confidence in human virtue. She repaired to Hungary; she summoned the
states of the Diet; she entered the hall, clad in deep mourning; habited
herself in the Hungarian dress; placed the crown of St. Stephen on her
head, the cimeter at her side; showed her subjects that she could
herself cherish and venerate whatever was dear and venerable in their
sight; separated not herself in her sympathies and opinions from those
whose sympathies and opinions she was to awaken and direct, traversed
the apartment with a slow and majestic step, ascended the tribune whence
the sovereigns had been accustomed to harangue the states, committed to
her chancellor the detail of her distressed situation, and then herself
addressed them in the language which was familiar to them, the immortal
language of Rome, which was not now for the first time to be employed
against the enterprises of injustice and the wrongs of the oppressor.
To the cold and relentless ambition of Frederick, to a prince whose
heart had withered at thirty, an appeal like this had been made in vain;
but not so to the freeborn warriors, who saw no possessions to be
coveted like the conscious enjoyment of honorable and generous
feelings--no fame, no glory like the character of the protectors of the
helpless and the avengers of the innocent. Youth, beauty, and distress
obtained that triumph, which, for the honor of the one sex, it is to be
hoped will never be denied to the merits and afflictions of the other. A
thousand swords leaped from their scabbards and attested the unbought
generosity and courage of untutored nature. "_Moriamur pro rege
nostro_, Maria Theresa!" was the voice that resounded through the hall
("We will die for our sovereign, Maria Theresa!"). The Queen, who had
hitherto preserved a calm and dignified deportment, burst into tears--I
tell but the facts of history. Tears started to the eyes of Maria
Theresa, when standing before her heroic defenders--those tears which no
misfortunes, no suffering, would have drawn from her in the presence of
her enemies and oppressors. "Moriamur pro rege nostro, Maria Theresa!"
was again and again heard. The voice, the shout, the acclamation that
reëchoed around her, and enthusiasm and frenzy in her cause, were the
necessary effect of this union of every dignified sensibility which the
heart can acknowledge and the understanding honor.
It is not always that in history we can pursue the train of events, and
find our moral feelings gratified as we proceed; but in general we may.
Philip II overpowered _not_ the Low Countries, nor Louis, Holland; and
even on this occasion of the distress and danger of Maria Theresa we may
find an important, though not a perfect and complete, triumph. The
resolutions of the Hungarian Diet were supported by the nation; Croats,
Pandours, Slavonians, flocked to the royal standard, and they struck
terror into the disciplined armies of Germany and France. The genius of
the great General Kevenhuller was called into action by the Queen;
Vienna was put into a state of defence; divisions began to rise among
the Queen's enemies; a sacrifice was at last made to Frederick--he was
bought off by the cession of Lower Silesia and Breslau; and the Queen
and her generals, thus obtaining a respite from this able and
enterprising robber, were enabled to direct, and successfully direct,
their efforts against the remaining hosts of plunderers that had
assailed her. France, that with perfidy and atrocity had summoned every
surrounding power to the destruction of the house of Austria, in the
moment of the helplessness and inexperience of the new sovereign--France
was at least, if Frederick was not, defeated, disappointed, and
disgraced.
The interest that belongs to a character like that of Maria Theresa, of
strong feelings and great abilities, never leaves the narrative, of
which she is the heroine. The student cannot expect that he should
always approve the conduct or the sentiments that but too naturally
flowed from qualities like these, when found in a princess like Maria
Theresa--a princess placed in situations so fitted to betray her into
violence and even rancor--a princess who had been a first-rate sovereign
of Europe at four-and-twenty, and who had never been admitted to that
moral discipline to which ordinary mortals, who act in the presence of
their equals, are so happily subjected. That the loss of Silesia should
never be forgotten--the King of Prussia never forgiven--that his total
destruction would have been the highest gratification to her, cannot be
objects of surprise. The mixed character of human nature seldom affords,
when all its propensities are drawn out by circumstances, any proper
theme for the entire and unqualified praises of a moralist; but
everything is pardoned to Maria Theresa, when she is compared, as she
must constantly be, with her great rival, Frederick. Errors and faults
we can overlook when they are those of our common nature;
intractability, impetuosity, lofty pride, superstition, even bigotry, an
impatience of wrongs, furious and implacable--all these, the faults of
Maria Theresa, may be forgiven, may at least be understood. But
Frederick had no merits save courage and ability; these, great as they
are, cannot reconcile us to a character with which we can have no
sympathy--of which the beginning, the middle, and the end, the
foundation and the essence, were entire, unceasing, inextinguishable,
concentrated selfishness.
I do not detain my hearers with any further reference to Maria Theresa.
She long occupies the pages of history--the interesting and captivating
princess--the able and still attractive Queen--the respected and
venerable matron, grown prudent by long familiarity with the uncertainty
of fortune, and sinking into decline amid the praises and blessings of
her subjects.
DEFEAT OF THE YOUNG PRETENDER AT CULLODEN
LAST OF THE STUARTS
A.D. 1746
JUSTIN McCARTHY
Obstinate tenacity of purpose--a leading characteristic of the
Stuart sovereigns--showed a remarkable survival in the vain attempt
of the grandson of James II to recover the throne of England. The
chief historical significance of that attempt lies in the fact that
its failure marks the end of the Stuart endeavor for renewed power.
Charles Edward Louis Philip Casimir, known as the "Young Pretender,"
also as the "Young Chevalier" and "Bonnie Prince Charlie," was born
in Rome in 1720. From his earliest years he was the hope of the
Jacobites, as the political descendants of the partisans of James II
were called. In 1743 Charles headed an abortive expedition for the
invasion of England from France. In August, 1745, he landed with
seven followers in the Hebrides, and on the 19th raised the standard
of his father in Glenfinnan, Scotland. There at once the Highland
clans rallied to his support and began what is known as the "Rising
of '45" or the "Forty-five," the beginning and ending of which are
told here in McCarthy's most brilliant manner.
From the first young Charles Stuart might well have come to regard
himself as the favorite of fortune. The history of the "Forty-five"
divides itself into two distinct parts: the first a triumphant record of
brilliant victories, and the picture of a young prince marching through
conquest after conquest to a crown; the second part prefaced by a
disastrous resolution leading to overwhelming defeat and ending in
ignominious flight and the extinction of the last Stuart hope. From the
moment when the Stuart standard fluttered its folds of white and crimson
on the Highland wind it seemed as if the Stuart luck had turned. Charles
might well conceive himself happy. Upon his sword sat laurel victory.
Smooth success was strewn before his feet. The blundering and
bewildered Cope[30] actually allowed Charles and his army to get past
him. Cope was neither a coward nor a traitor, but he was a terrible
blunderer, and while the English general was marching upon Inverness
Charles was triumphantly entering Perth. From Perth the young Prince,
with hopeless, helpless Cope still in his rear, marched on Edinburgh.
The condition of Edinburgh was peculiar: although a large proportion of
its inhabitants, especially those who were well-to-do, were stanch
supporters of the house of Hanover, there were plenty of Jacobites in
the place, and it only needed the favor of a few victories to bring into
open day a great deal of latent Jacobitism that was for the moment
prudently kept under by its possessors. The lord-provost himself was
more than suspected of being a Jacobite at heart. The city was miserably
defended. Such walls as it possessed were more ornamental than useful,
and in any case were sadly in want of repair. All the military force it
could muster to meet the advance of the clans was the small but fairly
efficient body of men who formed the town guard; the train-bands, some
thousand strong, who knew no more than so many spinsters of the division
of a battle; the small and undisciplined Edinburgh regiment, and a
scratch collection of volunteers hurriedly raked together from among the
humbler citizens of the town, and about as useful as so many puppets to
oppose to the daring and the ferocity of the clans.
Edinburgh opinion had changed very rapidly with regard to that same
daring and ferocity. When the first rumors of the Prince's advance were
bruited abroad the adherents of the house of Hanover in Edinburgh made
very merry over the gang of ragged rascals, hen-roost robbers, and
drunken rogues upon whom the Pretender relied in his effort to "enjoy
his ain again." But as the clans came nearer and nearer, as the air grew
thicker with flying rumors of the successes that attended upon the
Prince's progress, as the capacity of the town seemed weaker for holding
out, and as the prospect of reënforcements seemed to grow fainter and
fainter, the opinion of Hanoverian Edinburgh concerning the clans
changed mightily. Had the Highlanders been a race of giants, endowed
with more than mortal prowess, and invulnerable as Achilles, they could
hardly have struck more terror into the hearts of loyal and respectable
Edinburgh citizens.
Still, there were some stout hearts in Edinburgh who did their best to
keep up the courage of the rest and to keep out the enemy. Andrew
Fletcher and Duncan Forbes were of the number. M'Laurin, the
mathematician, turned his genius to the bettering of the fortifications.
Old Dr. Stevenson, bedridden but heroic, kept guard in his arm-chair for
many days at the Netherbow gate. The great question was, would Cope come
in time? Cope was at Aberdeen. Cope had put his army upon transports.
Cope might be here to-morrow, the day after to-morrow, to-day, who
knows? But in the mean time the King's Dragoons, whom Cope had left
behind him when he first started out to meet the Pretender, had steadily
and persistently retreated before the Highland advance. They had now
halted--they can hardly be said to have made a stand--at Corstorphine,
some three miles from Edinburgh, and here it was resolved to do
something to stay the tide of invasion. Hamilton's Dragoons were at
Leith. These were ordered to join the King's Dragoons at Corstorphine
and to collect as many Edinburgh volunteers as they could on their way.
Inside the walls of Edinburgh it was easy enough to collect volunteers,
and quite a little army of them marched out with drums beating and
colors flying at the heels of Hamilton's Dragoons. But on the way to the
town gates the temper of the volunteers changed, and by the time that
the town gates were reached and passed the volunteers had dwindled to so
pitiable a handful that they were dismissed, and Hamilton's Dragoons
proceeded alone to join Cope's King's Dragoons at Corstorphine.
But the united force of dragoons did not stay long at Corstorphine. The
fame of the fierce Highlanders had unhinged their valor, and it only
needed a few of the Prince's supporters to ride within pistol-shot and
discharge their pieces at the royal troops to set them into as
disgraceful a panic as ever animated frightened men. The dragoons,
ludicrously unmanned, turned tail and rode for their lives, rode without
drawing bridle and without staying spur till they came to Leith, paused
there for a little, and then, on some vague hint that the Highlanders
were on their track, they were in the saddle again and riding for their
lives once more. Dismayed Edinburgh citizens saw them sweep along what
now is Prince's Street, a pitiable sight; saw them, bloody with
spurring, fiery hot with haste, ride on--on into the darkness. On and on
the desperate cowards scampered, sheep-like in their shameful fear, till
they reached Dunbar, and behind its gates allowed themselves to breathe
more freely and to congratulate themselves upon the dangers they had
escaped. Such is the story of the famous, or infamous, "Canter of
Coltbrigg," one of the most disgraceful records of the abject collapse
of regular troops before the terror of an almost unseen foe that are to
be found in history. Well might loyal Edinburgh despair if such were its
best defenders. The town was all tumult, the loyalists were in utter
gloom, the secretly exulting Jacobites were urging the impossibility of
resistance, and the necessity for yielding while yielding was still an
open question.
On the top of all this came a summons from the Prince demanding the
immediate surrender of the city. A deputation was at once despatched to
Gray's Mill, where the Prince had halted, to confer with him. Scarcely
had the deputation gone when rumor spread abroad in the town that
Cope--Cope the long expected, the almost given up--was actually close at
hand, and the weather-cock emotions of the town veered to a new quarter.
Perhaps they might be able to hold out after all. The great thing was to
gain time. The deputation came back to say that Prince Charles must have
a distinct answer to his summons before two o'clock in the morning, and
it was now ten at night. Still spurred by the hope of gaining time, and
allowing Cope to arrive, if, indeed, he were arriving, the deputation
was sent back again. But the Prince refused to see them, and the
deputation returned to the city and all unconsciously decided the fate
of Edinburgh. Lochiel and Murray, with some five hundred Camerons, had
crept close to the walls under the cover of the darkness of the night,
in the hope of finding some means of surprising the city. Hidden close
by the Netherbow port they saw the coach which had carried the
deputation home drive up and demand admittance. The admittance, which
was readily granted to the coach, could not well be refused to the
Highlanders, who leaped up the moment the doors were opened, overpowered
the guard, and entered the town. Edinburgh awoke in the morning to find
its doubts at an end. It was in the hands of the Highlanders.
Jacobite Edinburgh went wild with delight over its hero Prince. He
entered Holyrood with the white rose in his bonnet and the star of St.
Andrew on his breast, through enthusiastic crowds that fought eagerly
for a nearer sight of his face or the privilege of touching his hand.
The young Prince looked his best; the hereditary melancholy which cast
its shadow over the faces of all the Stuarts was for the moment
dissipated. Flushed with easy triumph, popular applause, and growing
hope, the young Prince entered the palace of his ancestors like a king
returning to his own. James Hepburn, of Keith, with drawn sword, led the
way; beautiful women distributed white cockades to enraptured Jacobites;
the stateliest chivalry of Scotland made obeisance to its rightful
Prince. The intoxicating day ended with a great ball at the palace, at
which the youthful grace of Charles Stuart confirmed the charm that
already belonged to the adventurous and victorious Prince of Wales.
September 17, 1745, was one of the brightest days in the Stuart
calendar.
The conquest of Edinburgh was but the prelude to greater glories. Cope
was rallying his forces at Dunbar--was marching to the relief of
Edinburgh. Charles, acting on the advice of his generals, marched out to
meet him. Cope's capacity for blundering was by no means exhausted. He
affected a contemptuous disregard for his foes, delayed attack in
defiance of his wisest generals, was taken unawares in the gray morning
of the 21st, at Prestonpans, and routed completely and ignominiously in
five minutes.
Seldom has it been the misfortune of an English general to experience so
thorough, so humiliating a defeat. The wild charges of the Highlandmen
broke up the ordered ranks of the English troops in hopeless confusion;
almost all the infantry was cut to pieces, and the cavalry escaped only
by desperate flight. Cope's Dragoons were accustomed to flight by this
time; the clatter of their horses' hoofs as they cantered from Coltbrigg
was still in their ears, and as they once again tore in shameless flight
up the Edinburgh High Street they might well have reflected upon the
rapidity with which such experiences repeated themselves. General
Preston, of the castle, refused to admit the cowards within his gate, so
there was nothing for them but to turn their horses' heads again, and
spur off into the west country. As for Cope, he managed to collect some
ragged remnant of his ruined army about him, and to make off with all
speed to Berwick, where he was received by Lord Mark Ker with the
scornful assurance that he was the first commander-in-chief in Europe
who had brought with him the news of his own defeat.
The victorious Highlanders were unable, if they had wished, to follow up
the flight, owing to their lack of cavalry. They remained on the field
to ascertain their own losses and to count their spoil. The losses were
trifling, the gain was great. Only thirty Highlanders were killed, only
seventy wounded, in that astonishing battle. As for the gain, not merely
were the honorable trophies of victory, the colors and the standards,
left in Highland hands, but the artillery and the supplies, with some
two thousand pounds in money, offered the Prince's troops a solid reward
for their daring. It is to the credit of Charles that after the fury of
attack was over he insisted upon the wounded enemy and the prisoners
being treated with all humanity. An incident is told of him which brings
into relief the better qualities of his race. One of his officers,
pointing to the ghastly field all strewn with dead bodies, with severed
limbs and mutilated trunks, said to the Prince, "Sir, behold your
enemies at your feet." The Prince sighed. "They are my father's
subjects," he said sadly, as he turned away.
The battle of Prestonpans is enshrined in Jacobite memories as the
battle of Gladsmuir, for a reason very characteristic of the Stuarts and
their followers. Some queer old book of prophecies had foretold, more
than a century earlier, that there should be a battle at Gladsmuir. The
battle of Prestonpans was not fought really on Gladsmuir at all.
Gladsmuir lies a good mile away from the scene of Charles' easy triumph
and Cope's inglorious rout; but for enthusiastic Jacobite purposes it
was near enough to seem an absolute fulfilment of the venerable
prediction. A battle was to be fought at Gladsmuir; go to, then--a
battle _was_ fought at Gladsmuir, or _near_ Gladsmuir, which is very
much the same thing: anyhow, not very far away from Gladsmuir. And so
the Jacobites were contented, and more than ever convinced of the
advantages of prophecy in the affairs of practical politics.
Some busy days were passed in Edinburgh in which councils of war
alternated with semiregal entertainments, and in which the Prince
employed his ready command of language in paying graceful compliments to
the pretty women who wore the white cockade, and in issuing
proclamations in which the Union was dissolved and religious liberty
promised. One thing the young Prince could not be induced to do: none of
the arguments of his counsellors could prevail upon him to threaten
severe measures against the prisoners fallen into his hands. It was
urged that unless the government treated their prisoners as prisoners of
war and not as rebels, the Prince would be well advised to retaliate by
equal harshness to the captives in his power. But on this point the
Prince was obdurate. He would not take in cold blood the lives that he
had saved in the heat of action.
Then, and all through this meteoric campaign, the conduct of Charles was
characterized by a sincere humanity, which stands out in startling
contrast with the cruelties practised later by his enemy, the "Butcher
of Cumberland." It prevented the Prince from gaining an important
military advantage by the reduction of Edinburgh castle. He attempted
the reduction of the castle by cutting off its supplies, but, when the
general in command threatened to open fire upon the town in consequence,
Charles immediately rescinded the order, although his officers urged
that the destruction of a few houses, and even the loss of a few lives,
was, in a military sense, of scant importance in comparison with the
capture of so valuable a stronghold as Edinburgh castle. The Prince held
firmly to his resolve, and Edinburgh castle remained to the end in the
hands of the royal troops. Charles displayed a great objection, too, to
any plundering or lawless behavior on the part of his wild Highland
army. We learn from the Bland Burges papers that when the house of Lord
Somerville, who was opposed to the Prince, was molested by a party of
Highlanders, the Prince, on hearing of it, sent an apology to Lord
Somerville, and an officer's guard to protect him from further
annoyance.
But time was running on, and it was necessary to take action again.
England was waking up to a sense of its peril. Armies were gathering.
The King had come back from Hanover, the troops were almost all recalled
from Flanders. It was time to make a fresh stroke. Charles resolved upon
the bold course of striking south at once for England, and early in
November he marched. He set off on the famous march south. In this
undertaking, as before, the same extraordinary good-fortune attended
upon the Stuart arms. His little army of less than six thousand men
reached Carlisle, reached Manchester, without opposition. On December
4th he was at Derby, only one hundred twenty-seven miles from London.
Once again, by skill or by good-fortune, he had contrived to slip past
the English general sent out to bar his way. Cumberland with his forces
was at Stafford, nine miles farther from the capital than the young
Prince, who was now only six days from the city, with all his hopes and
his ambitions ahead of him, and behind him the hostile army of the
general he had eluded.
Never, perhaps, in the history of warfare did an invader come so near
the goal of his success and throw it so wantonly away; for that is what
Charles did. With all that he had come for apparently within his reach,
he did not reach out to take it; the crown of England was in the hollow
of his hand, and he opened his hand and let the prize fall from it. It
is difficult to understand now what curious madness prompted the
Prince's advisers to counsel him as they did, or the Prince to act upon
their counsels. He was in the heart of England; he was hard by the
capital, which he would have to reach if he was ever to mount the throne
of his fathers. He had a devoted army with him--it would seem as if he
had only to advance and to win--and yet, with a fatuity which makes the
student of history gasp, he actually resolved to retreat, and did
retreat.