of 1738, in those parts, under a different hand, is still worse; and the Campaign of 1739, under still a different, will be worst of all!–Kaiser Karl and his Austrians do not prosper in this Turk War, as the Russians do,–who indeed have got a General equal to his task: Munnich, a famed master in the art of handling Turks and War-Ministries: real father of Russian Soldiering, say the Russians still. [See MANNSTEIN for Munnich’s plans with the Turk (methods and devices of steady Discipline in small numbers VERSUS impetuous Ferocity in great); and Berenhorst (
die Kriegskunst,
Campaign 1737, with clouds of chaotic Turks now sabring on the skirts of it, had not yet ended, when Seckendorf was called out of it; on polite pretexts, home to Vienna; and the command given to another. At the gates of Vienna, in the last days of October, 1737, an Official Person, waiting for the Feldmarschall, was sorry to inform him, That he, Feldmarschall Seckendorf, was under arrest; arrest in his own house, in the KOHLMARKT (Cabbage-market so called), a captain and twelve musketeers to watch over him with fixed bayonets there; strictly private, till the HOFKRIEGSRATH had satisfied themselves in a point or two. “Hmph!” snuffled he; with brow blushing slate-color, I should think, and gray eyes much alight. And ever since, for ten months or so, Seckendorf, sealed up in the Cabbage-market, has been fencing for life with the HOFKRIEGSRATH; who want satisfaction upon “eighty-six” different “points;” and make no end of chicaning to one’s clear answers. And the Jesuits preach, too: “A Heretic, born enemy of Christ and his Kaiser; what is the use of questioning!” And the Heathen rage, and all men gnash their teeth, in this uncomfortable manner.
Answering done, there comes no verdict, much less any acquittal; the captain and twelve musketeers, three of them with fixed bayonets in one’s very bedroom, continue. One evening, 21st July, 1738, glorious news from the seat of War–not TILL evening, as the Imperial Majesty was out hunting–enters Vienna; blowing trumpets; shaking flags: “Grand Victory over the Turks!” so we call some poor skirmish there has been; and Vienna bursting all into three- times-three, the populace get very high. Populace rush to the Kohlmarkt: break the Seckendorf windows; intent to massacre the Seckendorf; had not fresh military come, who were obliged to fire and kill one or two. “The house captain and his twelve musketeers, of themselves, did wonders; Seckendorf and all his domestics were in arms:” “JARNI-BLEU” for the last time!–This is while the Crown-Prince is at Wesel; sound asleep, most likely; Loo, and the Masonic adventure, perhaps twinkling prophetically in his dreams.
At two next morning, an Official Gentleman informs Seckendorf, That he, for his part, must awaken, and go to Gratz. And in one hour more (3 A.M.), the Official Gentleman rolls off with him; drives all day; and delivers his Prisoner at Gratz:–“Not so much as a room ready there; Prisoner had to wait an hour in the carriage,” till some summary preparation were made. Wall-neighbors of the poor Feldmarschall, in his Fortress here, were “a GOLD-COOK (swindling Alchemist), who had gone crazy; and an Irish Lieutenant, confined thirty-two years for some love-adventure, likewise pretty crazy; their noises in the night-time much disturbed the Feldmarschall.” [
pp. 27-59.] One human thing there still is in his lot, the Feldmarschall’s old Grafinn. True old Dame, she, both in the Kohlmarkt and at Gratz, stands by him, “imprisoned along with him” if it must be so; ministering, comforting, as only a true Wife can;–and hope has not quite taken wing.
Rough old Feldmarschall; now turned of sixty: never made such a Campaign before, as this of 1737 followed by 1738! There sits he; and will not trouble us any more during the present Kaiser’s lifetime. Friedrich Wilhelm is amazed at these sudden cantings of Fortune’s wheel, and grieves honestly as for an old friend: even the Crown-Prince finds Seckendorf punished unjustly; and is almost, sorry for him, after all that has come and gone.
THE EAR OF JENKINS RE-EMERGES.
We must add the following, distilled from the English Newspapers, though it is now almost four months after date:–
“LONDON, 1st APRIL, 1738. In the English House of Commons, much more in the English Public, there has been furious debating for a fortnight past: Committee of the whole House, examining witnesses, hearing counsel; subject, the Termagant of Spain, and her West- Indian procedures;–she, by her procedures somewhere, is always cutting out work for mankind! How English and other strangers, fallen-in with in those seas, are treated by the Spaniards, readers have heard, nay have chanced to see; and it is a fact painfully known to all nations. Fact which England, for one nation, can no longer put up with. Walpole and the Official Persons would fain smooth the matter; but the West-India Interest, the City, all Mercantile and Navigation Interests are in dead earnest: Committee of the whole House, ‘Presided by Alderman Perry,’ has not ears enough to hear the immensities of evidence offered; slow Public is gradually kindling to some sense of it. This had gone on for two weeks, when–what shall we say?–the EAR OF JENKINS re-emerged for the second time; and produced important effects!
“Where Jenkins had been all this while,–steadfastly navigating to and fro, steadfastly eating tough junk with a wetting of rum; not thinking too much of past labors, yet privately ‘always keeping his lost Ear in cotton’ (with a kind of ursine piety, or other dumb feeling),–no mortal now knows. But to all mortals it is evident he was home in London at this time; no doubt a noted member of Wapping society, the much-enduring Jenkins. And witnesses, probably not one but many, had mentioned him to this Committee, as a case eminently in point. Committee, as can still be read in its Rhadamanthine Journals, orders: ‘DIE JOVIS, 16* MARTII 1737-1738, That Captain Robert Jenkins do attend this House immediately;’ and then more specially, ’17* MARTII” captious objections having risen in Official quarters, as we guess,–‘That Captain Robert Jenkins do attend upon Tuesday morning next.’ [
Tuesday next is 2lst March,–1st of April, 1738, by our modern Calendar;–and on that day, not adoubt, Jenkins does attend; narrates that tremendous passage we already heard of, seven years ago, in the entrance of the Gulf of Florida; and produces his Ear wrapt in cotton:–setting all on flame (except the Official persons) at sight of it.”
Official persons, as their wont is in the pressure of debate, endeavored to deny, to insinuate in their vile Newspapers, That Jenkins lost his Ear nearer home and not for nothing; as one still reads in the History Books. [Tindal (xx. 372). Coxe, &c.] Sheer calumnies, we now find. Jenkins’s account was doubtless abundantly emphatic; but there is no ground to question the substantial truth of him and it. And so, after seven years of unnoticeable burning upon the thick skin of the English Public, the case of Jenkins accidentally burns through, and sets England bellowing; such a smart is there of it,–not to be soothed by Official wet-cloths; but getting worse and worse, for the nineteen months ensuing. And in short–But we will not anticipate!
Chapter VI.
LAST YEAR OF REINSBERG; JOURNEY TO PREUSSEN.
The Idyllium of Reinsberg–of which, except in the way of sketchy suggestion, there can no history be given–lasted less than four years; and is now coming to an end, unexpectedly soon. A pleasant Arcadian Summer in one’s life;–though it has not wanted its occasional discords, flaws of ill weather in the general sunshine. Papa, always in uncertain health of late, is getting heavier of foot and of heart under his heavy burdens; and sometimes falls abstruse enough, liable to bewilderments from bad people and events: not much worth noticing here. [See Pollnitz, ii. 509-515; Friedrich’s Letter to Wilhelmina (“Berlin, 20th January, 1739:” in
To the young Prince himself, “courting tranquillity,” as his door- lintel intimated, [
As biographical documents, these Poetries and Proses of the young man give a very pretty testimony of him; but are not of value otherwise. In fact, they promise, if we look well into them, That here is probably a practical faculty and intellect of the highest kind; which again, on the speculative, especially on the poetical side, will never be considerable, nor has even tried to be so. This young soul does not deal in meditation at all, and his tendencies are the reverse of sentimental. Here is no introspection, morbid or other, no pathos or complaint, no melodious informing of the public what dreadful emotions you labor under: here, in rapid prompt form, indicating that it is truth and not fable, are generous aspirations for the world and yourself, generous pride, disdain of the ignoble, of the dark, mendacious;– here, in short, is a swift-handed, valiant, STEEL-bright kind of soul; very likely for a King’s, if other things answer, and not likely for a Poet’s. No doubt he could have made something of Literature too; could have written Books, and left some stamp of a veracious, more or less victorious intellect, in that strange province too. But then he must have applied himself to it, as he did to reigning: done in the cursory style, we see what it has come to.
It is certain, Friedrich’s reputation suffers, at this day, from his writing. From his NOT having written nothing, he stands lower with the world. Which seems hard measure;–though perhaps it is the law of the case, after all. “Nobody in these days,” says my poor Friend, “has the least notion of the sinful waste there is in talk, whether by pen or tongue. Better probably that King Friedrich had written no Verses; nay I know not that David’s Psalms did David’s Kingship any good!” Which may be truer than it seems. Fine aspirations, generous convictions, purposes,–they are thought very fine: but it is good, on various accounts, to keep them rather silent; strictly unvocal, except on call of real business; so dangerous are they for becoming conscious of themselves! Most things do not ripen at all except underground. And it is a sad but sure truth, that every time you SPEAK of a fine purpose, especially if with eloquence and to the admiration of by-standers, there is the LESS chance of your ever making a fact of it in your poor life.–If Reinsberg, and its vacancy of great employment, was the cause of Friedrich’s verse-writing, we will not praise Reinsberg on that head! But the truth is, Friedrich’s verses came from him with uncommon fluency; and were not a deep matter, but a shallow one, in any sense. Not much more to him than speaking with a will; than fantasying on the flute in an animated strain. Ever and anon through his life, on small hint from without or on great, there was found a certain leakage of verses, which he was prompt to utter;–and the case at Reinsberg, or afterwards, is not so serious as we might imagine.
PINE’S HORACE; AND THE ANTI-MACHIAVEL.
In late months Friedrich had conceived one notable project; which demands a word in this place. Did modern readers ever hear of “John Pine, the celebrated English Engraver”? John Pine, a man of good scholarship, good skill with his burin, did “Tapestries of the House of Lords,” and other things of a celebrated nature, famous at home and abroad: but his peculiar feat, which had commended him at Reinsberg, was an Edition of HORACE: exquisite old FLACCUS brought to perfection, as it were; all done with vignettes, classical borderings, symbolic marginal ornaments, in fine taste and accuracy, the Text itself engraved; all by the exquisite burin of Pine. [“London, 1737” (
Universelle,
The Pine HORACE, part of the Pine VIRGIL too, still exist in the libraries of the curious; and are doubtless known to the proper parties, though much forgotten by others of us. To Friedrich, scanning the Pine phenomenon with interest then brand-new, it seemed an admirable tribute to classical genius; and the idea occurred to him, “Is not there, by Heaven’s blessing, a living genius, classical like those antique Romans, and worthy of a like tribute?” Friedrich’s idea was, That Voltaire being clearly the supreme of Poets, the HENRIADE, his supreme of Poems, ought to be engraved like FLACCUS; text and all, with vignettes, tail-pieces, classical borderings beautifully symbolic and exact; by the exquisite burin of Pine. Which idea the young hero-worshipper, in spite of his finance-difficulties, had resolved to realize; and was even now busy with it, since his return from Loo. “Such beautiful enthusiasm,” say some readers; “and in behalf of that particular demi-god!” Alas, yes; to Friedrich he was the best demi-god then going; and Friedrich never had any doubt about him.
For the rest, this heroic idea could not realize itself; and we are happy to have nothing more to do with Pine or the HENRIADE. Correspondences were entered into with Pine, aud some pains taken: Pine’s high prices were as nothing; but Pine was busy with his VIRGIL; probably, in fact, had little stomach for the HENRIADE; “could not for seven years to come enter upon it:” so that the matter had to die away; and nothing came of it but a small DISSERTATION, or Introductory Essay, which the Prince had got ready,–which is still to be found printed in Voltaire’s Works [
But there is another literary project on hand, which did take effect;–much worthy of mention, this year; the whole world having risen into such a Chorus of TE DEUM at sight of it next year. In this year falls, what at any rate was a great event to Friedrich, as literary man: the printing of his first Book,– assiduous writing of it with an eye to print. The Book is that “celebrated ANTI-MACHIAVEL,” ever-praiseworthy Refutation of Machiavel’s PRINCE; concerning which there are such immensities of Voltaire Correspondence, now become, like the Book itself, inane to all readers. This was the chosen soul’s employment of Friedrich, the flower of life to him, at Reinsberg, through the yea? 1739. It did not actually get to press till Spring 1740; nor actually come out till Autumn,–by which time a great change had occurred in Friedrich’s title and circumstances: but we may as well say here what little is to be said of it for modern readers.
“The Crown-Prince, reading this bad Book of Machiavel’s, years ago, had been struck, as all honest souls, especially governors or apprentices to governing, must be, if they thought of reading such a thing, with its badness, its falsity, detestability; and came by degrees, obliquely fishing out Voltaire’s opinion as he went along, on the notion of refuting Machiavel; and did refute him, the best he could. Set down, namely, his own earnest contradiction to such ungrounded noxious doctrines; elaborating the same more and more into clear logical utterance; till it swelled into a little Volume; which, so excellent was it, so important to mankind, Voltaire and friends were clear for publishing. Published accordingly it was; goes through the press next Summer (1740), under Voltaire’s anxious superintendence: [Here, gathered from Friedrich’s Letters to Voltaire, is the Chronology of the little Enterprise:–
1738, MARCH 21, JUNE 17, “Machiavel a baneful man,” thinks Friedrich. “Ought to be refuted by somebody?” thinks he (date not known).
1739, MARCH 22, Friedrich thinks of doing it himself. Has done it, DECEMBER 4;–“a Book which ought to be printed,” say Voltaire and the literary visitors.
1740, APRIL 26, Book given up to Voltaire for printing. Printing finished; Book appears, “end of SEPTEMBER,” when a great change had occurred in Friedrich’s title and position.] for the Prince has at length consented; and Voltaire hands the Manuscript, with mystery yet with hints, to a Dutch Bookseller, one Van Duren at the Hague, who is eager enough to print such an article. Voltaire himself–such his magnanimous friendship, especially if one have Dutch Lawsuits, or business of one’s own, in those parts –takes charge of correcting; lodges himself in the ‘Old Court’ (Prussian Mansion, called VIEILLE COUR, at the Hague, where ‘Luiscius,’ figuratively speaking, may ‘get an alms’ from us); and therefrom corrects, alters; corresponds with the Prince and Van Duren, at a great rate. Keeps correcting, altering, till Van Duren thinks he is spoiling it for sale;–and privately determines to preserve the original Manuscript, and have an edition of that, with only such corrections as seem good to Van Duren. A treasonous step on this mule of a Bookseller’s part, thinks Voltaire; but mulishly persisted in by the man. Endless correspondence, to right and left, ensues; intolerably wearisome to every reader. And, in fine, there came out, in Autumn next,”–the Crown-Prince no longer a Crown-Prince by that time, but shining conspicuous under Higher Title,–“not one ANTI-MACHIAVEL only, but a couple or a trio of ANTI-MACHIAVELS; as printed ‘at the Hague;’ as reprinted ‘at London’ or elsewhere; the confused Bibliography of which has now fallen very insignificant. First there was the Voltaire text, Authorized Edition, ‘end of September, 1740;’ then came, in few weeks, the Van Duren one; then, probably, a third, combining the two, the variations given as foot-notes:–in short, I know not how many editions, translations, printings and reprintings; all the world being much taken up with such a message from the upper regions, and eager to read it in any form.
“As to Friedrich himself, who of course says nothing of the ANTI-MACHIAVEL in public, he privately, to Voltaire, disowns all these editions; and intends to give a new one of his own, which shall be the right article; but never did it, having far other work cut out for him in the months that came. But how zealous the worlds humor was in that matter, no modern reader can conceive to himself. In the frightful Compilation called HELDEN-GESCHICHTE, which we sometimes cite, there are, excerpted from the then ‘Bibliotheques’ (NOUVELLE BIBLIOTHEQUE and another; shining Periodicals of the time, now gone quite dead), two ‘reviews’ of the ANTI-MACHIAVEL, which fill modern readers with amazement: such a DOMINE DIMITTAS chanted over such an article!–These details, in any other than the Biographical point of view, are now infinitely unimportant.”
Truly, yes! The Crown-Prince’s ANTI-MACHIAVEL, final correct edition (in two forms, Voltaire’s as corrected, and the Prince’s own as written), stands now in clear type; [Preuss,
OEuvres de Frederic,
Perhaps indeed mankind is getting weary of the question altogether. Machiavel himself one now reads only by compulsion. “What is the use of arguing with anybody that can believe in Machiavel?” asks mankind, or might well ask; and, except for Editorial purposes, eschews any ANTI-MACHIAVEL; impatient to be rid of bane and antidote both. Truly the world has had a pother with this little Nicolo Machiavelli and his perverse little Book: –pity almost that a Friedrich Wilhelm, taking his rounds at that point of time, had not had the “refuting” of him; Friedrich Wilhelm’s method would have been briefer than Friedrich’s! But let us hope the thing is now, practically, about completed. And as to the other question, “Was the Signor Nicolo serious in this perverse little Book; or did he only do it ironically, with a serious inverse purpose?” we will leave that to be decided, any time convenient, by people who are much at leisure in the world!–
The printing of the ANTI-MACHIAVEL was not intrinsically momentous in Friedrich’s history; yet it might as well have been dispensed with. He had here drawn a fine program, and needlessly placarded it for the street populations: and afterwards there rose, as could not fail on their part, comparison between program and performance; scornful cry, chiefly from men of weak judgment, “Is this King an ANTI-Machiavel, then? Pfui!” Of which,–though Voltaire’s voice, too, was heard in it, in angry moments,–we shall say nothing: the reader, looking for himself, will judge by and by. And herewith enough of the ANTI-MACHIAVEL. Composition of ANTI-MACHIAVEL and speculation of the Pine HENRIADE lasted, both of them, all through this Year 1739, and farther: from these two items, not to mention any other, readers can figure sufficiently how literary a year it was.
FRIEDRICH IN PREUSSEN AGAIN; AT THE STUD OF TRAKEHNEN. A TRAGICALLY GREAT EVENT COMING ON.
In July this year the Crown-Prince went with Papa on the Prussian Review-journey. [“Set out, 7th July” (
“INSTERBURG, 27th JULY, 1739 (Crown-Prince to Voltaire). … Prussian Lithuania is a Country a hundred and twenty miles long, by from sixty to forty broad; [“Miles ENGLISH,” we always mean, UNLESS &c.] it was ravaged by Pestilence at the beginning of this Century; and they say three hundred thousand people died of disease and famine.” Ravaged by Pestilence and the neglect of King Friedrich I.; till my Father, once his hands were free, made personal survey of it, and took it up, in earnest.
“Since that time,” say twenty years ago, “there is no expense that the King has been afraid of, in order to succeed in his salutary views. He made, in the first place, regulations full of wisdom; he rebuilt wherever the Pestilence had desolated: thousands of families, from the ends of Europe,” seventeen thousand Salzburgers for the last item, “were conducted hither; the Country repeopled itself; trade began to flourish again;–and now, in these fertile regions, abundance reigns more than it ever did.
“There are above half a million of inhabitants in Lithuania; there are more towns than there ever were, more flocks than formerly, more wealth and more productiveness than in any other part of Germany. And all this that I tell you of is due to the King alone: who not only gave the orders, but superintended the execution of them; it was he that devised the plans, and himself got them carried to fulfilment; and spared neither care nor pains, nor immense expenditures, nor promises nor recompenses, to secure happiness and life to this half-million of thinking beings, who owe to him alone that they have possessions and felicity in the world.
“I hope this detail does not weary you. I depend on your humanity extending itself to your Lithuanian brethren, as well as to your French, English, German, or other,–all the more as, to my great astonishment, I passed through villages where you hear nothing spoken but French.–I have found something so heroic, in the generous and laborious way in which the King addressed himself to making this desert flourish with inhabitants and happy industries and fruits, that it seemed to me you would feel the same sentiments in learning the circumstances of such a re-establishment.
“I daily expect news of you from Enghien [in those Dutch-Lawsuit Countries]. … The divine Emilie; … the Duke [D’Aremberg, Austrian Soldier, of convivial turn,–remote Welsh-Uncle to a certain little Prince de Ligne, now spinning tops in those parts; [Born 23d May, 1735, this latter little Prince; lasted till 13th December, 1814 (“DANSE, MAIS IL NE MARCHE PAS”).] not otherwise interesting], whom Apollo contends for against Bacchues. … Adieu. NE M’OUBLIEZ PAS, MON CHER AMI.” [
This is one pleasant scene, to the Crown-Prince and us, in those grassy localities. And now we have to mention that, about a fortnight later, at Konigsberg one day, in reference to a certain Royal Stud or Horse-breeding Establishment in those same Lithuanian regions, there had a still livelier satisfaction happened him; satisfaction of a personal and filial nature. The name of this Royal Stud, inestimable on such ground, is Trakehnen,–lies south of Tilsit, in an upper valley of the Pregel river;–very extensive Horse-Establishment, “with seven farms under it,” say the Books, and all “in the most perfect order,” they need hardly add, Friedrich Wilhelm being master of it. Well, the Royal Party was at Konigsberg, so far on the road homewards again from those outlying parts, when Friedrich Wilhelm said one day to his Son, quite in a cursory manner, “I give thee that Stud of Trakehnen; thou must go back and look to it;” which struck Fritz quite dumb at the moment.
For it is worth near upon 2,000 pounds a year (12,000 thalers); a welcome new item in our impoverished budget; and it is an undeniable sign of Papa’s good-humor with us, which is more precious still. Fritz made his acknowledgments, eloquent with looks, eloquent with voice, on coming to himself; and is, in fact, very proud of his gift, and celebrates it to his Wilhelmina, to Camas and others who have a right to know such a thing. Grand useful gift; and handed over by Papa grandly, in three business words, as if it had been a brace of game: “I give it thee, Fritz!” A thing not to be forgotten. “At bottom, Friedrich Wilhelm was not avaricious” (not a miser, only a man grandly abhorring waste, as the poor vulgar cannot do), “not avaricious,” says Pollnitz once; “he made munificent gifts, and never thought of them more.” This of Trakehnen,–perhaps there might be a whiff of coming Fate concerned in it withal: “I shall soon be dead, not able to give thee anything, poor Fritz!” To the Prince and us it is very beautiful; a fine effulgence of the inner man of Friedrich Wilhelm. The Prince returned to Trakehnen, on this glad errand; settled the business details there; and, after a few days, went home by a route of his own;–well satisfied with this Prussian- Review journey, as we may imagine.
++++++SEE EARLIER— Prussian Review-journey (placing of hyphen)
One sad thing there was, though Friedrich did not yet know how sad, in this Review-journey: the new fit of illness that overtook his Majesty. From Pollnitz, who was of the party, we have details on that head. In his Majesty’s last bad illness, five years ago, when all seemed hopeless, it appears the surgeons had relieved him,–in fact recovered him, bringing off the bad humors in quantity,–by an incision in the foot or leg. In the course of the present fatigues, this old wound broke out again; which of course stood much in the way of his Majesty; and could not be neglected, as probably the causes of it were. A regimental surgeon, Pollnitz says, was called in; who, in two days, healed the wound,–and declared all to be right again; though in fact, as we may judge, it was dangerously worse than before. “All well here,” writes Friedrich; “the King has been out of order, but is now entirely recovered (TOUT A FAIT REMIS).” [“Konigsberg, 30th July, 1739,” to his Wife (
Much reviewing and heavy business followed at Konigsberg;–gift of Trakehnen, and departure of the Crown-Prince for Trakehnen, winding it up. Directly on the heel of which, his Majesty turned homewards, the Crown-Prince not to meet him till once at Berlin again. Majesty’s first stage was at Pillau, where we have been. At Pillau, or next day at Dantzig, Pollnitz observed a change in his Majesty’s humor, which had been quite sunshiny all this journey hitherto. At Dantzig Pollnitz first noticed it; but at every new stage it grew worse, evil accidents occurring to worsen it; and at Berlin it was worst of all;–and, alas, his poor Majesty never recovered his sunshine in this world again! Here is Pollnitz’s account of the journey homewards:–
“Till now,” till Pillau and Dantzig, “his Majesty had been in especially good humor; but in Dantzig his cheerfulness forsook him;–and it never came back. He arrived about ten at night in that City [Wednesday, 12th August, or thereby]; slept there; and was off again next morning at five. He drove only thirty miles this day; stopped in Lupow [coast road through Pommern], with Herr von Grumkow [the late Grumkow’s Brother], Kammer President in this Pommern Province. From Lupow he went to a poor Village near Belgard, EIGHTY miles farther;”–last village on the great road, Belgard lying to left a little, on a side road;–“and stayed there overnight.
“At Belgard, next morning, he reviewed the Dragoon Regiment von Platen; and was very ill content with it. And nobody, with the least understanding of that business, but must own that never did Prussian Regiment manoeuvre worse. Conscious themselves how bad it was, they lost head, and got into open confusion. The King did all that was possible to help them into order again. He withdrew thrice over, to give the Officers time to recover themselves; but it was all in vain. The King, contrary to wont, restrained himself amazingly, and would not show his displeasure in public. He got into his carriage, and drove away with the Furst of Anhalt,” Old Dessauer, “and Von Winterfeld,” Captain in the Giant Regiment, “who is now Major-General von Winterfeld; [Major-General since 1743, of high fame; fell in fight, 7th September, 1757.] not staying to dine with General von Platen, as was always his custom with Commandants whom he had reviewed. He bade Prince Wilhelm and the rest of us stay and dine; he himself drove away,”–towards the great road again, and some uncertain lodging there.
“We stayed accordingly; and did full justice to the good cheer,”– though poor Platen would certainly look flustered, one may fancy. “But as the Prince was anxious to come up with his Majesty again, and knew not where he would meet him, we had to be very swift with the business.
“We found the King with Anhalt and Winterfeld, by and by; sitting in a village, in front of a barn, and eating a cold pie there, which the Furst of Anhalt had chanced to have with him; his Majesty, owing to what he had seen on the parade-ground, was in the utmost ill-humor (HOCHST UBLER LAUNE). Next day, Saturday, he went a hundred and fifty or two hundred miles; and arrived in Berlin at ten at night. Not expected there till the morrow; so that his rooms were locked,–her Majesty being over in Monbijou, giving her children a Ball;” [Pollnitz, ii. 534-537.]–and we can fancy what a frame of mind there was!
Nobody, not at first even the Doctors, much heeded this new fit of illness; which went and came: “changed temper,” deeper or less deep gloom of “bad humor,” being the main phenomenon to by- standers. But the sad truth was, his Majesty never did recover his sunshine; from Pillau onwards he was slowly entering into the shadows of the total Last Eclipse; and his journeyings and reviewings in this world were all done. Ten months hence, Pollnitz and others knew better what it had been!–
Chapter VII.
LAST YEAR OF REINSBERG: TRANSIT OF BALTIMORE AND OTHER PERSONS AND THINGS.
Friedrich had not been long home again from Trakehnen and Preussen, when the routine of things at Reinsberg was illuminated by Visitors, of brilliant and learned quality; some of whom, a certain Signor Algarotti for one, require passing mention here. Algarotti, who became a permanent friend or satellite, very luminous to the Prince, and was much about him in coming years, first shone out upon the scene at this time,–coming unexpectedly, and from the Eastward as it chanced.
On his own score, Algarotti has become a wearisome literary man to modern readers: one of those half-remembered men; whose books seem to claim a reading, and do not repay it you when given. Treatises, of a serious nature, ON THE OPERA; setting forth, in earnest, the potential “moral uses” of the Opera, and dedicated to Chatham;
Ladies): the mere Titles of such things are fatally sufficient to us; and we cannot, without effort, nor with it, recall the brilliancy of Algarotti and them to his contemporary world.
Algarotti was a rich Venetian Merchant’s Son, precisely about the Crown-Prince’s age; shone greatly in his studies at Bologna and elsewhere; had written Poesies (RIME); written especially that
Fontenelle, said Fame, and orthodox Newtonian withal, not heterodox or Cartesian); and had shone, respected, at Paris, on the strength of it, for three or four years past: friend of Voltaire in consequence, of Voltaire and his divine Emilie, and a welcome guest at Cirey; friend of the cultivated world generally, which was then laboring, divine Emilie in the van of it, to understand Newton and be orthodox in this department of things. Algarotti did fine Poesies, too, once and again; did Classical Scholarships, and much else: everywhere a clear-headed, methodically distinct, concise kind of man. A high style of breeding about him, too; had powers of pleasing, and used them: a man beautifully lucent in society, gentle yet impregnable there; keeping himself unspotted from the world and its discrepancies,– really with considerable prudence, first and last.
He is somewhat of the Bielfeld type; a Merchant’s Son, we observe, like Bielfeld; but a Venetian Merchant’s, not a Hamburg’s; and also of better natural stuff than Bielfeld. Concentrated himself upon his task with more seriousness, and made a higher thing of it than Bielfeld; though, after all, it was the same task the two had. Alas, our “Swan of Padua” (so they sometimes called him) only sailed, paddling grandly, no-whither,–as the Swan-Goose of the Elbe did, in a less stately manner! One cannot well bear to read his Books. There is no light upon Friedrich to tempt us; better light than Bielfeld’s there could have been, and much of it: but he prudently, as well as proudly, forbore such topics. He approaches very near fertility and geniality in his writings, but never reaches it. Dilettantism become serious and strenuous, in those departments–Well, it was beautiful to young Friedrich and the world at that time, though it is not to us!–Young Algarotti, twenty-seven this year, has been touring about as a celebrity these four years past, on the strength of his fine manners and
It was under escort of Baltimore, “an English Milord,” recommended from Potsdam itself, that Algarotti came to Reinsberg; the Signor had much to do with English people now and after. Where Baltimore first picked him up, I know not: but they have been to Russia together; Baltimore by twelve years the elder of the two: and now, getting home towards England again, they call at Reinsberg in the fine Autumn weather;–and considerably captivate the Crown-Prince, Baltimore playing chief, in that as in other points. The visit lasted five days: [20th-25th September, 1739 (
Frederic,
REINSBERG, 25th SEPT. 1739 (Crown-Prince to Papa). … that “nothing new has occurred in the Regiment, and we have few sick. Here has the English Milord, who was at Potsdam, passing through [stayed five days, though we call it passing, and suppress the Algarotti, Baltimore being indeed chief]. He is gone towards Hamburg, to take ship for England there. As I heard that my Most All-gracious Father wished I should show him courtesy, I have done for him what I could. The Prince of Mirow has also been here,”– our old Strelitz friend. Of Baltimore nothing more to Papa. But to another Correspondent, to the good Suhm (who is now at Petersburg, and much in our intimacy, ready to transact loans for us, translate Wolf, or do what is wanted), there is this passage next day:–
REINSBERG, 26th SEPTEMBER, 1739 (to Suhm). “We have had Milord Baltimore here, and the young Algarotti; both of them men who, by their accomplishments, cannot but conciliate the esteem and consideration of all who see them. We talked much of you [Suhm], of Philosophy, of Science, Art; in short, of all that can be included in the taste of cultivated people (HONNETES GENS).” [
to another, about two weeks hence:–
REINSBERG, 10th OCTOBER, 1739 (to Voltaire). “We have had Milord Baltimore and Algarotti here, who are going back to England. This Milord is a very sensible man (HOMME TRESSENSE); who possesses a great deal of knowledge, and thinks, like us, that sciences can be no disparagement to nobility, nor degrade an illustrious rank. I admired the genius of this ANGLAIS, as one does a fine face through a crape veil. He speaks French very ill, yet one likes to hear him speak it; and as for his English, he pronounces it so quick, there is no possibility of following him. He calls a Russian ‘a mechanical animal.’ He says ‘Petersburg is the eye of Russia, with which it keeps civilized countries in sight; if you took this eye from it, Russia would fall again into barbarism, out of which it is just struggling.’ [Ib. xxi. 326, 327.] … Young Algarotti, whom you know, pleased me beyond measure. He promised that he”–But Baltimore, promise or not, is the chief figure at present.
Evidently an original kind of figure to us, CET ANGLAIS. And indeed there is already finished a rhymed EPISTLE to Baltimore;
in that same LETTER, for Voltaire’s behoof), which dates itself likewise October 10th; beginning,–
which, though it is full of fine sincere sentiments, about human dignity, papal superstition, Newton, Locke, and aspirations for progress of culture in Prussia, no reader could stand at this epoch.
What Baltimore said in answer to the EPITRE, we do not know; probably not much: it does not appear he ever saw or spoke to Friedrich a second time. Three weeks after, Friedrich writing to Algarotti, has these words: “I pray you make my friendships to Milord Baltimore, whose character and manner of thinking I truly esteem. I hope he has, by this time, got my EPITRE on the English Liberty of Thought.” [29th October 1739, To Algarotti in London (
“He was Charles, Sixth Lord Baltimore, it appears; Sixth, and last but one. First of the Baltimores, we know, was Secretary Calvert (1618-1624), who colonized Maryland; last of them (1774) was the Son of this Charles; something of a fool, to judge by the face of him in Portraits, and by some of his doings in the world. He, that Seventh Baltimore, printed one or two little Volumes “now of extreme rarity”–cannot be too rare); and winded up by standing an ugly Trial at Kingston Assizes (plaintiff an unfortunate female). After which he retired to Naples, and there ended, 1774, the last of these Milords. [Walpole (by Park),
and Noble Authors
“He of the Kingston Assizes, we say, was not this Charles; but his Son, whom let the reader forget. Charles, age forty at this time, had travelled about the Continent a good deal: once, long ago, we imagined we had got a glimpse of him (but it was a guess merely) lounging about Luneville and Lorraine, along with Lyttelton, in the Congress-of-Soissons time? Not long after that, it is certain enough, he got appointed a Gentleman of the Bedchamber to Prince Fred; who was a friend of speculative talkers and cultivated people. In which situation Charles Sixth Baron Baltimore continued all his days after; and might have risen by means of Fred, as he was anxious enough to do, had both of them lived; but they both died; Baltimore first, in 1751, a year before Fred. Bubb Doddington, diligent laborer in the same Fred vineyard, was much infested by this Baltimore,–who, drunk or sober (for he occasionally gets into liquor), is always putting out Bubb, and stands too well with our Royal Master, one secretly fears! Baltimore’s finances, I can guess, were not in too good order; mostly an Absentee; Irish Estates not managed in the first style, while one is busy in the Fred vineyard! ‘The best and honestest man in the world, with a good deal of jumbled knowledge,’ Walpole calls him once: ‘but not capable of conducting a party.'” [Walpole’s
ii. 175; 27th January, 1747. See ib. i. 82.] Oh no;–and died, at any rate, Spring 1751: [
(London, 1768), ii. 172-174.] and we will not mention him farther.
BIELFELD, WHAT HE SAW AT REINSBERG AND AROUND.
Directly on the rear of these fine visitors, came, by invitation, a pair of the Korn’s-Hotel people; Masonic friends; one of whom was Bielfeld, whose dainty Installation Speech and ways of procedure had been of promise to the Prince on that occasion. “Baron von Oberg” was the other:–Hanoverian Baron: the same who went into the Wars, and was a “General von Oberg” twenty years hence? The same or another, it does not much concern us. Nor does the visit much, or at all; except that Bielfeld, being of writing nature, professes to give ocular account of it. Honest transcript of what a human creature actually saw at Reinsberg, and in the Berlin environment at that date, would have had a value to mankind: but Bielfeld has adopted the fictitious form; and pretty much ruined for us any transcript there is. Exaggeration, gesticulation, fantastic uncertainty afflict the reader; and prevent comfortable belief, except where there is other evidence than Bielfeld’s.
At Berlin the beautiful straight streets, Linden Avenues (perhaps a better sample than those of our day), were notable to Bielfeld; bridges, statues very fine; grand esplanades, and such military drilling and parading as was never seen. He had dinner- invitations, too, in quantity; likes this one and that (all in prudent asterisks),—likes Truchsess von Waldburg very much, and his strange mode of bachelor housekeeping, and the way he dines and talks among his fellow-creatures, or sits studious among his Military Books and Paper-litters. But all is loose far-off sketching, in the style of
Getting to Reinsberg, to the Town, to the Schloss, he crosses the esplanade, the moat; sees what we know, beautiful square Mansion among its woods and waters;–and almost nothing that we do not know, except the way the moat-bridge is lighted: “Bridge furnished,” he says, “with seven Statues representing the seven Planets, each holding in her hand a glass lamp in the form of a globe;”–which is a pretty object in the night-time. The House is now finished; Knobelsdorf rejoicing in his success; Pesne and others giving the last touch to some ceilings of a sublime nature. On the lintel of the gate is inscribed FREDERICO TRANQUILLITATEM COLENTI (To Friedrich courting Tranquillity). The gardens, walks, hermitages, grottos, are very spacious, fine: not yet completed,– perhaps will never be. A Temple of Bacchus is just now on hand, somewhere in those labyrinthic woods: “twelve gigantic Satyrs as caryatides, crowned by an inverted Punch-bowl for dome;” that is the ingenious Knobelsdorf’s idea, pleasant to the mind. Knobelsdorf is of austere aspect; austere, yet benevolent and full of honest sagacity; the very picture of sound sense, thinks Bielfeld. M. Jordan is handsome, though of small stature; agreeable expression of face; eye extremely vivid; brown complexion, bushy eyebrows as well as beard are black. [Bielfeld (abridged), i. 45.]
Or did the reader ever hear of “M. Fredersdorf,” Head Valet at this time? Fredersdorf will become, as it were, Privy-Purse, House-Friend, and domestic Factotum, and play a great part in coming years. “A tall handsome man;” much “silent sense, civility, dexterity;” something “magnificently clever in him,” thinks Bielfeld (now, or else twenty years afterwards); whom we can believe. [Ib. p. 49.] He was a gift from General Schwerin, this Fredersdorf; once a Private in Schwerin’s regiment, at Frankfurt- on-Oder,–excellent on the flute, for one quality. Schwerin, who had an eye for men, sent him to Friedrich, in the Custrin time; hoping he might suit in fluting and otherwise. Which he conspicuously did. Bielfeld’s account, we must candidly say, appears to be an afterthought; but readers can make their profit of it, all the same.
As to the Crown-Prince and Princess, words fail to express their gracious perfections, their affabilities, polite ingenuities:– Bielfeld’s words do give us some pleasant shadowy conceivability of the Crown-Princess:–
“Tall, and perfect in shape; bust such as a sculptor might copy; complexion of the finest; features ditto; nose, I confess, smallish and pointed, but excellent of that kind; hair of the supremest flaxen, ‘shining’ like a flood of sunbeams, when the powder is off it. A humane ingenuous Princess; little negligences in toilet or the like, if such occur, even these set her off, so ingenuous are they. Speaks little; but always to the purpose, in a simple, cheerful and wise way. Dances beautifully; heart (her soubrette assures me) is heavenly;–and ‘perhaps no Princess living has a finer set of diaonds.'”
Of the Crown-Princess there is some pleasant shadow traced as on cobweb, to this effect. But of the Crown-Prince there is no forming the least conception from what he says:–this is mere cobweb with Nothing elaborately painted on it. Nor do the portraits of the others attract by their verisimilitude. Here is Colonel Keyserling, for instance; the witty Courlander, famous enough in the Friedrich circle; who went on embassy to Cirey, and much else: he “whirls in with uproar (FRACAS) like Boreas in the Ballet;” fowling-piece on shoulder, and in his “dressing-gown” withal, which is still stranger; snatches off Bielfeld, unknown till that moment, to sit by him while dressing; and there, with much capering, pirouetting, and indeed almost ground-and-lofty tumbling, for accompaniment, “talks of Horses, Mathematics, Painting, Architecture, Literature, and the Art of War,” while he dresses. This gentleman was once Colonel in Friedrich Wilhelm’s Army; is now fairly turned of forty, and has been in troubles: we hope he is not LIKE in the Bielfeld Portrait;–otherwise, how happy that we never had the honor of knowing him! Indeed, the Crown-Prince’s Household generally, as Bielfeld paints it in flourishes of panegyric, is but unattractive; barren to the modern on-looker; partly the Painter’s blame, we doubt not. He gives details about their mode of dining, taking coffee, doing concert; –and describes once an incidental drinking-bout got up aforethought by the Prince; which is probably in good part fiction, though not ill done. These fantastic sketchings, rigorously winnowed into the credible and actual, leave no great residue in that kind; but what little they do leave is of favorable and pleasant nature.
Bielfeld made a visit privately to Potsdam, too: saw the Giants drill; made acquaintance with important Captains of theirs (all in ASTERISKS) at Potsdam; with whom he dined, not in a too credible manner, and even danced. Among the asterisks, we easily pick out Captain Wartensleben (of the Korn’s-Hotel operation), and Winterfeld, a still more important Captain, whom we saw dining on cold pie with his Majesty, at a barn-door in Pommern, not long since. Of the Giants, or their life at Potsdam, Bielfeld’s word is not worth hearing,–worth suppressing rather; his knowledge being so small, and hung forth in so fantastic a way. This transient sight he had of his Majesty in person; this, which is worth something to us,–fact being evidently lodged in it, “After church-parade,” Autumn Sunday afternoon (day uncertain, Bielfeld’s date being fictitious, and even impossible), Majesty drove out to Wusterhausen, “where the quantities of game surpass all belief;” and Bielfeld had one glimpse of him:–
“I saw his Majesty only, as it were, in passing. If I may judge by his Portraits, he must have been of a perfect beauty in his young time; but it must be confessed there is nothing left of it now. His eyes truly are fine; but the glance of them is terrible: his complexion is composed of the strongest tints of red, blue, yellow, green,”–not a lovely complexion at all; “big head; the thick neck sunk between the shoulders; figure short and heavy (COURTE ET RAMASSEE).” [Bielfeld, p. 35.]
“Going out to Wusterhausen,” then, that afternoon, “October, 1739.” How his Majesty is crushed down; quite bulged out of shape in that sad way, by the weight of time and its pressures: his thoughts, too, most likely, of a heavy-laden and abstruse nature! The old Pfalz Controversy has misgone with him: Pfalz, and so much else in the world;–the world in whole, probably enough, near ending to him; the final shadows, sombre, grand and mournful, closing in upon him!
TURK WAR ENDS; SPANISH WAR BEGINS. A WEDDING IN PETERSBURG.
Last news come to Potsdam in these days is, The Kaiser has ended his disastrous Turk War; been obliged to end it; sudden downbreak, and as it were panic terror, having at last come upon his unfortunate Generals in those parts. Duke Franz was passionate to be out of such a thing; Franz, General Neipperg and others; and now, “2d September, 1739,” like lodgers leaping from a burning house, they are out of it. The Turk gets Belgrade itself, not to mention wide territories farther east,–Belgrade without shot fired;–nay the Turk was hardly to be kept from hanging the Imperial Messenger (a General Neipperg, Duke Franz’s old Tutor, and chief Confidant, whom we shall hear more of elsewhere), whose passport was not quite right on this occasion!–Never was a more disgraceful Peace. But also never had been worse fighting; planless, changeful, powerless, melting into futility at every step:–not to be mended by imprisonments in Gratz, and still harsher treatment of individuals. “Has all success forsaken me, then, since Eugene died?” said the Kaiser; and snatched at this Turk Peace; glad to have it, by mediation of France, and on any terms.
Has not this Kaiser lost his outlying properties at a fearful rate? Naples is gone; Spanish Bourbon sits in our Naples; comparatively little left for us in Italy. And now the very Turk has beaten us small; insolently fillips the Imperial nose of us,– threatening to hang our Neipperg, and the like. Were it not for Anne of Russia, whose big horse-whip falls heavy on this Turk, he might almost get to Vienna again, for anything we could do! A Kaiser worthy to be pitied;–whom Friedrich Wilhelm, we perceive, does honestly pity. A Kaiser much beggared, much disgraced, in late years; who has played a huge life-game so long, diplomatizing, warring; and, except the Shadow of Pragmatic Sanction, has nothing to retire upon.
The Russians protested, with astonishment, against such Turk Peace on the Kaiser’s part. But there was no help for it. One ally is gone, the Kaiser has let go this Western skirt of the Turk; and “Thamas Kouli Khan” (called also Nadir Shah, famed Oriental slasher and slayer of that time) no longer stands upon the Eastern skirt, but “has entered India,” it appears: the Russians–their cash, too, running low–do themselves make peace, “about a month after;” restoring Azoph and nearly all their conquests; putting off the ruin of the Turk till a better time.