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the public wanted no prompter; and an universal roar of laughter from Petersburg to Lisbon reminded the Vatican that the age of crusades was

over.

despatch very different from the first:"Let the royal family leave Berlin. Send the archives to Potsdam. The town may make terms with the enemy."

But the mutual jealousies of the confederates prevented them from following up their victory. They lost a few days in loitering and squabbling; and

The defeat was, in truth, overwhelmThe fourth campaign, the most dis- ing. Of fifty thousand men who had astrous of all the campaigns of this that morning marched under the black fearful war, had now opened. The eagles, not three thousand remained Austrians filled Saxony and menaced together. The King bethought him Berlin. The Russians defeated the again of his corrosive sublimate, and King's generals on the Oder, threat-wrote to bid adieu to his friends, and ened Silesia, effected a junction with to give directions as to the measures Laudolin, and intrenched themselves to be taken in the event of his death:strongly at Kunersdorf. Frederic has-"I have no resource left "—such is the tened to attack them. A great battle language of one of his letters-" all is was fought. During the earlier part lost. I will not survive the ruin of my of the day every thing yielded to the country. Farewell for ever." impetuosity of the Prussians, and to the skill of their chief. The lines were forced. Half the Russian guns were taken. The King sent off a courier to Berlin with two lines, announcing aa few days, improved by Frederic, were complete victory. But, in the mean time, the stubborn Russians, defeated yet unbroken, had taken up their stand in an almost impregnable position, on an eminence where the Jews of Frankfort were wont to bury their dead. Here the battle recommenced. The Prussian infantry, exhausted by six hours of hard fighting under a sun which equalled the tropical heat, were yet brought up repeatedly to the attack, but in vain. The King led three charges in person. Two horses were killed under him. The officers of his staff fell all round him. His coat was pierced by several bullets. All was in vain. His infantry was driven back with frightful slaughter. Terror began to spread fast from man to man. At that moment, the fiery cavalry of Lau-master; and by a series of exploits, of dohn, still fresh, rushed on the wavering ranks. Then followed an universal rout. Frederic himself was on the point of falling into the hands of the conquerors, and was with difficulty saved by a gallant officer, who, at the head of a handful of Hussars, made good a diversion of a few minutes. Shattered in body, shattered in mind, the King reached that night a village which the Cossacks had plundered; and there, in a ruined and deserted farm-house, flung himself on a heap of straw. He had sent to Berlin a second

worth more than the years of other men. On the morning after the battle, he had got together eighteen thousand of his troops. Very soon his force amounted to thirty thousand. Guns were procured from the neighbouring fortresses; and there was again an army. Berlin was for the present safe; but calamities came pouring on the King in uninterrupted succession. One of his generals, with a large body of troops, was taken at Maxen; another was defeated at Meissen; and when at length the campaign of 1759 closed, in the midst of a rigorous winter, the situation of Prussia appeared desperate. The only consoling circumstance was, that, in the West, Ferdinand of Brunswick had been more fortunate than his

which the battle of Minden was the most glorious, had removed all apprehension of danger on the side of France.

The fifth year was now about to commence. It seemed impossible that the Prussian territories, repeatedly devastated by hundreds of thousands of invaders, could longer support the contest. But the King carried on war as no European power has ever carried on war, except the Committee of Public Safety during the great agony of the French Revolution. He governed his kingdom as he would have governed a

besieged town, not caring to what ex- | great battle was gained by the enemy;

tent property was destroyed, or the pursuits of civil life suspended, so that he did but make head against the enemy. As long as there was a man left in Prussia, that man might carry a musket; as long as there was a horse left, that horse might draw artillery. The coin was debased, the civil functionaries were left unpaid; in some provinces civil government altogether ceased to exist. But there were still rye-bread and potatoes; there were still lead and gunpowder; and, while the means of sustaining and destroying life remained, Frederic was determined to fight it out to the very last.

but, in spite of the desperate bounds of the hunted tiger, the circle of pursuers was fast closing round him. Laudohn had surprised the important fortress of Schweidnitz. With that fortress, half of Silesia, and the command of the most important defiles through the mountains, had been transferred to the Austrians. The Russians had overpowered the King's generals in Pomerania. The country was so completely desolated that he began, by his own confession, to look round him with blank despair, unable to imagine where recruits, horses, or provisions were to

be found.

Just at this time two great events brought on a complete change in the relations of almost all the powers of Europe. One of those events was the retirement of Mr. Pitt from office; the other was the death of the Empress Elizabeth of Russia.

The earlier part of the campaign of 1760 was unfavourable to him. Berlin was again occupied by the enemy. Great contributions were levied on the inhabitants, and the royal palace was plundered. But at length, after two years of calamity, victory came back to his arms. At Lignitz he gained a great The retirement of Pitt seemed to be battle over Laudohn; at Torgau, after an omen of utter ruin to the House of a day of horrible carnage, he triumphed Brandenburg. His proud and veheover Daun. The fifth year closed, and ment nature was incapable of any thing still the event was in suspense. In the that looked like either fear or treachery. countries where the war had raged, the He had often declared that, while he misery and exhaustion were more ap- was in power, England should never palling than ever; but still there were make a peace of Utrecht, should never, left men and beasts, arms and food, for any selfish object, abandon an ally and still Frederic fought on. In truth even in the last extremity of distress. he had now been baited into savage- The Continental war was his own war. ness. His heart was ulcerated with He had been bold enough, he who in hatred. The implacable resentment former times had attacked, with irrewith which his enemies persecuted him, sistible powers of oratory, the Hanovethough originally provoked by his own rian policy of Carteret, and the German unprincipled ambition, excited in him subsidies of Newcastle, to declare that a thirst for vengeance which he did not Hanover ought to be as dear to us as even attempt to conceal. "It is hard," | Hampshire, and that he would conquer he says in one of his letters, "for man America in Germany. He had fallen; to bear what I bear. I begin to feel and the power which he had exercised, that, as the Italians say, revenge is a not always with discretion, but always pleasure for the gods. My philosophy with vigour and genius, had devolved is worn out by suffering. I am no saint, on a favourite who was the representalike those of whom we read in the le- tive of the Tory party, of the party gends; and I will own that I should which had thwarted William, which die content if only I could first inflict a had persecuted Marlborough, and portion of the misery which I endure." which had given up the Catalans to Borne up by such feelings, he strug- the vengeance of Philip of Anjou. To gled with various success, but constant make peace with France, to shake off, glory, through the campaign of 1761. with all, or more than all, the speed On the whole, the result of this cam-compatible with decency, every Contipaign was disastrous to Prussia. No nental connection, these were among

the chief objects of the new Minister. | of the year, presented to the forces of The policy then followed inspired Fre- Maria Theresa a front as formidable as deric with an unjust, but deep and before the great reverses of 1759. bitter aversion to the English name, Before the end of the campaign, his and produced effects which are still friend, the Emperor Peter, having, by felt throughout the civilised world. To a series of absurd insults to the instituthat policy it was owing that, some tions, manners, and feelings of his peoyears later, England could not find on ple, united them in hostility to his the whole Continent a single ally to person and government, was deposed stand by her, in her extreme need, and murdered. The Empress, who, against the House of Bourbon. To under the title of Catherine the Second, that policy it was owing that Frederic, now assumed the supreme power, was, alienated from England, was compelled at the commencement of her administo connect himself closely, during his tration, by no means partial to Frederic, later years, with Russia, and was in- and refused to permit her troops to duced to assist in that great crime, the remain under his command. But she fruitful parent of other great crimes, observed the peace made by her husthe first partition of Poland. band; and Prussia was no longer threatened by danger from the East.

England and France at the same time paired off together. They concluded a treaty, by which they bound themselves to observe neutrality with respect to the German war. Thus the coalitions on both sides were dissolved; and the original enemies, Austria and Prussia, remained alone confronting each other.

Scarcely had the retreat of Mr. Pitt deprived Prussia of her only friend, when the death of Elizabeth produced an entire revolution in the politics of the North. The Grand Duke Peter, her nephew, who now ascended the Russian throne, was not merely free from the prejudices which his aunt had entertained against Frederic, but was a worshipper, a servile imitator of the great King. The days of the new Czar's Austria had undoubtedly far greater government were few and evil, but suf- means than Prussia, and was less exficient to produce a change in the whole hausted by hostilities; yet it seemed state of Christendom. He set the Prus-hardly possible that Austria could effect sian prisoners at liberty, fitted them out alone what she had in vain attempted decently, and sent them back to their to effect when supported by France on master; he withdrew his troops from the one side, and by Russia on the the provinces which Elizabeth had other. Danger also began to menace decided on incorporating with her the Imperial house from another quardominions; and he absolved all those ter. The Ottoman Porte held threatenPrussian subjects, who had been com- ing language, and a hundred thousand pelled to swear fealty to Russia, from Turks were mustered on the frontiers their engagements. of Hungary. The proud and revengeful spirit of the Empress Queen at length gave way; and, in February 1763, the peace of Hubertsburg put an end to the conflict which had, during seven years, devastated Germany. The King ceded nothing. The whole Continent in arms had proved unable to tear Silesia from that iron grasp.

Not content with concluding peace on terms favourable to Prussia, he solicited rank in the Prussian service, dressed himself in a Prussian uniform, wore the Black Eagle of Prussia on his breast, made preparations for visiting Prussia, in order to have an interview with the object of his idolatry, and actually sent fifteen thousand excellent troops to reinforce the shattered army of Frederic. Thus strengthened, the King speedily repaired the losses of the preceding year, reconquered Silesia, defeated Daun at Buckersdorf, invested and retook Schweidnitz, and, at the close

The war was over. Frederic was safe. His glory was beyond the reach of envy. If he had not made conquests as vast as those of Alexander, of Cæsar, and of Napoleon, if he had not, on fields of battle, enjoyed the constant success of Marlborough and Wellington, he

had yet given an example unrivalled of silent villages, in which not a single in history of what capacity and resolu- inhabitant remained. The currency tion can effect against the greatest had been debased; the authority of superiority of power and the utmost laws and magistrates had been susspite of fortune. He entered Berlin in pended; the whole social system was triumph, after an absence of more than deranged. For, during that convulsive six years. The streets were brilliantly struggle, every thing that was not mililighted up; and, as he passed along in tary violence was anarchy. Even the an open carriage, with Ferdinand of army was disorganized. Some great Brunswick at his side, the multitude generals, and a crowd of excellent offisaluted him with loud praises and bless-cers, had fallen, and it had been imings. He was moved by those marks of possible to supply their place. The attachment, and repeatedly exclaimed difficulty of finding recruits had, to"Long live my dear people! Long wards the close of the war, been so live my children!" Yet, even in the great, that selection and rejection were midst of that gay spectacle, he could impossible. Whole battalions were not but perceive every where the traces composed of deserters or of prisoners. of destruction and decay. The city It was hardly to be hoped that thirty had been more than once plundered. years of repose and industry would The population had considerably dimi- repair the ruin produced by seven years nished. Berlin, however, had suffered of havoc. One consolatory circumlittle when compared with most parts stance, indeed, there was. No debt of the kingdom. The ruin of private had been incurred. The burdens of fortunes, the distress of all ranks, was the war had been terrible, almost insuch as might appal the firmest mind. supportable; but no arrear was left to Almost every province had been the embarrass the finances in time of peace. seat of war, and of war conducted with merciless ferocity. Clouds of Croatians had descended on Silesia. Tens of thousands of Cossacks had been let loose on Pomerania and Brandenburg. The mere contributions levied by the invaders amounted, it was said, to more than a hundred millions of dollars; and the value of what they extorted was probably much less than the value of what they destroyed. The fields lay uncultivated. The very seed-corn had been devoured in the madness of hunger. Famine, and contagious maladies produced by famine, had swept away the herds and flocks; and there was reason to fear that a great pestilence among the human race was likely to follow in the train of that tremendous war. Near fifteen thousand houses had been burned to the ground. The population of the kingdom had in seven years decreased to the frightful extent of ten per cent. A sixth of the males capable of bearing arms had actually perished on the field of battle. In some districts, no labourers, except women, were seen in the fields at harvest-time. In others, the traveller passed shuddering through a succession

Pos

Here, for the present, we must pause. We have accompanied Frederic to the close of his career as a warrior. sibly, when these Memoirs are completed, we may resume the consideration of his character, and give some account of his domestic and foreign policy, and of his private habits, during the many years of tranquillity which followed the Seven Years' War.

MADAME D'ARBLAY.

(JANUARY, 1843.) Diary and Letters of Madame D'Arblay. Five vols. 8vo. London: 1842. THOUGH the world saw and heard little of Madame D'Arblay during the last forty years of her life, and though that little did not add to her fame, there were thousands, we believe, who felt a singular emotion when they learned that she was no longer among us. The news of her death carried the minds of men back at one leap over two generations, to the time when her first literary triumphs were won. All those whom we had been accustomed to revere as intellectual patriarchs seemed

children when compared with her; for Burke had sate up all night to read her writings, and Johnson had pronounced her superior to Fielding, when Rogers was still a schoolboy, and Southey still in petticoats. Yet more strange did it seem that we should just have lost one whose name had been widely celebrated before any body had heard of some illustrious men who, twenty, thirty, or forty years ago, were, after a long and splendid career, borne with honour to the grave. Yet so it was. Frances Burney was at the height of fame and popularity before Cowper had published his first volume, before Porson had gone up to college, before Pitt had taken his seat in the House of Commons, before the voice of Erskine had been once heard in Westminster Hall. Since the appearance of her first work, sixty-two years had passed; and this interval had been crowded, not only with political, but also with intellectual revolutions. Thousands of reputations had, during that period, sprung up, bloomed, withered, and disappeared. New kinds of composition had come into fashion, had gone out of fashion, had been derided, had been forgotten. The fooleries of Della Crusca, and the fooleries of Kotzebue, had for a time bewitched the multitude, but had left no trace behind them; nor had misdirected genius been able to save from decay the once flourishing schools of Godwin, of Darwin, and of Radcliffe. Many books, written for temporary effect, had run through six or seven editions, and had then been gathered to the novels of Afra Behn, and the epic poems of Sir Richard Blackmore. Yet the early works of Madame D'Arblay, in spite of the lapse of years, in spite of the change of manners, in spite of the popularity deservedly obtained by some of her rivals, continued to hold a high place in the public esteem. She lived to be a classic. Time set on her fame, before she went hence, that seal which is seldom set except on the fame of the departed. Like Sir Condy Rackrent in the tale, she survived her own wake, and overheard the judgment of posterity.

Having always felt a warm and sincere, though not a blind admiration for her talents, we rejoiced to learn that her Diary was about to be made public. Our hopes, it is true, were not unmixed with fears. We could not forget the fate of the Memoirs of Dr. Burney, which were published ten years ago. That unfortunate book contained much that was curious and interesting. Yet it was received with a cry of disgust, and was speedily consigned to oblivion. The truth is, that it deserved its doom. It was written in Madame D'Arblay's later style, the worst style that has ever been known among men. No genius, no information, could save from proscription a book so written. We, therefore, opened the Diary with no small anxiety, trembling lest we should light upon some of that peculiar rhetoric which deforms almost every page of the Memoirs, and which it is impossible to read without a sensation made up of mirth, shame, and loathing. We soon, however, discovered to our great delight that this Diary was kept before Madame D'Arblay became eloquent. It is, for the most part, written in her earliest and best manner, in true woman's English, clear, natural, and lively. works are lying side by side before us; and we never turn from the Memoirs to the Diary without a sense of relief. The difference is as great as the difference between the atmosphere of a perfumer's shop, fetid with lavender water and jasmine soap, and the air of a heath on a fine morning in May. Both works ought to be consulted by every person who wishes to be well acquainted with the history of our literature and our manners. But to read the Diary is a pleasure; to read the Memoirs will always be a task.

The two

We may, perhaps, afford some harmless amusement to our readers, if we attempt, with the help of these two books, to give them an account of the most important years of Madame D'Arblay's life.

She was descended from a family which bore the name of Macburney, and which, though probably of Irish origin, had been long settled in Shrop

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