with all his party, maintained the opinion that any apparently
irreparable incapacity in the sovereign caused a demise of the crown,
because, the prerogatives of royalty being given for public benefit, it
would be highly dangerous to suspend them for an indefinite period.
Burke, however, did some injury to his party by the intemperate and
imprudent language he adopted on this occasion, speaking of the King’s
situation in the tone of triumph rather than pity, and even using the
expression “God has hurled him from his throne.” These constitutional
questions, however important, were soon forgotten in a new absorbing
interest, which began to occupy the minds of all men. The French
Revolution had taken place. That astonishing event was at first hailed
with general sympathy and admiration in this country. The supporters of
Pitt either joined in the vehement delight of the Fox party, or took no
pains to restrain it. Here and there some may have murmured dislike: but
in general it was thought unworthy of Englishmen not to rejoice in the
acquisition of liberty by a neighbouring people; and not a few looked to
this great change as the harbinger of political regeneration to Europe
and the world. In this general acclamation one voice was wanting. Burke,
from the very first meeting of the States General, did not conceal his
aversion to their proceedings and his apprehension of the results.
Gradually, as the excesses of popular violence in Paris became more
frequent, an Anti-Gallican party began to gather round him. On the 9th
of February, 1790, during a debate on the army estimates, Burke took
advantage of some expressions which Fox let fall in praise of the French
Revolution to open an attack against it, denying that there was any
similarity between our revolution of 1688 and the “strange thing” called
by the same name in France. Fox in his reply spoke in memorable terms of
his obligations to his friend, declaring that all he had ever learnt
from other sources was little in comparison with what he had gained from
him. Sheridan attacked the speech just made by Burke in no measured
terms, describing it as perfectly irreconcilable with the principles
hitherto professed by that gentleman. On this, Burke again rose, and in
a few words declared that Sheridan and himself were thenceforth
“separated in politics.” Before the end of this year came out the
celebrated ‘Reflections,’ which at once showed how irreparable was the
schism between the author and his former associates. It roused an
immediate war of opinion, which gave birth to a war of force throughout
Europe. Innumerable pamphlets soon followed upon its publication, some
denouncing the work as a specious apology for despotism, others
advocating the opinions contained in it with a vehemence which the
authors had not dared to show, till they were encouraged by the support
of so eloquent and so distinguished a partizan. The most remarkable
attempts of the former description were the ‘Rights of Man,’ by Thomas
Paine, which soon became the manual of the democratic party; and the
‘Vindiciæ Gallicæ,’ by Mr., afterwards Sir James Mackintosh, the most
illustrious, if not the only successor of Burke himself in his peculiar
line of philosophical politics. Fox was loud in condemning the book, and
although no formal breach of friendship had hitherto taken place, such
an event was obviously to be expected. On the 6th May, 1791, during a
discussion on a plan for settling the constitution of Canada, this
separation actually occurred, with a solemnity worthy of the men and the
event. From that hour, during the six remaining years of his life, one
idea swayed with exclusive dominion the mind of Burke. Utterly separated
from Fox’s party, aloof from the ministry, retired, after a few
sessions, from Parliament, he continued to wage unceasing war by speech
and writing against the principles and practice of Jacobinism. Soon he
was pointed out as a prophet, and the verification of his predictions in
characters of blood was much more powerful, because much more palpable,
than the vague anticipations of future advantage put forward by his
opponents. In 1794, after his retirement from Parliament, he received
the grant of a considerable pension for himself and his wife. The
democratic party did not scruple to stigmatize his motives, and in
answer to an accusation of this sort was written the ‘Letter to a Noble
Lord,’ perhaps the most astonishing specimen of his peculiar capacities
of style. In this year the death of his son overwhelmed him with
affliction. Still he continued his exertions. His views of the war
differed widely from those of the ministry; he ceased not to urge that
it was a war not against France but Jacobinism, and that it would be a
degradation to Britain to treat with any of the Regicides. On this
subject are written the two ‘Letters on a Regicide Peace,’ published in
1796, and the others published since his death. On the 8th of July,
1797, this event took place, in the 68th year of his age, at his own
house at Beaconsfield, whither, after seeking medical aid elsewhere in
vain, he had returned to die.
The mind of this great man may, perhaps, be considered as a fair
representative of the general characteristics of English intellect. Its
groundwork was solid, practical, and conversant with the details of
business, but upon this, and secured by this, arose a superstructure of
imagination and moral sentiment. He saw little, because it was painful
to him to see any thing, beyond the limits of the national character;
with that, and with the constitution which he considered its appropriate
expression, all his sympathies were bound up. But he loved them with an
intelligent and discriminating love, making it his pains to comprehend
thoroughly what it was his delight to serve diligently. His political
opinions, springing out of these dispositions, were early fixed in
favour of the Whig system of governing by great party connexions. These
opinions, however, were swayed in their application by strong impulses
of personal feeling. A temper impatient of control, an imagination prone
to magnify those classes of facts which impressed him with alarm or
hope, a command of language almost unlimited, and a copiousness of
imagery misleading nearly as much as it illustrated or enforced; these
were qualities which laid him open to many serious accusations. But his
admirers have started a philosophic doubt, whether less of passion and
prejudice would have been compatible with the peculiar station he was
destined to occupy. In an age of revolution, it might be plausibly
maintained, his genius was the counteracting force: alone he stood
against the impulses communicated to European society by the
philosophers of France; their enthusiasm could only be met by
enthusiasm; their influence on the imaginations and hearts of men was
capable of overbearing either a blind prejudice or a dispassionate
logic. But Burke was an orator in all his thoughts, and a sage in all
his eloquence; he held the principles of Conservation with the zeal of a
Leveller, and tempered lofty ideas of Improvement with the
scrupulousness of official routine. As a debater in the House of Commons
he was inferior to some otherwise inferior men. Pitt and Fox will be
neglected while the speeches of Burke shall still be read. It has been
said of Fox by a philosophical panegyrist that he was the most
Demosthenean speaker since Demosthenes. Perhaps, of all great orators
Burke might be called the least Demosthenean. Probably a hearer of the
great Athenian would have felt as extemporaneous and intuitive the
slowly-wrought perfections of rhetorical art, while the listeners to
Burke may have often set down to elaborate preparation what was really
the inspiration of the moment. His conversation, however, seems to have
been uniformly delightful. It is a true maxim in one sense, although in
another it would often need reversal, that great men are always greater
than their works. Much as we possess of Edmund Burke, very much is lost
to us of that which formed the admiration of his contemporaries. “The
mind of that man,” said Dr. Johnson, “is a perennial stream: no one
grudges Burke the first place.” He was acquainted with most subjects of
literature, and possessed some knowledge of science. The philosophy of
mind owes him one contribution of no inconsiderable value: but the
indirect results of his metaphysical studies as seen in the tenor of his
practical philosophy are much more extensive. For in all things, while
he deeply reverenced principles, he chose to deal with the concrete more
than with abstractions: he studied men rather than man. In private life
the character of Burke was unsullied even by reproach. A good father, a
good husband, a good friend, he was sincerely attached to the Protestant
religion of the English church, “not from indifference,” as he said
himself of the nation at large, “but from zeal; not because he thought
there was less religion in it, but because he knew there was more.” But
his attachment was without bigotry; the principles of toleration ever
found in him a powerful advocate; and he was ever zealous to remove
imperfections, and correct abuses, in the establishment, as the best
means of securing its permanent existence.
The works of Burke are collected in sixteen volumes octavo. His speeches
are separately published in four volumes octavo. A small volume appeared
in 1827, containing the correspondence, hitherto unpublished, between
this great statesman and his friend Dr. Laurence. His life has been
written soon after his death by Mr. Bisset; and more recently by Mr.
Prior. Several other biographical accounts were published about the time
of his death, both in the periodical publications and as independent
works: we are not aware that any of these are entitled to particular
notice.
[Illustration:
_Engraved by T. Woolnoth._
HENRY IV.
_From the original Picture by Porbus
in the Collection of the Musée Royal, Paris._
Under the Superintendance of the Society for the Diffusion of Useful
Knowledge.
_London, Published by Charles Knight, Ludgate Street, & Pall Mall
East._
]
[Illustration]
HENRY IV.
Henry IV., the most celebrated, the most beloved, and perhaps, in spite
of his many faults, the best of the French monarchs, was born at Pau,
the capital of Béarn, in 1553. His parents were Antoine de Bourbon, Duke
of Vendôme, and, in right of his wife, titular King of Navarre, and
Jeanne d’Albret, the heiress of that kingdom. On the paternal side he
traced his descent to Robert of Clermont, fifth son of Louis IX., and
thus, on the failure of the elder branches, became heir to the crown of
France. Educated by a Protestant mother in the Protestant faith, he was
for many years the rallying point and leader of the Huguenots. In
boyhood the Prince of Béarn displayed sense and spirit above his years.
Early inured to war, he was present and exhibited strong proofs of
military talent at the battle of Jarnac, and that of Moncontour, both
fought in 1569. In the same year he was declared chief of the Protestant
League. The treaty of St. Germain, concluded in 1570, guaranteed to the
Huguenots the civil rights for which they had been striving: and, in
appearance, to cement the union of the two parties, a marriage was
proposed between Henry, who, by the death of his mother, had just
succeeded to the throne of Navarre, and Margaret of Valois, sister of
Charles IX. This match brought Condé, Coligni, and all the leaders of
their party, to Paris. The ceremony took place August 17, 1572. On the
twenty-second, when the rejoicings were not yet ended, Coligni was fired
at in the street, and wounded. Charles visited him, feigned deep sorrow,
and promised to punish the assassin. On the night between the
twenty-third and twenty-fourth, by express order of the Court, that
atrocious scene of murder began, which history has devoted to
execration, under the name of the massacre of St. Bartholomew. For three
years afterwards Henry, who to save his life had conformed to the
established religion, was kept as a kind of state prisoner. He escaped
in 1576, and put himself at the head of the Huguenot party. In the war
which ensued, with the sagacity and fiery courage of the high-born
general, he showed the indifference to hardships of the meanest soldier.
Content with the worst fare and meanest lodging, in future times the
magnificent monarch of France could recollect when his wardrobe could
not furnish him with a change of linen. He shared all fortunes with his
followers, and was rewarded by their unbounded devotion.
Upon the extinction of the house of Valois, by the assassination of
Henry III. in 1589, Henry of Navarre became the rightful owner of the
French throne. But his religion interfered with his claims. The League
was strong in force against him: he had few friends, few fortresses, no
money, and a small army. But his courage and activity made up for the
scantiness of his resources. With five thousand men he withstood the Duc
de Mayenne, who was pursuing him with twenty-five thousand, and gained
the battle of Arques, in spite of the disparity. This extraordinary
result may probably be ascribed in great measure to the contrast of
personal character in the two generals. Mayenne was slow and indolent.
Of Henry it was said, that he lost less time in bed, than Mayenne lost
at table; and that he wore out very little broad-cloth, but a great deal
of boot-leather. A person was once extolling the skill and courage of
Mayenne in Henry’s presence. “You are right,” said Henry; “he is a great
captain, but I have always five hours’ start of him.” Henry got up at
four in the morning, and Mayenne about ten.
The battle of Arques was fought in the year of his accession. In the
following year, 1590, he gained a splendid victory at Ivri, over the
Leaguers, commanded by Mayenne, and a Spanish army superior in numbers.
On this occasion he made that celebrated speech to his soldiers before
the battle: “If you lose sight of your standards, rally round my white
plume: you will always find it in the path of honour and glory.” Nor is
his exclamation to his victorious troops less worthy of record: “Spare
the French!”
Paris was soon after blockaded; and the hatred of the Leaguers displayed
itself with increased violence, in proportion as the King showed himself
more worthy of affection. A regiment of Priests and Monks, with
cuirasses on their breasts, muskets and crucifixes in their hands,
paraded the streets, and heightened the passions of the populace into
frenzy. At this period of fanaticism, theologians were the most
influential politicians, and the dictators of the public conscience.
Accordingly the Sorbonne decided that Henry, as a relapsed and
excommunicated heretic, could not be acknowledged, even although he
should be absolved from the censures. The Parliament swore on the
Gospels, in the presence of the Legate and the Spanish Ambassador, to
refuse all proposals of accommodation. The siege was pushed to such
extremities, and the famine became so cruel, that bread was made of
human bones ground to powder. That Henry did not then master the
capital, where two hundred thousand men were maddened with want, was
owing to his own lenity. He declared that he had rather lose Paris, than
gain possession of it by the death of so many persons. He gave a free
passage through his lines to all who were not soldiers, and allowed his
own troops to send in refreshments to their friends. By this paternal
kindness he lost the fruit of his labours to himself; but he also
prolonged the civil war, and the calamities of the kingdom at large.
The approach of the Duke of Parma with a Spanish army obliged Henry to
raise the siege of Paris. It was not the policy of the Spanish court to
render the Leaguers independent of its assistance, and the Duke,
satisfied with having relieved the metropolis, avoided an engagement,
and returned to his government in the Low Countries, followed by Henry
as far as the frontiers of Picardy. In 1591 Henry received succours from
England and Germany, and laid siege to Rouen; but his prey was again
snatched from him by the Duke of Parma. Again battle was offered and
declined; and the retiring army passed the Seine in the night on a
bridge of boats: a retreat the more glorious, as Henry believed it to be
impossible. The Duke once said of his adversary, that other generals
made war like lions, or wild boars; but that Henry hovered over it like
an eagle.
During the siege of Paris, some conferences had been held between the
chiefs of the two parties, which ended in a kind of accommodation. The
Catholics of the King’s party began to complain of his perseverance in
Calvinism; and some influential men who were of the latter persuasion,
especially his confidential friend and minister Rosny, represented to
him the necessity of a change. Even some of the reformed ministers
softened the difficulty, by acknowledging salvation to be possible in
the Roman church. In 1593 the ceremony of abjuration was performed at
St. Denys, in presence of a multitude of the Parisians. If, as we cannot
but suppose, the monarch’s conversion was owing to political motives,
the apostacy must be answered for at a higher than any human tribunal:
politically viewed, it was perhaps one of the most beneficial steps ever
taken towards the pacification and renewal of prosperity of a great
kingdom. In the same year he was crowned at Chartres, and in 1594 Paris
opened her gates to him. He had but just been received into the capital,
where he was conspicuously manifesting his beneficence and zeal for the
public good, when he was wounded in the throat by John Châtel, a young
fanatic. When the assassin was questioned, he avowed the doctrine of
tyrannicide, and quoted the sermons of the Jesuits in his justification.
That society therefore was banished by the Parliament, and their
librarian was executed on account of some libels against the King, found
in his own hand-writing among his papers.
For two years after his ostensible conversion, the King was obliged
daily to perform the most humiliating ceremonies, by way of penance; and
it was not till 1595 that he was absolved by Clement VIII. The Leaguers
then had no further pretext for rebellion, and the League necessarily
was dissolved. Its chiefs exacted high terms for their submission; but
the civil wars had so exhausted the kingdom, that tranquillity could not
be too dearly purchased; and Henry was faithful to all his promises,
even after his authority was so firmly established, that he might have
broken his word with safety to all but his own conscience and honour.
Although the obligations which he had to discharge were most burdensome,
he found means to relieve his people, and make his kingdom prosper. The
Duc de Mayenne, in Burgundy, and the Duke de Mercœur, in Britanny, were
the last to protract an unavailing resistance; but the former was
reduced in 1596, and the latter in 1598, and thenceforth France enjoyed
almost uninterrupted peace till Henry’s death. But the Protestants gave
him almost as much uneasiness as the Catholic Leaguers. He had granted
liberty of conscience to the former; a measure which was admitted to be
necessary by the prudent even among the latter. Nevertheless, either
from vexation at his having abjured their religion, from the violence of
party zeal, or disgust at being no longer the objects of royal
preference, the Calvinists preferred their demands in so seditious a
tone, as stopped little short of a rebellious one. While on the road to
Britanny, he determined to avoid greater evils by timely compromise. The
edict of Nantes was then promulgated, authorizing the public exercise of
their religion in several towns, granting them the right of holding
offices, putting them in possession of certain places for eight years,
as pledges for their security, and establishing salaries for their
ministers. The clergy and preachers demurred, but to no purpose; the
Parliament ceased to resist the arguments of the Prince, when he
represented to them as magistrates, that the peace of the state and the
prosperity of the church must be inseparable. At the same time he
endeavoured to convince the bigots among the priesthood on both sides,
that the love of country and the performance of civil and political
duties may be completely reconciled with difference of worship.
But it would be unjust to attribute these enlightened views to Henry,
without noticing that he had a friend as well as minister in Rosny, best
known as the Duc de Sully, who probably suggested many of his wisest
measures, and at all events superintended their execution, and did his
best to prevent or retrieve his sovereign’s errors by uncompromising
honesty of advice and remonstrance. The allurements of pleasure were
powerful over the enthusiastic and impassioned temperament of Henry: it
was love that most frequently prevailed over the claims of duty. The
beautiful Gabrielle d’Estrées became the absolute mistress of his heart;
and he entertained hopes of obtaining permission from Rome to divorce
Margaret de Valois, from whom he had long lived in a state of
separation. Had he succeeded time enough, he contemplated the dangerous
project of marrying the favourite; but her death saved him both from the
hazard and disgrace. It is not by anecdotes of his amours, that we would
be prone to illustrate the life of this remarkable sovereign; but the
following may deserve notice as highly characteristic. Shortly after the
peace with Spain, concluded by the advantageous treaty of Vervins in
1598, Henry, on his return from hunting, in a plain dress as was usual
with him, and with only two or three persons about him, had to cross a
ferry. He saw that the ferryman did not know him, and asked what people
said about the peace. “Faith,” said the man, “I know nothing about this
fine peace; every thing is still taxed, even to this wretched boat, by
which I can scarcely earn a livelihood.” “Does not the King intend,”
said Henry, “to set all this taxation to rights?” “The King is good kind
of man enough,” answered the sturdy boatman; “but he has a mistress, who
wants so many fine gowns, and so many trumpery trinkets, and we have to
pay for all that. Besides, that is not the worst: if she were constant
to him, we would not mind; but people do say that the jade has other
gallants.” Henry, much amused with this conversation, sent for the
ferryman next day, and extorted from him all that he had said the
evening before, in presence of the object of his vituperation. The
enraged lady insisted on his being hanged forthwith. “How can you be
such a fool?” said the King; “this poor devil is put out of humour only
by his poverty: for the time to come, he shall pay no tax for his boat,
and then he will sing for the rest of his days, _Vive Henri, vive
Gabrielle_.”
The King’s passions were not buried in the grave of La Belle Gabrielle:
she was succeeded by another mistress, Henrietta d’Entragues, a woman of
an artful, intriguing, and ambitious spirit, who inflamed his desires by
refusals, until she extorted a promise of marriage. Henry showed this
promise, ready signed, to Sully: the minister, in a noble fit of
indignation, tore it to pieces. “I believe you are mad,” cried the King,
in a rage. “It may be so,” answered Sully; “but I wish I was the only
madman in France.” The faithful counsellor was in momentary expectation
of an angry dismissal from all his appointments; but his monarch’s
candour and justice, and long tried friendship, prevailed over his
besetting weakness; and as an additional token of his favour, he
conferred on Sully the office of Grand Master of the Ordnance. The
sentence of divorce, so long solicited, was at length granted; and the
King married Mary de Medicis, who bore Louis XIII. to him in 1601. The
match, however, contributed little to his domestic happiness.
While France was flourishing under a vigilant and paternal
administration, while her strength was beginning to keep pace with her
internal happiness, new conspiracies were incessantly formed against the
King. D’Entragues could not be his wife, but continued to be his
mistress. She not only exasperated the Queen’s peevish humour against
him, but was ungrateful enough to combine with her father, the Count
d’Auvergne, and the Spanish Court, in a plot which was timely
discovered. The criminals were arrested and condemned, but received a
pardon. The Duke de Bouillon afterwards stirred up the Calvinists to
take Sedan, but it was immediately restored. Spite of the many virtues
and conciliatory manners of Henry, the fanatics could never pardon his
former attachment to the Protestant cause. He was continually surrounded
with traitors and assassins: almost every year produced some attempt on
his life, and he fell at last by the weapon of a misguided enthusiast.
Meanwhile, from misplaced complaisance to the Pope, he recalled the
Jesuits, contrary to the advice of Sully and the Parliament.