BLENHEIM
Blenheim, Ramillies, Oudenarde, and Malplaquet--somehow these names
lie contiguous in the mind; so stored away, perhaps, in the brain
cells long ago, and thus forever associative.
Where is all that we know when it is not in play upon the plane
of consciousness? Where is the music of a Rachmaninoff--while he
sleeps? the reminiscent wealth of a Gladstone--while he plays with
his great grandchild? the genius of an Edgar Allan Poe--while
narcotic night silences the streets of Baltimore?
“Potentially down in subconsciousness,” says my glib psychologist.
Eloquent answer! But where and what _is_ subconsciousness?
Better is it silently to gaze wide-eyed, sincere, perplexed into
the omnipresent _I-do-not-know_, than to squirrel gyrate in the
old vicious circle, or to cob-web life-deep chaos with verbiage,
subterfuge, and explanations that do not explain.
Blenheim, cumulatively at least, stands for the first and fatal
blow that fortune dealt to her fair haired favorite Louis le Grand.
The treaties of Utrecht (1713) and Rastadt (1714) were an appalling
humiliation to the Grand Monarch who had imperiously dictated the
conditions of Aix-la-Chapelle and Nimeguen.
“There are no longer any Pyrenees”, said Louis XIV., arbiter of
Europe, as his grandson, a boy of seventeen, was raised to the
throne as Philip V. of Spain. And then all Europe flew to arms and
for thirteen years blood flowed and war dogs killed one another
because that boy was on the throne and Louis’ witty words had razed
the Pyrenees.
This war is known as the War of the Spanish Succession. A second
Grand Alliance was formed; England, Holland, Sweden, Savoy, Austria
fought against France. The famous English general, Marlborough,
and Prince Eugene of Savoy, in the service of the Emperor, won the
memorable battles, Blenheim, Ramillies, Oudenarde and Malplaquet.
The allies chose for the Spanish throne, the Archduke Charles, of
Austria, the second son of the Emperor Leopold I.; but when after
ten years’ fighting there was a vacancy in the imperial line and
Archduke Charles suddenly became Emperor of Austria, the allies,
fearing the preponderance of Austria in European affairs, withdrew
their claim. Philip V. grandson of Louis XIV., was permitted to
remain upon the throne of Spain.
The war ended disadvantageously for France. Philip V. was obliged
to renounce his claims to the succession in France, so that
France and Spain might never be under the same monarch; and thus
by miracle-words the august Pyrenees were reinstated (of course
they had been deeply disturbed and were, in consequence, duly
grateful!); England obtained Gibraltar and the island Minorca; the
Duke of Savoy was rewarded with the island Sicily, and Austria
obtained Milan, Naples, Sardinia, and part of the Netherlands.
Thirteen years of bloodshed for the whim of an ambitious old man!
And thousands fell on both sides, who if questioned, could not
honestly have told why they were killing one another.
“‘Now tell us all about the war,
And what they fought each other for?’
Young Peterkin he cries,
While little Wilhelmine looks up
with wonder waiting eyes.”
* * * * *
“‘It was the English’, Caspar said,
Who put the French to rout,
But what they fought each other for--
I couldn’t well make out:
But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.”
--_Southey._
And the world is as fatuous as Southey’s old “Caspar”, and we of
the awakening twentieth century are sorely perplexed “Peterkins”.
Why must things like that be; and why do men speak of successful
human slaughter as a “famous victory”; and why do martial music and
blare of trumpet and drum and epaulettes and ribbons and medals and
barbaric pomp in general--succeed in silencing the death groans and
in hiding from view the bloody agonies and the demon horrors of the
battlefield?
“Why ’twas a very wicked thing”
Quoth little Wilhelmine.
“Nay, nay, my little girl”, said he,
“It was a famous victory.”
“But what good came of it at last”?
* * * * *
“Why, that I cannot tell”, said he,
“But ’twas a famous victory.”
And the voice of the questioning child is lost in answerless
fatuity. When will the world hear and honestly answer?
LOUIS XIV.
Louis le Grand, greatest of the Bourbons, lived too long. For
seventy-two years (1643-1775) Louis was king and for, at least,
fifty years his power was absolute.
Louis’ long reign had as contemporary English history the
disastrous Civil War and the beheading of Charles I. (1649); the
Cromwellian Protectorate (1653); the Restoration of the Stuarts
(1660); the reign of the Merry Monarch, the misfortunes of James
II., the revolution of 1688, the battle of the Boyne, and the
final deposition and expulsion of James II.; the accession to the
throne of England as King William III., of Louis’ most inveterate
foe, William, Prince of Orange (1688); the death of King William
III. (1702); the reign of Queen Anne, her death, and the beginning
of the House of Hanover (1715).
On the continent the Thirty Years’ War was happily ended by the
treaty of Westphalia (1648). Peter the Great ascended the throne of
Russia (1682). In the great battle of Pultowa (1709) the power of
Sweden was practically annihilated; the madly victorious career of
Charles XII. of Sweden was stopped, and his successes together with
the more solid attainments of his predecessor, Gustavus Adolphus,
were rendered negative; Russia advanced over her prostrate foe to
her place among the nations.
For forty years success, pleasure, honor, power, and glory beamed
in full radiance upon Louis--both as man and monarch. Had he died
even as late as 1702 when William, his great rival foe, died, Louis
would have been, to all appearances, the most blessed of mortals
and his reign the most glorious in the annals of France.
If Pompey the Great had died on his triumphal return from the
Mithradatic war, his life would have been esteemed singularly happy
and free from the reverses and misfortunes that are the ordinary
lot of mortals. But Pompey lived to see all his blushing honors
grow gray, as the admiring eyes that had once adoringly gazed upon
Pompey the Great turned from him, the setting sun, to the dazzling
effulgence of the rising orb, Caius Julius Cæsar. Pharsalia lay in
that alienating gaze and assassination and bloody death.
The last years of Louis XIV. were burdened with many miseries.
His fortitude and magnanimity under these crushing blows form,
perhaps, his best claim to the title _Great_. The War of the
Spanish Succession ended with the humiliating treaty of Utrecht.
Blenheim, Ramillies, Oudenarde, Malplaquet had, in great measure,
swept away all that the successful years had, with blood and
treasure, attained. But it was in his domestic relations that the
aged monarch was most sorely afflicted. The Dauphin died, and a
few months later his second son, the Duke of Burgundy, Fenelon’s
favorite pupil, died; Adelaide of Savoy, wife of the Duke of
Burgundy, soon followed her husband to the grave; their two sons
yet lived, and of these, the elder, a promising youth, died
suddenly and there remained only a delicate infant--the future
Louis XV.
Louis bore all these sorrows with fortitude and sublime
resignation. In the same stoic or heroic attitude of mind he looked
forward into the gathering darkness of death. There is something
truly great in the man who can suffer cataclysmic misfortunes and
deny to himself the relief of a cry of complaint.
Louis died calmly at Versailles, Sept. 1, 1715. His last words were
to his little grandson, a frail boy of five years; sadly the dying
monarch said, “My child, you are about to become a great king. Do
not imitate me either in my taste for building or in my love of
war. Endeavor on the contrary to live in peace with the neighboring
nations. Render to God all that you owe to him and cause his name
to be honored by your subjects. Strive also to relieve the burdens
of your people which I myself have been unable to do.”
And with this futile advice carrying with it his own confession of
failure Louis le Grand died. The king is dead--long live the king!