Two unknown factors now were for the generals the cause of deep concern.
What would de Grasse do? What would Clinton do? The wounded officer of
Johannisberg, the winner of Charleston, Sir Henry Clinton, a
lieutenant-general and former member of Parliament, enjoying great
repute, was holding New York, not yet the second city of the world nor
even the first of the United States, covering only with its modest
houses, churches, and gardens the lower part of Manhattan, and reduced,
owing to the war, to 10,000 inhabitants. But, posted there, the English
commander threatened the road on which the combined armies had to move.
He had at his disposal immense stores, strong fortifications, a powerful
fleet to second his movements, and troops equal in number and training
to ours.
There are periods in the history of nations when, after a continuous
series of misfortunes, when despair would have seemed excusable,
suddenly the sky clears and everything turns their way. In the War of
American Independence, such a period had begun. The armies of Washington
and Rochambeau, encumbered with their carts, wagons, and artillery, had
to pass rivers, to cross hilly regions, to follow muddy tracks; any
serious attempt against them might have proved fatal, but nothing was
tried. It was of the greatest importance that Clinton should, as long as
possible, have no intimation of the real plans of the Franco-Americans;
everything helped to mislead him: his natural dispositions as well as
circumstances. He had an unshakable conviction that the key to the whole
situation was New York, and that the royal power in America, and he,
too, Lieutenant-General Sir Henry Clinton, would stand or fall with that
city. Hence his disinclination to leave it and to attempt anything
outside. His instructions ordered him to help Cornwallis to his utmost,
the plan of the British court being to conquer the Southern States first
and then continue the conquest northward. But he, on the contrary, was
day after day asking Cornwallis to send back some of his troops. And
while, as he never ceased to point out afterward, he was careful to add,
"if you could spare them," he also remarked in the same letter: "I
confess I could not conceive you would require above 4,000 in a station
where General Arnold has represented to me, upon report of Colonel
Simcoe, that 2,000 men would be amply sufficient."[38]
A great source of light, and, as it turned out, of darkness also, was
the intercepting of letters. This constantly happened in those days, to
the benefit or bewilderment of both parties, on land or at sea. But luck
had decidedly turned, and the stars shone propitious for the allies. We
captured valuable letters, and Clinton misleading ones. It was something
of a retribution after he had so often used or tried to use such
captures to his advantage, as when, having seized an intimate letter of
Washington, a passage of which might have given umbrage to Rochambeau,
he had it printed in the newspapers. But the two commanders were not to
be ruffled so easily, and all that took place was a frank explanation.
Spontaneously acting in the same spirit, La Luzerne had written to
Rochambeau concerning Washington and this incident: "I have told all
those that have spoken to me of it that I saw nothing in it but the zeal
of a good patriot, and a citizen must be very virtuous for his enemies
not to find other crimes to reproach him with."[39]
More treasures had now fallen into the hands of Clinton: a letter of
Chastellux to La Luzerne, speaking very superciliously of his
unmanageable chief, Rochambeau, and of his "bourrasques." In it he
congratulated himself, as Rochambeau narrates, on having "cleverly
managed to cause me to agree with General Washington," the result being
that "a siege of the island of New York had at last been determined
upon.... He added complaints about the small chance a man of parts had
to influence the imperiousness of a general always wanting to command."
Clinton caused that letter to be sent to Rochambeau, "obviously with no
view," writes the latter, "to the preservation of peace in my military
family." Rochambeau showed it to Chastellux, who blushingly acknowledged
its authorship; the general thereupon threw it into the fire and left
the unfortunate Academician "a prey to his remorse,"--and to his
ignorance, for he was careful not to undeceive him as to the real plans
of the combined army.
A text of the conclusions reached at the Weathersfield conferences was
no less happily captured by Clinton, and we have seen how clearly
Washington had there expressed his reluctance to attempt striking the
chief blow in the South. A letter of Barras to La Luzerne, of May 27,
was also intercepted, and as luck would have it, the sailor declared in
it his intention to take the fleet, of all places, to Boston (a real
project, but abandoned as soon as formed and replaced by another which
took him to the Chesapeake). A most important letter of Rochambeau to La
Luzerne, explaining the real plan, was thereupon intercepted; it was in
cipher and the English managed to decipher it. But, as the stars shone
propitious to the allies, it was only the English in London, and not
those in New York, who could do it, and when the translation reached
Clinton at last, he had no longer, for good causes, any doubt as to the
real aims of Washington and Rochambeau.
The colonial secretary was, in the meantime, kept in a state of
jubilation by so much treasure-trove and the news forwarded by Clinton,
to whom he wrote: "The copies of the very important correspondence which
so fortunately fell into your hands, inclosed in your despatch, show the
rebel affairs to be almost desperate, and that nothing but the success
of some extraordinary enterprise can give vigor and activity to their
cause, and I confess I am well pleased that they have fixed upon New
York as the object to be attempted."[40] Clinton acknowledged a little
later to Lord Germain the receipt of a "reinforcement of about 2,400
German troops and recruits," which he was careful to hold tight in New
York till the end.
The combined armies had, in the meantime, done their best to confirm the
English commander in such happy dispositions. They had built in the
vicinity of New York brick ovens for baking bread for an army, as in
view of a long siege. There had been reconnaissances, marches, and
countermarches, a sending of ships toward Long Island without entering,
however, "dans la baie d'Oyster," skirmishes which looked like
preliminaries to more important operations, and in one of which,
together with the two Berthiers and Count de Vauban, Closen nearly lost
his life in order to save his hat. A camp proverb about hats had been
the cause of his taking the risk. When he returned, "kind Washington,"
he writes in his journal, "tapped me on the shoulder, saying: 'Dear
Baron, this French proverb is not yet known among our army, but your
cold behavior during danger will be it'" (in English in the original as
being the very words of the great man to the young one, though _cold_
does probably duty for _cool_, and the final _it_ is certainly not
Washington's).
Then on the sudden, on the 18th of August, the two armies raised their
camps, disappeared, and, following unusual roads, moving northward at
first for three marches, reached in the midst of great difficulties,
under a torrid heat, greatly encumbered with heavy baggage, the Hudson
River and crossed it at King's Ferry, without being more interfered with
than before. How can such an inaction on the part of Clinton be
explained? "It is for me," writes Count Guillaume de Deux-Ponts in his
journal, the manuscript of which was found on the quays in Paris,[41]
and printed in America, "an undecipherable enigma, and I hope I shall
never be reproached for having puzzled people with any similar ones."
The river once crossed, the double army moved southward by forced
marches. Rochambeau, in order to hasten the move, prescribed the leaving
behind of a quantity of effects, and this, says Closen, "caused
considerable grumbling among the line," which grumbled but marched. The
news, to be sure, of so important a movement came to Clinton, but, since
the stars had ceased to smile on him, he chose to conclude, as he wrote
to Lord Germain on the 7th of September, "this to be a feint." When he
discovered that it was not "a feint," the Franco-American army was
beyond reach. "What can be said as to this?" Closen writes merrily. "Try
to see better another time," and he draws a pair of spectacles on the
margin of his journal.
The march southward thus continued unhampered. They crossed first the
Jerseys, "a land of Cockayne, for game, fish, vegetables, poultry."
Closen had the happiness to "hear from the lips of General Washington,
and on the ground itself, a description of the dispositions taken, the
movements and all the incidents of the famous battles of Trenton and
Princeton." The young man, who had made great progress in English, was
now used by the two generals as their interpreter; so nothing escaped
him. The reception at Philadelphia was triumphal; Congress was most
courteous; toasts were innumerable. The city is an immense one, "with
seventy-two streets in a straight line.... Shops abound in all kinds of
merchandise, and some of them do not yield to the _Petit Dunkerque_ in
Paris." Where is now the _Petit Dunkerque_? "Mais où sont les Neiges
d'antan?"[42] Women are very pretty, "of charming manners, and very well
dressed, even in French fashion." Benezet, the French Quaker, one of the
celebrities of the city, is found to be full of wisdom, and La Luzerne,
"who keeps a state worthy of his sovereign," gives a dinner to one
hundred and eighty guests.
From Philadelphia to Chester, on the 5th of September, Rochambeau and
his aides took a boat. As they were nearing the latter city, "we saw in
the distance," says Closen, "General Washington shaking his hat and a
white handkerchief, and showing signs of great joy." Rochambeau had
scarcely landed when Washington, usually so cool and composed, fell into
his arms; the great news had arrived; de Grasse had come, and while
Cornwallis was on the defensive at Yorktown the French fleet was barring
the Chesapeake.[43]
On the receipt of letters from Washington, Rochambeau, and La Luzerne
telling him to what extent the fate of the United States was in his
hands, the sailor, having "learned, with much sorrow," he wrote to the
latter, "what was the distress of the continent, and the need there was
of immediate help," had decided that he would leave nothing undone to
usefully take part in the supreme effort which, without his help, might
be attempted in vain. Having left, on the 5th of August, Cap Français
(to-day Cap Haïtien), he had added to his fleet all the available ships
he could find in our isles, including some which, having been years
away, had received orders to go back to France for repairs. He had had
great difficulty in obtaining the money asked for, although he had
offered to mortgage for it his castle of Tilly, and the Chevalier de
Charitte, in command of the _Bourgogne_, had made a like offer. But at
last, thanks to the Spanish governor at Havana, he had secured the
desired amount of twelve hundred thousand francs. He was bringing,
moreover, the Marquis de Saint-Simon, with the 3,000 regular troops
under his command. De Grasse's only request was that operations be
pushed on with the utmost rapidity, as he was bound to be back at the
Isles at a fixed date. It can truly be said that no single man risked
nor did more for the United States than de Grasse, the single one of the
leaders to whom no memorial has been dedicated.
The news spread like wild-fire; the camp was merry with songs and
shouts; in Philadelphia the joy was indescribable; crowds pressed before
the house of La Luzerne, cheering him and his country, while in the
streets impromptu orators, standing on chairs, delivered mock funeral
orations on the Earl of Cornwallis. "You have," Rochambeau wrote to the
admiral, "spread universal joy throughout America, with which she is
wild."[44]
Anxiety was renewed, however, when it was learned shortly after that the
French men-of-war had left the Chesapeake, the entrance to which now
remained free. The English fleet, of twenty ships and seven frigates,
under Hood and Graves, the same Graves who had failed to intercept
Rochambeau's convoy, had been signalled on the 5th of September, and de
Grasse, leaving behind him, in order to go faster, some of his ships and
a number of sailors who were busy on land, had weighed anchor,
three-quarters of an hour after sighting the signals, to risk the fight
upon which the issue of the campaign and, as it turned out, of the war,
was to depend. "This behavior of Count de Grasse," wrote the famous
Tarleton, is "worthy of admiration." Six days later the French admiral
was back; he had had 21 officers and 200 sailors killed or wounded, but
he had lost no ship, and the enemy's fleet, very much damaged, with 336
men killed or disabled, and having lost the _Terrible_, of 74 guns, and
the frigates _Iris_ and _Richmond_ of 40,[45] had been compelled to
retreat to New York. Admiral Robert Digby thereupon arrived with naval
reinforcements; "yet I do not think," La Luzerne wrote to Rochambeau,
"that battle will be offered again. If it is, I am not anxious about the
result." Nothing was attempted. This "superiority at sea," Tarleton
wrote in his _History of the Campaigns_, "proved the strength of the
enemies of Great Britain, deranged the plans of her generals,
disheartened the courage of her friends, and finally confirmed the
independency of America."[46] "Nothing," Rochambeau had written in his
note-book at starting, "without naval supremacy."
On re-entering the bay de Grasse had the pleasure to find there another
French fleet, that of his friend Barras. As a lieutenant-general de
Grasse outranked him, but as a "chef d'escadre" Barras was his senior
officer, which might have caused difficulties; the latter could be
tempted, and he was, to conduct a campaign apart, so as to personally
reap the glory of possible successes. "I leave it to thee, my dear
Barras," de Grasse had written him on the 28th of July, "to come and
join me or to act on thy own account for the good of the common cause.
Do only let me know, so that we do not hamper each other unawares."
Barras preferred the service of the cause to his own interest; leaving
Newport, going far out on the high seas, then dashing south at a great
distance from the coast, he escaped the English and reached the
Chesapeake, bringing the heavy siege artillery now indispensable for the
last operations. The stars had continued incredibly propitious.
The well-known double siege now began, that of Yorktown[47] by
Washington and Rochambeau, and that of Gloucester, on the opposite side
of the river, which might have afforded a place of retreat to
Cornwallis. De Grasse had consented to land, in view of the latter, 800
men under Choisy, whom Lauzun joined with his legion, and both acted in
conjunction with the American militia under Weedon.[48] The two chiefs
on the Yorktown side were careful to conduct the operations according to
rules, "on account," says Closen, "of the reputation of Cornwallis, and
the strength of the garrison." Such rules were certainly familiar to
Rochambeau, whose fifteenth siege this one was.
From day to day Cornwallis was more narrowly pressed. As late as the
29th of September he was still full of hope. "I have ventured these two
days," he wrote to Clinton, "to look General Washington's whole force in
the face in the position on the outside of my works; and I have the
pleasure to assure your Excellency that there was but one wish
throughout the whole army, which was that the enemy would advance." A
dozen days later the tone was very different. "I have only to repeat
that nothing but a direct move to York River, which includes a
successful naval action, can save me ... many of our works are
considerably damaged."
Lord Germain was, in the meantime, writing to Clinton in his happiest
mood, on the 12th of October: "It is a great satisfaction to me to
find ... that the plan you had concerted for conducting the military
operations in that quarter (the Chesapeake) corresponds with what I had
suggested." The court, which had no more misgivings than Lord Germain
himself, had caused to sail with Digby no less a personage than Prince
William, one of the fifteen children of George III, and eventually one
of his successors as William IV; but his presence could only prove one
more encumbrance.
After the familiar incidents of the siege in which the American and
French armies displayed similar valor and met with about the same
losses, the decisive move of the night attack on the enemy's advanced
redoubts had to be made, one of the redoubts to be stormed by the
Americans with Lafayette, and the other by the French under Viomesnil.
Rochambeau addressed himself especially to the grenadiers of the
regiment of Gatinais, which had been formed with a portion of his old
regiment of Auvergne, and said: "My boys, if I need you to-night, I hope
you will not have forgotten that we have served together in that brave
regiment of Auvergne sans tache (spotless Auvergne), an honorable
surname deserved by it since its formation." They answered that if he
would promise to have their former name restored to them he would find
they were ready to die to the last. They kept their word, losing many of
their number, and one of the first requests of Rochambeau when he
reached Paris was that their old name be given back to them, which was
done. Gatinais thus became Royal Auvergne, and is now the 18th Infantry.
On the 19th of October, after a loss of less than 300 men in each of the
besieging armies, an act was signed as great in its consequences as any
that ever followed the bloodiest battles, the capitulation of Yorktown.
It was in a way the ratification of that other act which had been
proposed for signature five years before at Philadelphia by men whose
fate had more than once, in the interval, seemed desperate, the
Declaration of Independence.
On the same day Closen writes: "The York garrison marched past at two
o'clock, before the combined army, which was formed in two lines, the
French facing the Americans and in full dress uniform.... Passing
between the two armies, the English showed much disdain for the
Americans, who so far as dress and appearances went represented the
seamy side, many of those poor boys being garbed in linen
_habits-vestes_, torn, soiled, a number among them almost shoeless. The
English had given them the nickname of _Yanckey-Dudle_. What does it
matter? the man of sense will think; they are the more to be praised and
show the greater valor, fighting, as they do, so badly equipped." As a
"man of sense," Rochambeau writes in his memoirs: "This justice must be
rendered to the Americans that they behaved with a zeal, a courage, an
emulation which left them in no case behind, in all that part of the
siege intrusted to them, in spite of their being unaccustomed to
sieges."
The city offered a pitiful sight. "I shall never forget," says Closen,
"how horrible and painful to behold was the aspect of the town of
York.... One could not walk three steps without finding big holes made
by bombs, cannon-balls, splinters, barely covered graves, arms and legs
of blacks and whites scattered here and there, most of the houses
riddled with shot and devoid of window panes.... We found Lord
Cornwallis in his house. His attitude evinced the nobility of his soul,
his magnanimity and firmness of character. He seemed to say: I have
nothing to reproach myself with, I have done my duty and defended myself
to the utmost." This impression of Lord Cornwallis was general.
As to Closen's description of the town, now so quiet and almost asleep,
by the blue water, amid her sand-dunes, once more torn and blood-stained
during the Civil War, resting at the foot of the great marble memorial
raised a hundred years later by Congress,[49] it is confirmed by Abbé
Robin, who notices, too, "the quantity of human limbs which infected the
air," but also, being an abbé, the number of books scattered among the
ruins, many being works of piety and theological controversy, and with
them "the works of the famous Pope, and translations of Montaigne's
_Essays_, of _Gil Blas_, and of the _Essay on Women_ by Monsieur
Thomas," that stern essay, so popular then in America, in which society
ladies were invited to fill their soul with those "sentiments of nature
which are born in retreat and grow in silence."
Nothing better puts in its true light the dominant characteristic of the
French sentiment throughout the war than what happened on this solemn
occasion, and more shows how, with their new-born enthusiasm for
philanthropy and liberty, the French were pro-Americans much more than
anti-English. No trace of a triumphant attitude toward a vanquished
enemy appeared in anything they did or said. Even in the surrendering,
the fact remained apparent that this was not a war of hatred. "The
English," writes Abbé Robin, "laid down their arms at the place
selected. Care was taken not to admit sightseers, so as to diminish
their humiliation." Henry Lee (Light-horse Harry), who was present,
describes in the same spirit the march past: "Universal silence was
observed amidst the vast concourse, and the utmost decency prevailed,
exhibiting in demeanor an awful sense of the vicissitudes of human life,
mingled with commiseration for the unhappy."[50]
The victors pitied Cornwallis and showed him every consideration;
Rochambeau, learning that he was without money, lent him all he wanted.
He invited him to dine with him and his officers on the 2d of November.
"Lord Cornwallis," writes Closen, "especially distinguished himself by
his reflective turn of mind, his noble and gentle manners. He spoke
freely of his campaigns in the Carolinas, and, though he had won several
victories, he acknowledged, nevertheless, that they were the cause of
the present misfortunes. All, with the exception of Tarleton, spoke
French, O'Hara in particular to perfection, but he seemed to us
something of a brag."[51] A friendly correspondence began between the
English general and some of the French officers, Viscount de Noailles,
the one who had walked all the way, lending him, the week after the
capitulation, his copy of the beforementioned famous work of Count de
Guibert on _Tactics_, which was at that time the talk of Europe, and of
which Napoleon said later that "it was such as to form great men," the
same Guibert who expected lasting repute from that work and from his
military services, and who--irony of fate--general and Academician
though he was, is chiefly remembered as the hero of the letters of
Mademoiselle de Lespinasse.
Cornwallis realized quite well that the French had fought for a cause
dear to their hearts more than from any desire to humble him or his
nation. He publicly rendered full justice to the enemy, acknowledging
that the fairest treatment had been awarded him by them. In the final
report in which he gives his own account of the catastrophe, and which
he caused to be printed when he reached England, he said: "The kindness
and attention that has been shown us by the French officers ... their
delicate sensibility of our situation, their generous and pressing
offers of money, both public and private, to any amount, has really gone
beyond what I can possibly describe and will, I hope, make an impression
on the breast of every British officer whenever the fortunes of war
should put any of them in our power."
The French attitude in the New World was in perfect accord with the
French sentiments in the Old. On receiving from Lauzun and Count de
Deux-Ponts, who for fear of capture had sailed in two different
frigates, the news of the taking of Cornwallis, of his 8,000 men (of
whom 2,000 were in hospitals), 800 sailors, 214 guns, and 22 flags, the
King wrote to Rochambeau: "Monsieur le Comte de Rochambeau, the success
of my arms flatters me only as being conducive to peace." And, thanking
the "Author of all prosperity," he announced the sending of letters to
the archbishops and bishops of his kingdom for a _Te Deum_ to be sung in
all the churches of their dioceses.
It was a long time since the old cocks of the French churches had
quivered at the points of the steeples to the chant of a _Te Deum_ for a
victory leading to a glorious peace. The victory was over those enemies
who, not so very long before, had bereft us of Canada. Nothing more
significant than the pastoral letter of "Louis Apollinaire de la Tour du
Pin Montauban, by the grace of God first Bishop of Nancy, Primate of
Lorraine," appointing the date for the thanksgiving ceremonies, and
adding: "This so important advantage has been the result of the wisest
measures. Reason and humanity have gauged it and have placed it far
above those memorable but bloody victories whose lustre has been
tarnished by almost universal mourning. Here the blood of our allies and
of our generous compatriots has been spared, and why should we not note
with satisfaction that the forces of our enemies have been considerably
weakened, their efforts baffled, the fruits of their immense expense
lost, without our having caused rivers of their blood to be spilt,
without our having filled their country with unfortunate widows and
mothers?" For this, too, as well as for the victory, thanks must be
offered; and for this, too, for such a rare and such a humane feeling,
the name of Bishop de la Tour du Pin Montauban deserves to be
remembered.
The nation at large felt like the bishop. One of the most typical of the
publications inspired in France by the war and its outcome was the
_Fragment of Xenophon, newly found in the ruins of Palmyra ...
translated from the Greek_, anonymously printed, in 1783,[52] in which
under the names of Greeks and Carthaginians, the story of the campaign
is told; the chief actors being easily recognized, most of them, under
anagrams: Tusingonas is Washington; Cherambos, Rochambeau; the
illustrious Filaatete, Lafayette; Tangides, d'Estaing, and the wise
Thales of Milet, Franklin.
Critical minds, the author observes, will perhaps think they discover
anachronisms, but such mean nothing; he will soon give an edition of the
Greek original, splendidly printed, "so the wealthy amateurs will buy
it, without being able to read it; the learned, who could read it, will
be unable to buy it, and everybody will be pleased."
The author gives a detailed description of the Greeks and of the
Carthaginians, that is, the French and their former enemies, the
English: "Greece, owing to her intellectual and artistic predominance,
seemed to lead the rest of the world, and Athens led Greece. The
Athenians were, truth to say, accused of inconstancy; they were
reproached for the mobility of their character, their fondness for new
things, their leaning toward raillery; but there was something pleasing
in their defects. Justice was, moreover, rendered to their rare
qualities: gentle as they were and softened by their fondness for
enjoyment, they nonetheless were attracted by danger and prodigal of
their blood. They felt as much passion for glory as for pleasure;
arbiters in matters of taste, they played the same rôle in questions of
honor, an idol with them; somewhat light-minded, they were withal frank
and generous.... This brilliant and famous nation was such that those
among her enemies that cast most reproaches at her envied the fate of
the citizens living within her borders."
Whether succeeding events have cured or not some of that
light-mindedness, any one can see to-day and form his judgment.
As to Carthaginians (the English), no animosity, no hatred, but, on the
contrary, greater praise than was accorded to his own compatriots by
many an English writer: "It must be acknowledged that they never made a
finer defense.... They faced everywhere all their enemies, and,
disastrous as the result may have proved for them, this part of their
annals will remain one of the most glorious. Why should we hesitate to
render them justice? Yes, if the intrepid defender of the columns of
Hercules[53] were present in person at our celebration, he would receive
the tribute of praise and applause that Greeks know how to pay to any
brave and generous enemy."
This way of thinking had nothing exceptional. One of the most
authoritative publicists of the day, Lacretelle, in 1785, considering,
in the _Mercure de France_, the future of the new-born United States,
praised the favorable influence exercised on them by the so much admired
British Constitution--"the most wonderful government in Europe. For it
will be England's glory to have created peoples worthy of throwing off
her yoke, even though she must endure the reproach of having forced them
to independence by forgetfulness of her own maxims."
As to the members of the French army who had started for the new crusade
two years before, they had at once the conviction that, in accordance
with their anticipation, they had witnessed something great which would
leave a profound trace in the history of the world. They brought home
the seed of liberty and equality, the "virus," as it was called by
Pontgibaud, who, friend as he was of Lafayette, resisted the current to
the last and remained a royalist. "The young French nobility," says
Talleyrand in his memoirs, "having enlisted for the cause of
independence, clung ever after to the principle which it had gone to
defend."[54] Youthful Saint-Simon, the future Saint-Simonian, thus
summed up his impressions of the campaign: "I felt that the American
Revolution marked the beginning of a new political era; that this
revolution would necessarily set moving an important progress in general
civilization, and that it would, before long, occasion great changes in
the social order then existing in Europe."[55] Many experienced the
feeling described in the last lines of his journal by Count Guillaume de
Deux-Ponts, wounded at the storming of the redoubts: "With troops as
good and brave and well-disciplined as those which I have had the honor
to lead against the enemy, one can undertake anything.... I owe them the
greatest day in my life, the souvenir of which will never die out....
Man's life is mixed with trials, but one can no longer complain when
having enjoyed the delightful moments which are their counterpart; a
single instant effaces such troubles, and that instant, well resented,
causes one to desire new trials so as to once more enjoy their
recompense."