(A.D. 1666-1726.)
When the Edict of Nantes was revoked by Louis XIV., of which mention has been made in a previous reign, persecutions that equalled the never-to-be-forgotten St. Bartholomew, followed, and being spread over a longer period, affected a larger number of victims. This Edict had permitted to Protestants the free observance of their religion so long that when it was repealed it was a cruel blow, though perhaps a triumph to Roman Catholics. Those faithful adherents to Protestantism who refused to become converts were executed or imprisoned; but thousands escaped and fled, leaving their property to be confiscated to the crown, while they sought refuge, strangers in a strange land, with poverty staring them in the face. Those were times when horrors unspeakable were of daily occurrence. Armed bodies of dragoons went from town to town in France, barbarously butchering the terror-stricken men, women, and children, who had failed to confess and receive the sacrament according to the mode prescribed by the king; while thousands hastened at the point of the sword to do so, pretending, in order to escape massacre, that they had suddenly awakened to the error of their former ways.
When the report of these conversions—if we may so call the cowardice that compelled myriads to take false oaths out of sheer desperation—was carried to the willingly-duped King of France, he raised his eyes to Heaven, amazed at the miracle, which he pronounced, in the presence of his fawning courtiers, more wonderful than many of those recounted in Scripture. But he knew as well as his bishops did, that "a man convinced against his will is of the same opinion still."
We have said that some of the Protestants escaped their persecutors; among the number of these lucky beings was Alexander D'Esmiers, Marquis D'Olbreuse, a gallant gentleman of Poictiers, who, with his daughter, Eleanora, sought refuge in Brussels. It was not long before this beautiful, accomplished French girl was introduced into the gay society of that gay city, where she was courted and admired by many of the beaux, and no doubt envied and criticized by the belles.
A.D. 1665. It was at a grand court ball that this young girl first became acquainted with Duke George William, second son of George, Duke of Brunswick-Lunebourg, and heir to the dukedom of Zell. The duke fell violently in love, for the first time in his life, though he had been a traveller for some years, and was noted for his gallantry among the ladies with whom he had flirted in various parts of the world. With the awakening of this sentiment, George William, who had been rather a taciturn man, became eloquent in his love-pleadings; he had never cared to study, but a sudden desire to perfect himself in the French language took hold of him, and he begged the beautiful Eleanora to assist him with the intricacies of her native tongue. She consented, and throughout the bright,
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warm summer days, this youthful teacher and pupil were seen strolling together in the park, or seated, books in hand, beneath the shade of some wide-spreading tree, industriously pursuing their studies.
But of all the verbs in the language, the one which most interested this pair was aimer, "to love," and they learned to conjugate its various moods and tenses, which led, in their regular course, at last, to marriage. This took place in the autumn of 1665, when Eleanora was twenty-six years of age. Her title then became Lady Von Harburg, from an estate so called, belonging to the duke.
This union proved a most happy one; for, with mutual affection, confidence, and respect, the duke and his wife held their little court free from the intrigues and anxieties that ruffled the peace and happiness of most of the more important ones of their day. The only fault that her subjects ever found with the high-minded, estimable Lady Von Harburg was, that she surrounded herself with French attendants; but it is no wonder she preferred to do so, if we consider that she was always regarded by the jealous Germans as an intruder, even though she had united her interest with theirs by marrying one of their countrymen. So long as her husband approved of her choice of attendants, Eleanora heeded not the railings of the envious; but occupied her mind and time with wholesome, sensible pursuits.
A.D. 1666. Her first child, the subject of this history, was born on the fifteenth of September, 1666. She was named Sophia Dorothea, which means, Wisdom, the gift of God, and she needed an unusual amount of this endowment, when she became a woman, to support her under the miserable trials a cruel husband laid upon her. But we must not tell about that yet. As a child, Sophia Dorothea was a source of delight to her fond parents, and filled their home with sunshine and happiness. Alas! if they could have looked into the future, sooner would they have laid their little darling in the grave than see her live to drag out a weary existence to its bitter end. Perhaps it is well that they could not, for they had three other children that died in infancy; and consolation for their loss was always to be found in the possession of their charming, interesting, constantly improving little Sophia Dorothea.
Under all her trials, the mother proved herself a true woman, and so increased her husband's respect and esteem for her that he became anxious to have her title equal to his own; for, at the time of their marriage, there had been some complications that prevented. So he set to work to accomplish this, and after a vast amount of trouble, petitioning, delay and expense, at last succeeded. Then the Lady von Harburg became Countess von Wilhelmsburg and Duchess of Zell. This gratified the duke, though it did not enhance his wife's happiness, for she had been perfectly contented before, and craved no title more lofty than the one she had.
Nothing ever interfered with the care for her little daughter, who was tenderly and religiously trained; and unspoiled by the flattery that would have been showered upon her, had anybody suspected that she was one day to become Queen of England. When Sophia Dorothea was about seven years of age, she had for a playfellow, Philip von Kônigsmark, whose father was a warm personal friend to the duke. Philip was at Zell, at the time of which we speak, for purposes of education, and spent most of his leisure hours with the little girl in the garden of the palace. These two children became very fond of each other, and the gossips about the court shook their heads knowingly as they prophesied a future marriage, in an undertone. But they were false prophets, for a very different fate awaited the two guileless, happy children.
A.D. 1673. Before Sophia Dorothea had reached the age of ten, Philip was called back to his old home, and for awhile he passes out of our story, although we shall hear more of him some years later. The little girl missed him sadly at first, but other companions were provided for her, and she soon became reconciled to the absence of Philip. She continued her studies, and gave early promise of becoming a handsome, virtuous, accomplished woman. She was an heiress too, and that by no means diminished her attractions. To be sure, her fortune was not large; but fifteen thousand pounds was better than nothing,—at least so thought her cousin, Augustus Frederick, Crown-Prince of Brunswick-Wôlfenbuttel, who sought her hand a few months after the departure of Philip von Konigsmark. Sophia Dorothea was fond of this young kinsman after her child fashion, and so a formal betrothal took place. But Augustus Frederick was a soldier, and according to his ideas of chivalry, he could not claim his lady love until he had distinguished himself on the battle-field; so, filled with courage and hope, he bade farewell to the little girl, and marched to the siege of Philipsburg. He fought valiantly, and, like a true knight, proved himself worthy of the little lady of his choice; but alas! towards the close of the battle, a fatal bullet put an end to his existence. Thus was Sophia Dorothea deprived of a husband whose death affected her only slightly at the time, but whom she learned to regret many years later, and no doubt thought with the poet:—
"Of all sad words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these: 'It might have been.'"
A.D. 1676. Now we must leave Sophia Dorothea, and while she is developing into womanhood, tell about people who became closely connected with the vicissitudes of her life after she was deprived of a mother's care.
A.D. 1678. The Duke of Zell had a brother, older than himself, who was married to Sophia, daughter of Frederick and Elizabeth, the short-lived King and Queen of Bohemia. This Sophia is the electress of Hanover, mentioned in Queen Anne's reign as Protestant heiress to the throne of England through her descent from James I. Ernest Augustus, first Duke of Hanover, husband to this lady, was a pompous, ostentatious man, who took Louis XIV. for his model in life, but in so doing imitated his vices rather than his virtues, and became an unfaithful, neglectful husband to a good woman. But Sophia was a person of rare intellect and common sense, and though not unmindful of the duke's neglect, she managed to forget her wrongs by occupying herself with literary and other pursuits.
Ernest Augustus was almost as much under the influence of a woman as we have seen that Queen Anne was during the early part of her reign; but this one managed more adroitly than did the imperious, hot-headed Duchess of Marlborough, and so retained her position.
A.D. 1680. Catherine and Elizabeth von Meissengen were two bright, lively, ambitious sisters, who made their appearance at the Court of Hanover, where they excited a great deal of curiosity and interest. Both were handsome, and dressed so well that the German ladies accepted their pretty, tasteful costumes as models for their own, while the gentlemen flocked to the drawing-room of these sisters, who gave entertainments so delightful in their character as to attract young and old, men and women. Even the members of the royal family honored these witty, fascinating ladies with their visits, and so for a time they became the lionesses of Hanover.
We have said that the Von Meissengen ladies were ambitious, and so they were; they had come to court to seek their fortunes, and aimed so high as the heir to the throne himself. But that young man, whose name was George Louis, was not to be won by their wiles, and so in course of time they began to look lower, and succeeded in captivating the private tutors of the Hanover princes. Everybody was astonished when, at the close of a short summer vacation, Catherine von Meissengen reappeared in society as Madame Busche, and her sister Elizabeth as Madame von Platen.
A.D. 1681. Having secured these learned men for husbands was all very well so far as it went, but Elizabeth immediately began to plan and intrigue until she succeeded in getting her husband appointed prime minister to Ernest Augustus. That made her mistress of the situation, for though Von Platen was not weak-minded, his wife was strong, and not only ruled him but the sovereign besides. We have related so much about this woman, an intriguante of the deepest dye, because it was she who chiefly controlled the destiny of poor Sophia Dorothea.
The routine of the court of Zell continued with little variation from year to year, the monotony being broken only now and then by the arrival of some guest. One of these was Prince Augustus William von Wôlfenbuttel, brother of the soldier who had early courted little Sophia Dorothea, and who lost his life on the battle-field of Philipsburg.
This young man was not rich, but he was handsome, and his position and character were excellent. He owned a small estate, sufficient to insure the comfort of himself and wife as soon as he could find one whom he could fancy, and who would accept him. His choice fell on his cousin, Sophia Dorothea, and he had an eye, too, to her dower, which, though not large, would help to maintain his princely state. So he wooed her, and soon won her heart. But the course of true-love did not run smooth, for the Duke of Zell objected to the match, which of course only served to increase the passion of the lovers. To be sure Sophia Dorothea was a dutiful daughter, and would have yielded to her father's objections had they been reasonable; but he was forced to admit that the lovers were well-suited to each other, and only opposed their marriage because, like many Germans of his day, he was absurdly superstitious. It seemed to him a sacrilege for his daughter to wed the brother of her dead lover, and he did not see how anything but bad luck could result from such a step. So the young girl begged her mother to intercede for her, and the worthy lady proved such a powerful mediator that her husband's consent was finally won.
A.D. 1682. Even then matters were by no means settled to the satisfaction of the lovers, for Madame von Platen had something to say on the subject. Several times had this female prime minister consulted with Ernest Augustus as to the most advisable manner of disposing of the hand of his son, George Louis, in marriage, providing the proper person could be found. In an evil hour for Sophia Dorothea, the worthy pair decided that greater importance would accrue to the electorate of Hanover by the acquisition of the broad acres of Zell. That was enough; for with Madame von Platen to desire was to have, and no obstacle could stand in the way of anything she had set her heart on. Sophia Dorothea was engaged certainly, but that made no difference; everything, hearts, hopes, happiness, must give way to political ambition. So a regular plot was laid to destroy the bond that existed between Augustus William and his lady-love.
Let us take a look at the young man who was to be substituted for the handsome, noble, brilliant, and fondly loved Augustus William of Wolfenbuttel. At the time of which
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we speak, George Louis was twenty-two years of age, undersized, coarse-minded, ungentlemanly, and mean-spirited. He was good-natured, to be sure; and, like all the princes of the House of Brunswick, he was brave on the battle-field, but he had no sympathy with suffering and sorrow, and none of the qualities that are apt to attract a young girl.
He was in England when the powers at Hanover decided to marry him to poor, innocent little Sophia Dorothea, and as ignorant of the plot as she was. On his way thither he had visited William of Orange, to whom he confided the object of his journey. This was to offer his hand and heart to Princess Anne, and it is easy to believe what is generally suspected: that William himself encouraged Madame Von Platen in the intrigues that recalled George Louis and brought about the marriage that caused so much misery. The reason why it is probable that William of Orange would endeavor to prevent a union between George Louis and Princess Anne is, that although his wife was heiress presumptive to the throne, in the event of her death, which, as we know, occurred before his, he would not have been permitted to govern alone had the House of Brunswick been so powerfully represented in England, and to avoid complications, he preferred to have George Louis safely married and settled out of the way.
Meanwhile, with the firm conviction that in William of Orange he had a friend ready to further his cause, George of Hanover arrived in England, and was received as befitted his rank by Charles II., and entertained at Whitehall Palace, where apartments had been prepared for him. Then he was introduced to the Princess Anne; but it is not probable that he made a very favorable impression on her, for she afterwards married Prince George of Denmark, with whom she lived happily until the day of his death. It is certain, however, that George Louis had some hopes of success with Anne, for when he was suddenly and most unexpectedly recalled home, he was dreadfully perplexed. Nevertheless, he obeyed the summons of his royal father without suspecting the cause of it. He must have been somewhat astonished when it was announced to him that he was to transfer his ideas of matrimony from one object to another.
Having made up his mind that an alliance with the House of Zell would be advantageous to that of Hanover, Ernest Augustus found no difficulty in persuading his brother to postpone the marriage of his daughter, Sophia Dorothea, with Augustus of Wôlfenbuttel on the score of her youth, as she was only fifteen years of age, he argued, and too young to become a wife. Anxious as he was to retain possession of his child for another year, the Duke of Zell was only too willing to listen to any argument that would accomplish that object, so he consented to a betrothal only, and postponed the marriage for a year. What reasoning he employed to make the young lovers agree to this arrangement, is not known; but Augustus went off evidently satisfied that the prize he was to get was worth waiting for, and with no suspicion that treachery would deprive him of his lady love.
No sooner was he well out of the way, than Ernest Augustus, Madame Von Platen, and others busied themselves in endeavoring to bring their plot to a climax. Months rolled by, Sophia Dorothea celebrated her sixteenth birthday; George Louis visited her from time to time, but he had made no impression whatever on the young girl, and the series of intrigues concocted by the old heads for the ruin of young hearts would have been utterly worthless had it not been for the active and efficient zeal of one person, who, just when failure seemed imminent, stepped in to prove the worth of her energy and power. That person was Sophia, mother to George Louis, a crafty, designing woman, ambitious as any of her family, who, having seen the advantage to be derived from the marriage of her son with her niece Sophia Dorothea, was determined that it should take place.
She had heard rumors of an engagement with Augustus of Wôlfenbuttel; but that was a matter of small consideration in her eyes, and so long as no marriage had taken place, it was not too late for her son to supplant the favored lover. The great, heavy family coach was therefore ordered to be put in readiness for a journey of about thirty miles, which an ordinary railway train of to-day would make in an hour. But two centuries ago travelling was a more serious matter, and it took the duchess all night to reach the ducal palace of Zell.
The sleepy sentinel was astonished when the lady pushed past him, and, totally regardless of anything like ceremony, breathlessly requested the servants she met in the hall to conduct her at once to the duke. She was told that he was dressing, but would soon come down stairs to see her if she would have the goodness to wait in a' reception-room.
But the lady was too impatient to lose a moment, so mounted the stairs, and bade the groom of the bed-chamber to point out the door of the duke's dressing-room. Without going through the formality of an announcement, or making known her presence by a knock, the duchess unceremoniously pushed open the door, while the scarcely half-dressed duke gazed at the intruder in amazement.
Without deigning to apologize for her abrupt entrance, the sister-in-law bounced herself into a chair, and having remarked that she had come on important business, asked suddenly: "Where is your wife?" The Duke of Zell had not recovered his composure sufficiently to reply, but pointed to the adjoining chamber, through the open door of which a large bed was visible, where, beneath the covers, Duchess Eleanora lay safely ensconced, wondering what could have prompted so early a visit. But although she strained her ears to listen, she was not soon to be gratified; for "Old Sophia," who had begun her interview in French, at once changed to German, when she remembered how imperfectly the Duchess of Zell understood that language.
The less she comprehended of the argument that the wife of Ernest Augustus was so impressively setting forth, the more did she endeavor to catch a word here and there; and when she heard the name of her daughter coupled with that of George Louis again and again, she began to understand as well as though the whole case had been put in her own native tongue.
The Duke of Zell was easily convinced, particularly as he had never favored his daughter's marriage with the brother of her dead lover; and the mother of George Louis eloquently set forth the advantages to be derived from a union between the heir of Hanover and the heiress of Zell, adding the possibility of Sophia Dorothea some day becoming Queen of England. The clever sister-in-law completely dazzled her listener with all the bright hopes she held out, and returned to Hanover after having obtained the Duke of Zell's solemn promise that he would break off his daughter's match with her lover, and bestow her hand upon George Louis.
That morning's work rendered three people miserable,—the loving mother, the young girl, and the lover, whose happiness was sacrificed to increase the territory of one heartless man and to gratify the ambition of another. The duke loved his daughter; but all her prayers, sobs, and entreaties failed to weigh against his sinful ambition. He turned a deaf ear to his wife, too, who assured him that their child detested George Louis, and that he had neither respect nor affection for her. It was a pitiable case, for had the people who planned this hateful match set out with no other motive than the breaking of a young girl's heart, and the utter destruction of all her bright hopes, they could not more thoroughly have succeeded.
It would be needless to follow all the arrangements and make-believe courtship that followed the visit of Duchess Sophia, and it would be too painful to recount the sufferings of the poor child of sixteen, who, with her heart filled with the image of the man she had promised to marry, was forced to give her hand to one of the least attractive creatures she had ever beheld.
Suffice it to say that the marriage between George Louis of Hanover and Sophia Dorothea of Zell was celebrated with unusual splendor, on the twenty-first of November; and the Electress Sophia congratulated herself on the success of her undertaking. She had brought about the marriage that was deemed advisable. The bride's toilet was superb, and every detail of the nuptial festivities was carried out with more than ordinary pains; what cared she then, though the tear-stained face of the bride told of her sufferings? She had achieved a triumph, and that was sufficient; for the Electress Sophia was not honorable enough to feel that any wrong had been done to the deserted lover of her niece, and she was never known to hesitate to employ any means, just or otherwise, for the attainment of her ends. Yet she was a woman much admired in society, witty, brilliant in conversation, and handsome. Men of ability were pleased to talk with her, and she was remarkable for her logical style of argument, often coming off victorious in the war of words. Even Leibnitz, the great German philosopher, was proud of her friendship, and often laughingly said of her "that she not only invariably asked why, but the why of whys." He meant that she would accept no reason that she did not clearly comprehend. In this respect she is certainly worthy of imitation.
But to return to the little bride. The parting from her mother was a sore trial to both, and one from which the latter never recovered, for she always appeared like a person bowed down beneath the weight of a great sorrow. As for the daughter, she went to Hanover, where for a time she was at least less unhappy than at any future period of her life. Her husband treated her shamefully from the first, but she did not love him enough to be wounded by his neglect, and she found solace in the regard shown her by her father-in-law, Ernest Augustus, who esteemed her very highly.
A.D. 1683. Another comfort that Sophia Dorothea had in course of time was a little boy, who was born on the thirtieth of October, 1683. He was named George Augustus, and many years later ascended the throne of England as George II. In 1684 a little daughter was added to the family. She was named for her mother, and like her brother ascended a throne, but it was as the wife of a King of Prussia.
A.D. 1684. She had contrived to win the good opinion of Ernest Augustus as well as his wife, both of whom regarded her as an ornament to their court. They treated her with a great deal of consideration, and no doubt sympathized with her because of the selfish, brutal behavior of their son towards her. But Ernest Augustus was so indiscreet as to praise her on several occasions, and that was more than Madame von Platen could stand. He even went so far as to consult her, and such a proceeding filled the soul of Madame, the prime minister, with hatred.
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Not only did she hate Sophia Dorothea, because she was in favor with Ernest Augustus, but for another and a very unjust reason, as it was connected with the Duchess of Zell, and her daughter could not possibly have had any hand in the affair.
One day Ernest Augustus went to make a call at the house of Madame von Platen, as he frequently did; the lady was not at home, but her pretty, bright, rather forward maid was, and in the absence of her mistress set herself out to entertain the old elector. "Use"—that was the name of the girl, and quite an appropriate one—had a remarkable talent for story-telling, and had just completed one of the most brilliant she knew, for the entertainment of her royal listener, who was laughing heartily when Madame von Platen suddenly stood before them. The lady was not more shocked at the elector's lack of dignity than at the servant's audacity. The one she dared not attack, the other she could, and most certainly would, punish forthwith.
However, for the moment she only "looked daggers," and the royal visitor soon took his departure. The next day he went to one of his palaces in the country to spend a few weeks. What Madame von Platen said to her pert handmaid is not recorded; but so great was her influence in Hanover, that during the elector's absence, she had the girl locked up in jail on a charge of scandalous conduct. Poor Use was treated very unkindly while a captive, and at last in obedience to her mistress's order, actually drummed out of the town.
Now one would suppose that the wife of the elector might have interfered to prevent such harsh treatment; but she was too much occupied with her studies to take interest in such matters, and even if she had, she would have found how much greater was Madame von Platen's power than her own. So poor Use found herself outside the city walls, penniless, disgraced, friendless. She wandered through the country until, footsore and hungry, she arrived at the palace of Zell, where, upon being admitted, she frankly related her troubles to the duchess. That lady's sympathy was at once aroused, and although she told the giddy girl that she had done wrong, she could not but own to herself that the punishment for so slight an offence had been very heavy. Therefore, after due consideration and a short consultation with her husband, she gave the girl an asylum and employment in her household.
This was the head and front of the Duchess of Zell's offending, so far as Madame von Platen was concerned, and this was the insult that she resolved to revenge on the head of poor Sophia Dorothea.
A.D. 1686. George Louis had for a long time been encouraged in his ill-treatment of his wife, not only by the vile Madame von Platen, but by her equally vile sister, Madame von Busche, of whom we have not spoken since her marriage. Her husband had died meanwhile, and it was on the occasion of her second marriage with General Wreyke that the two sisters had arranged to complete the unhappiness of Sophia Dorothea. Previously they had invited a certain young lady to their fêtes, and presented her to George Louis, with the understanding that she was to captivate him, and as she had not much wit but a great deal of shrewdness and some skill as a flatterer, there was little doubt that she would succeed. This girl was so tall that she was called the "Maypole," and she had a very long name—it was Ermengarda Melusina von Schulem-berg. She courted and cajoled George Louis until he really began to believe that he could not exist without her.
It was a curious state of morals when a prince could unite himself by what was called a left-hand marriage to two or three women after he had one wife, as if it could possibly make any actual difference on which hand the wedding-ring was placed. Yet, so it was with George Louis, who was just on the eve of contracting a left-hand marriage with Ermengarda, when Madame von Busche celebrated her second nuptials. This ceremony took place at the house of her sister, Madame von Platen; Sophia Dorothea was invited, and it was all arranged that as soon as she entered the drawing-room, George Louis was to open the ball with Ermengarda, whose intimacy was to be made so clear to the injured wife that she could not misunderstand.
But there were too many in the secret, Sophia Dorothea got wind of it and remained at home, though she sent her lady of honor, the Countess von Knesebeck, to make her apologies on the score of illness. It need scarcely be said that this lady reported all that happened at the ball, and that the neglected wife was not less miserable because she had not been an eye-witness to it.
Before we can tell more about her it is necessary to speak of others whose lives were connected with hers, and we will begin with her playmate of early days, Philip von Kônigsmark.
After his departure from Zell he lived with various members of his family, travelled about with them, and returned at intervals to reside with his mother, who lived to witness the many misfortunes that overtook her children. Charles John was Philip's older brother, and often visited at the Court of England, where his brilliant qualities rendered him a welcome guest. In course of time Philip joined him in that country, and was placed at college to complete his education. Leaving him there, Charles John visited at the various courts of Europe, where he excited the admiration of the women and the envy of the men. At the age of twenty-two he joined an expedition against Tangier, distinguished himself on the battle-field, and return to to England a hero.
This young man was, like his brother, a beauty, but he was also a worthless, wicked scoundrel. He did not excel Philip in crime, however, for he was one of the greatest scamps of the seventeenth century, and the two brothers assassinated Tom Thynne of Longleat, one Sunday evening when he was riding along in his carriage, though the poor man had given them no provocation. This was in 1682, and the dreadful deed created great excitement for a time. Philip von Kônigsmark managed to make his escape, but the bolder Charles John pleaded his own cause before a jury and was acquitted, only because he was in favor at court, while his assistants were executed. He knew that a stigma rested on his name, but he was too barefaced to care for that. "Tut," he said, "it will all be wiped out by some dazzling action in war," and so he went to France and joined a regiment, and during the next few years he was frequently heard of on the various battle-fields. The blot on the name of Kônigsmark remained, but Charles John was sent out of the world by a bullet that put an end to his existence in 1686 when he was in the service of the Venetians.
Now let us see what became of Philip. Shortly after the murder of Thynne he arrived in Hanover, where he was soon appointed to the post of Colonel of the Guards. He was considered the handsomest and richest colonel in the army, and displayed exquisite taste in his dress and his equipages. With wonderfully fascinating manners, a good education, ready wit, and considerable experience, he made himself agreeable to a great variety of people. Among those was his old friend and playfellow, Sophia Dorothea, and it is not at all unnatural that she should have been pleased to see him. But Madame von Platen was in love with him,
A.D. 1690. One day the princess had been walking in the garden when she met her little boy, George Augustus, herself, and jealously watched every interview he had with the wife of George Louis, with the intention of making mischief.
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and taking him from his attendant, began to mount the stairs which led to her own apartments, with the child in her arms. When half-way up she met Philip Konigsmark, who seeing that the lady's burden was heavier than she could bear, gallantly took the future King of England from his mother's arms and bore him to the door of her apartments. After exchanging a few commonplace remarks he returned the child and departed, but not before Madame von Platen had seen enough to form a groundwork for her plot. She ran, without a moment's delay, to Ernest Augustus, and made out a long story, the result of which was a scolding for Sophia Dorothea, though she could not see that it was deserved, for she had done no harm.
At another time Madame von Platen managed to make George Louis find a glove that had his wife's initials embroidered on it, in a bower from which he had seen Philip hastily take his departure; but the wicked woman did not tell him that it was she who had been there with the young man, or that she had previously procured the glove on purpose to excite his suspicion against his wife. Everything that Sophia Dorothea did was distorted to such a degree that little by little the hatred of the once friendly Ernest Augustus and his wife was aroused against her. No doubt she often acted imprudently, but certainly her husband was to blame for neglecting her as he did. At last driven to desperation by the angry glances and unkind remarks of those who had been friendly, she began secretly to make plans with Philip von Konigsmark for her escape to Paris. This led to a correspondence, and Philip, who was vain as he was bad, boasted among his friends of the confidence reposed in him by Sophia Dorothea.
A.D. 1693. The Duke of Zell had been duly informed that his daughter was obstinate, disrespectful to the elector, undutiful as a wife and mother. Inquiry among her enemies only served to confirm the report, and, to his eternal shame be it said, the father turned against his child. Not so the mother: she knew the disposition of Sophia Dorothea too well to credit the dreadful charges brought against her, and longed to take her back home and shield her from all harm. The young woman was permitted at last to make a visit to Zell, where she would gladly have remained, but although George Louis had almost strangled her to death in a fit of temper, just before she left Hanover, her father insisted that she should return, and in order to insure obedience, attacked her in her most tender point. He told her that unless she went back at once to her husband, she should be deprived of her children; then she no longer asked to remain.
A.D. 1694. Philip von Konigsmark had been on a visit to Dresden, but returned to Hanover shortly after Sophia Dorothea got back there. He was surprised one day at receiving a note signed by her, requesting him to come to her room. He obeyed without suspecting that the note had been forged by Madame von Platen. The lady-of-honor admitted him, as much surprised as was her mistress, the visit being made at rather an unseemly hour. Sophia Dorothea remarked upon it, whereupon Philip produced the note which the lady at once declared she had not written. Of course he should immediately have taken his departure, but Sophia Dorothea began to talk about her domestic troubles and the unkind treatment to which she had been subjected even at Zell, whereupon Philip advised her to run away, and so these two talked on, in the presence of the lady-of-honor, for a couple of hours.
Meanwhile, Madame von Platen was by no means idle. She had her own reasons for hating Philip von Konigsmark, which need not be recounted, but that she really did hate him intensely, her conduct proves only too clearly. She had watched him until she was sure of his whereabouts, then rushed to the old elector with a tale that she embellished and adorned, until she got permission to have Philip arrested and locked up. To nothing else would the old man consent, for he really believed no harm of his daughter-in-law, but thinking that he would not lose this opportunity of teaching the young gallant a lesson that he would not soon forget, he gave Madame von Platen a written warrant for his arrest, playfully adding as he did so: "I know that although you seem to be so angry with Kônigsmark, he is too handsome a man to receive ill-treatment at your hands."
Truly has a well-known English writer said: "Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned." Madame von Platen verified this in the desperate means she employed to bring down her victim. Armed with the warrant bearing the elector's signature, she proceeded to the soldiers' quarters and demanded a guard of four or five men to do something that she would explain to them. She led them to the Hall of Knights, through which Kônigsmark was obliged to pass, when he left the princess's apartment, and there, after bribing each man with a handful of gold pieces, gave her instructions.
They were to arrest a criminal whose person was minutely described, and he was on no account to be permitted to escape. If he used violence he was to be slain on the spot, and the men were not only provided with weapons for that purpose, but several bottles of wine to enable them to "screw their courage to the sticking-place." They promised to obey, and Madame von Platen left them.
In the Hall of Knights was one of those enormous white porcelain stoves, reaching from the floor to the ceiling, that every one who has visited Germany must have seen. Behind this the soldiers ensconced themselves. Just as the tower clock struck twelve, Kônigsmark approached, unsuspicious of danger, and had just passed the stove when he was seized from behind. He drew his sword and tried to defend himself, but what chance had one man against four well-armed ones? After a little skirmishing, a powerful stroke from an old-fashioned battle-axe, in the hands of one of the guards, felled him to the floor. With his last breath the wounded man faintly said, "Spare the innocent princess," and expired.
The matter was hushed up, and no one, excepting those engaged in the crime, knew what had become of the handsome, accomplished Philip von Kônigsmark. Some years later his body was found under the floor of one of the rooms just off the hall in which the murder took place.
Of course Sophia Dorothea was kept in ignorance of the assassination. She was depending upon Kônigsmark to complete the arrangements for her escape to Paris, and wondered what could have become of him. She asked no questions, and would have received no satisfaction if she had done so; for those who knew would have given her no information, and those who were not in the secret wondered almost as much as she did. Suddenly suspense gave place to alarm when she heard that all the papers belonging to the murdered man had been seized and carried to the elector for examination. Her notes regarding her intended escape were, of course, among them. No wonder she was alarmed!
Madame von Platen read these notes with the elector, and so interpreted the most trifling sentences as to give them a false meaning,—it required no uncommon ingenuity to do that,—and von Platen it was who informed Sophia Dorothea of the death of her friend Philip, though not the manner of it. She was shocked and grieved, and naturally turned to Mademoiselle von Knesebeck, the only friend left to her, for consolation. This lady-in-waiting was so much disposed to defend her mistress, whom she loved, that it was deemed desirable that she should be put out of the way; so she was arrested and locked up in the Castle of Schwartzfeld, in the Hartz Mountains, where she remained for several years. At last she escaped through the roof in a manner that appeared so miraculous to the governor of the jail that he declared some of the demons of the adjacent mountains had spirited her off.
Sophia Dorothea's one desire was to get away from Hanover, where she knew that she was surrounded by enemies and spies ready to misconstrue every action. At last, after a great deal of persuasion on her part, she was permitted to withdraw to Lauenau, but not to take her children with her. This was a sad deprivation to the poor young mother, and it almost broke her heart to part with the little ones, whom she feared she should never more behold; but go she would, for she had too much spirit to remain in a place where she was daily subjected to the most shameful insults.
After her departure a kind of a court, composed of church and state officers, was formed to patch up a reconciliation between George Louis and his wife. They did not accuse the princess of any dreadful crimes, but of incompatibility of temper and little failings of character. One would think that the husband and wife might have settled such differences without the interference of a council of wise-acres. So they might if they loved and respected each other, but, unfortunately, such had never been the case.
Well, the lawyers waited on Sophia Dorothea by twos and threes, and tried all the arguments they could devise to make her own that she was wrong, and to show her how a dutiful, obedient wife ought to behave. But unlike Topsy in Uncle Tom's Cabin, she would not confess faults that she had not committed. All the learned men of the court could make no impression on the young woman, who felt that she had been shamefully, wickedly wronged and neglected. Her husband was a bad man, and nobody knew it better than she did; and all the lecturing, coaxing, and manoeuvring of those who visited Sophia Dorothea at Lauenau could bring from her no reply but this: "If I am guilty I am unworthy of the prince. If I am innocent he is unworthy of me." She was right, and they could only admire the dignity and purity of character that prompted such an answer.
Nevertheless, before the end of the year sentence of divorce was pronounced, on the plea of incompatibility of temper, and George Louis was considered quite an injured individual. By way of consolation all the property of his wife was transferred to him in trust for his children; and with an annual pension of about ten thousand thalers, the princess was condemned to close captivity in the castle of Ahlden, near Zell, with a retinue of domestics who were to act as spies on her actions, and a body of armed jailers to see that she did not escape.
Henry VIII. would have made shorter work of this matter, and simply have chopped off his wife's head when he was tired of her; but George Louis preferred to keep his shut up in a lonely castle for thirty-two years. It is a question which was the more merciful, but certain it is, that all Germany was scandalized at the decree of the court.
To such persecutions had Sophia Dorothea been subjected in Hanover that she probably felt the truth of the verse which begins thus:—
"Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage—"
for she entered upon her imprisonment with a certain sense of calmness and repose in contrast to the weeks and months of misery, excitement, and despair that she had endured.
A.D. 1699. Thenceforth she was known as the Princess of Ahlden, though she was the only person deprived of liberty in the place. She had a little court, and held her levees, which were attended by the officers of the town, the clergy, the nobility, and gentry. All treated her with great respect. For the first few years her captivity was not very irksome, but after the escape of Mademoiselle Knesebeck she was never allowed to walk in the gardens of the castle without a guard, or to drive through the neighboring woods without an armed mounted escort. Certain parts of the castle were even forbidden to her; and so much importance was attached to this point that, on one occasion when a fire broke out in the portion of the building where her apartments were situated, she ran to the entrance of a certain gallery, where she stood in fear and trembling, with her jewel-box in her hand, until permission from the proper authorities was obtained for her to advance.
Time did not hang so heavily on the hands of the Princess of Ahlden as one might suppose, for every hour had its occupation. She superintended her estate, overlooked, the work of each of her servants, and gave personal instructions to them, kept a diary of her thoughts and actions, wrote a number of letters, and devoted much time to charity. She was the Lady Bountiful of the district, and spent half her income in supplying the wants of the poor.
There was a church in the village in a very dilapidated condition when Sophia Dorothea went to Ahlden. She put it in thorough repair, had it handsomely decorated, and supplied it with an organ; but no sooner was it all in order than a chaplain was provided for her household, and she was forbidden to attend the place of worship that she had felt such pleasure in fitting up. This was a serious disappointment, but by no means the greatest of her trials; for she was not permitted to see any of her relations,—only an occasional open letter was allowed to pass between her and her mother, and she heard no more of her children than if they had been dead and buried. The prince and princess were forbidden to mention their mother or to think of her, and were threatened with severe punishment if ever they did so.
In course of time the heart of the old elector warmed towards the lonely prisoner of Ahlden, and he wrote her several letters; her father did likewise, but he was a weak-hearted, weak-minded man who was easily frightened into silence by certain ominous threats. He consoled himself by making a will in which he bequeathed money, jewels, and lands to his only daughter, and then left her to her fate.
A.D. 1700. There was great rejoicing at Hanover when the English Parliament fixed upon the Electress Sophia as successor to Queen Anne. The deputation that went from England to announce the welcome news was received by the highest officials, lodged in the finest palace in Hanover, and entertained in the most sumptuous manner, entirely at the expense of George Louis. Grand balls and feasts were given in their honor, and they went back home loaded with rare and costly presents.
A.D. 1705. A few years later Parliament passed an act naturalizing the Princess Sophia and her family, and this made George Louis an Englishman. Shortly after Hanover was in danger on account of the approach of the French army, and then for a brief period the captive of Ahlden was permitted to visit her parents at Zell. They wanted to keep her with them always, and she begged to be allowed to stay, but was refused. Her father had treated her so affectionately during this visit at his castle that his death, which occurred a few months after her return to Ahlden, was a severe grief to her. An occasional interview with her mother was always a solace to the prisoner, but any appeal for a sight of her children was sternly refused. That was a bitter sorrow.
Prince George Augustus had been commanded to forget his mother, but he did not obey; and one day, when he was hunting in the neighborhood of her prison, he resolved to visit her, and brave the anger of his father and the government. So he put spurs to his horse and galloped full speed toward Ahlden. His attendants were astonished, but soon suspected his intention and followed him. He went flying over the fields; but two of his followers, who were better mounted than he was, overtook him at the outskirts of the wood not far from the castle of Ahlden, and after a great deal of coaxing and argument persuaded him to go back home. Probably he was closely watched after that, for he does not seem to have made another attempt to see his mother. It is to be hoped she never knew how near he was to her that day, when a swifter steed might have been the means of adding a ray of bright sunshine to her sad and lonely existence. What would she not have given to gaze upon her boy and press him to her heart? We wonder how even her enemies could have denied her that comfort.
George Augustus was not shut up in a prison for disobedience; but, with the hope of turning his thoughts away from his mother, a wife was provided for him. Although his father had been so unfortunate as to marry a woman he never loved, he did not take the precaution to insure a better fate for his son. But we will consider his case hereafter. For the present, it is only necessary to say that he was married to Caroline, daughter of John Frederick, Margrave of Anspach,—a bright, lively, clever girl, the same age as himself.
The little court of Hanover was very gay that year, particularly when the marriage of George Augustus was followed by that of his sister, who became the wife of Frederick William, Crown Prince of Prussia. But the young Sophia Dorothea had little happiness afterwards; for her husband was a cruel brute, who governed his wife and children with a word and a blow,—the-blow generally coming first. This couple made a bridal tour to Brussels, where they remained for several days awaiting an invitation from Queen Anne to visit her in England; but they waited in vain, for her majesty took no notice of them whatever.
There existed at that time a strong party in England desirous that the Electress of Hanover should visit them; but she preferred to stay where she was and enjoy her books, cards, and philosophical studies with the learned Leibnitz, until she should be summoned as queen. This suited Queen Anne precisely, for she wanted no representative of the House of Hanover in her dominion. She feared the effect of their presence upon her subjects, and so used every effort in her power to keep them away. Although Sophia did not desire to go to England herself just then she was very much distressed because her son, who had been created Duke of Cambridge, was prevented from taking his seat in the House of Peers. The old lady often said that she cared not when she died, if on her tomb could be recorded that "she was Queen of Great Britain and Ireland." Queen Anne was very much offended when she heard these words, and it was to appease her anger that Tom D'Urfey wrote the verse, given in the last reign, for which he was rewarded with fifty pounds.
A.D 1714. The tomb of Electress Sophia never bore the record she sighed for, because on the 10th of June, 1714, she died, quite suddenly. The old lady had been walking in her garden for an hour, when a shower of rain came up, and she quickened her speed to get to a place of shelter. One of her attendants, observing that she was out of breath, warned her that she was exerting herself too much. "I believe I am," she replied, with a gasp, as she dropped to the earth. Those were the last words she ever uttered, for all efforts failed to restore her to consciousness.
Meanwhile Sophia Dorothea remained at her castle of Ahlden, forgotten excepting by her son-in-law, who wrote her numerous and most dutiful letters, until he succeeded in securing the inheritance of all her property for his wife beyond the shadow of a doubt. No sooner was that accomplished than he not only ceased to write, but put a stop to all communications of any sort between the mother and daughter. Thus was the prisoner, who had not seen her child for many years, deprived of the poor satisfaction of even an occasional letter from her. The daughter had managed once, with the assistance of a confederate, to convey a portrait of herself to the Princess of Ahlden, at another time a watch, then some little trinket, accompanied by a letter containing words of affection and hope; but the tyrant of a husband, Frederick William, found it out, and of course put a stop to it.
Queen Anne's death occurred shortly after that of the Electress Sophia, and the different political parties waited for her last breath, each ready to proclaim a different successor; but while the Jacobites hesitated, the Whigs were prompt to act, and the proclamation of George I. took place in the presence of a vast concourse of people.
The news was carried to the imprisoned wife by one who, while professing to be her friend, was acting as a spy. Again, it is said, was an attempt made at reconciliation on the part of George Louis; but his injured wife repeated as before: "If I am guilty I am not worthy of him; if I am innocent he is not worthy of me." Even with the prospect of going to England as queen Sophia Dorothea could not descend to her husband's level, and she never landed on the shores of that country of which she was sovereign only in name.
As soon as George I. was proclaimed, a fleet was sent to convey him to England, and he leisurely began his preparations for the voyage. Meanwhile the Pretender implored Louis XIV. to publicly acknowledge him King of England, but that sovereign was under certain engagements with the House of Hanover which prevented; and so the son of James II. was deprived of his last chance, small as it was, in the accession.
There was great excitement in London when, on the 5th of September, it was announced that George I. had arrived at the Hague. He had wept when taking leave of his Hanoverian subjects, who were really fond of him, and showed no anxiety to get to his new realm. However, he arrived at Greenwich on the 18th of September, and various officials waited on him at once. Some of them were very much disgusted at the new sovereign's discourtesy, and left him with a secret wish that the Pretender were in his place. However, it was too late to lament, so those who had received the worst treatment revenged themselves by making fun of the ugly German women who accompanied George. Among these were Ermengarda, the left-hand wife, called the Maypole, because she was so tall and lank; Madame Kielmansegge, daughter of Madame von Platen, called the elephant, because she was so fat and coarse, and their retinues.
The Londoners had been so heavily taxed on account of the dishonesty of certain public officers that so large a train of followers as George took over with him created some dissatisfaction; and once, when Madame Kielmansegge was driving out in grand style, a crowd hooted at her, whereupon she leaned out of the carriage window and said in broken English, "Vordy folks! Vy you abuse us? Ve come here for all your goots."
"Oh, yes," roared a man in the crowd, "and for our chattels, too." There was truth in the remark, for the populace groaned beneath the weight of taxation necessary to support King George's household.
Well, George I. made his public entry into London with as much splendor as ever attended such an event, and the next day he held a grand reception. His coronation took place on the twentieth of October, and all the lords attended the ceremony. Soon after Ermengarda von Schulemberg was created Duchess of Kendal, and Madame Kielmansegge was raised to the rank of Countess of Darlington.
A.D. 1715. There were riots at Bristol and elsewhere on the night of the king's coronation, and political excitement ran high the following spring, when three of Queen Anne's late ministers were accused of high treason. The Duke of Marlborough made a grand triumphal entry into London, attended by thousands of gentlemen on horseback, three days after the queen's death. But his sun had set. Thackeray says of him: "Marlborough, the greatest warrior that ever lived, betrayed William III., James II., Queen Anne, England to France, the Elector to the Pretender, the Pretender to the Elector." He was to be trusted no more, though he was elected to some of his former offices.
Let us see how George got along with his new subjects. He began by liking neither them nor their manners.
[Original]
"This is a strange country," he said. "The first morning after my arrival at St. James's, I looked out of the window and saw a park with walks, a canal, and so forth, which they told me were mine. The next day Lord Chetwynd, the ranger of my park, sent me a fine brace of carp out of my canal, and I was told that I must give five guineas to Lord Chetwynd's servant for bringing me my own carp, out of my own canal, in my own park."
George I. showed uncommon prudence in his management of public affairs. He always seemed to regard himself merely as a lodger at St. James's, who might be turned out at any time, and who was therefore determined to make the best of his brief stay there. He chose to be away from England as much as possible, but when obliged to be there passed all his time with his German followers, and never even took the trouble to learn the language of the country he ruled. His aim was to lead a quiet, peaceable sort of life, and leave England to itself. He made no parade of royalty, was not hypocritical nor lofty, cared nothing for art, and studied economy. He was good-natured, too, as this story, related by Horace Walpole, goes to prove:—On one of King George's journeys to Hanover his coach broke down, and he was obliged to send for assistance to a castle near by, owned by a German nobleman of some note. The possessor begged his majesty to do him the honor of accepting a dinner at his house while the necessary repairs were being made to the coach. While waiting for the dinner to be served the host led the royal guest to his picture gallery, where he had a fine collection of paintings formed in several tours through Italy. Suddenly the king stepped before the full length portrait of a young man in the robes and regalia of a sovereign of Great Britain; he asked whom it represented. The nobleman colored, and replied with an air of embarrassment that it was the Chevalier de St. George, or the Pretender, as he was usually called, whose acquaintance he had made when in Italy, and who had done him the honor of sending him that picture. "Upon my word, it is very like the family!" exclaimed the king and moved on, thus relieving the host from his awkward position.
This anecdote shows that he bore no ill-will to the unfortunate Stuarts, and he was generous in excusing those who evinced attachment for them.
At the first masquerade he attended as king, a lady in domino approached and asked him to drink a glass of wine with her at a side table; he assented, and, filling two glasses, the lady handed him one, saying, "Here's to the Pretender's health."
"I drink with all my heart to the health of every unfortunate prince," replied King George, with a smile.
He was not so merciful after the failure of the Scotch rebellion, for executions were of daily occurrence, and those who were spared perished miserably in prison. The wearing of oak-branches,—a Stuart emblem,—was considered an insult to the government, and two soldiers were whipped almost to death in Hyde Park for appearing with them on the twenty-ninth of May, in memory of the Restoration; while others were actually shot down for wearing white-rose badges, which they refused to surrender.
A.D. 1717. The Princess of Wales had gone to London with her daughters shortly after the accession of George I., and lived at St. James's Palace. Three years later she had a son, who was christened George William. The king and the Duke of Newcastle were godfathers, and the Duchess of St. Albans was godmother. But we must relate an incident that occurred at the time this ceremony was performed. The Prince of Wales wanted his uncle, the Duke of York, to be sponsor for his boy with the king. George I. said that the Duke of Newcastle should share the office with him, and peremptorily insisted that it should be so. The prince was forced to yield, though he hated the duke, who always treated him with studied neglect. Just after the christening had been performed, the prince crossed the room, and, shaking his finger in the face of the Duke of Newcastle, said, "You are a rascal, and I shall find a time to be revenged." The king understood this to mean a challenge to fight, so placed his son under arrest, but soon released him, and turned him and the princess out of the palace, though their three daughters lived with him until he died.
Not only did George I. banish his son from his palace, but forbade all those who visited at the court of the Prince and Princess of Wales ever to come into his presence. The fact is that he had never loved his son since he had made the attempt to visit his mother when he was hunting in the neighborhood of Ahlden; and it has been asserted that he at one time thought of having the prince captured and sent off to America, without letting it be known what had become of him.
A.D. 1720. One of the most remarkable circumstances of the reign of George I. was the formation and bursting of a gigantic speculation known as the South-Sea Company, that being the name of the organization by which the scheme was manipulated. As in all such cases, a few people realized immense fortunes by the sudden rise of the stock,—that is, those who were in the secret of the plot and knew when to sell. In a few months thousands of victims were reduced to a deplorable state of misery and ruin by the decline of the stock, which, was much more rapid than the rise had been.
The king was in Germany when this catastrophe happened; but he was summoned to England to discuss with his ministers some means for quelling the disturbance it had caused. A committee from the House of Commons was appointed to investigate the affair. They pronounced it the most villanous fraud that had ever been contrived for the ruin of a nation. Many members of parliament were implicated in the disastrous affair, and the profits of the South-Sea Company were found to amount to thirteen millions of pounds. It was many years before the country recovered from the dreadful effects of this unparalleled swindle.
It was not only the officials who cheated; this propensity extended to the menials also. Once a Hanoverian cook complained in person to the king that all his assistants helped themselves so freely they left him no chance whatever. He was honest, he declared, but such was not the case with any other servant in the royal household. "Embezzlement is rife in the kitchen in despite all I can do," he said. "When the dishes are brought from your majesty's table, one steals a fowl, another a pig, a third a joint of meat, another a pie, and so on till there is nothing left." George, who saw that the trouble lay in the fact of there being nothing left to steal, answered, "I can put up with these things; and my advice to you is, to go and steal like the rest, and to remember to take enough." This was very bad advice, for the fellow became an accomplished thief, though probably if he had not inclined in that direction he would not have taken his master at his word.
A.D. 1726. And now we have only to record the death of the poor prisoner of Ahlden, after a captivity of more than thirty years. She had been ill for a long time, and became worse as the hopes she had entertained of escape gradually grew fainter. Through the long weary years she had been a model of patience, mildness, and dignity, and she died asserting her innocence, commending herself to God, mentioning her children with tenderness, and pardoning her oppressors.
A.D. 1727. Six months later King George I. set out for Hanover, and by the end of a week he was dead. He had landed in Holland and travelled quickly through the country, eating heartily wherever he stopped, and taking no heed of the violent pains that frequently attacked him after doing so. As he approached Osnaburg he became worse, and fell forward in his carriage, saying to his attendant, "I am a dead man!" He was carried to Osnaburg in an unconscious state, and died there on the eleventh of June, 1727, in the sixty-eighth year of his age. He was buried at Hanover.
He had once promised the Duchess of Kendal that if it were possible for the departed to return to this world, he would visit her after his death. So when a large black raven flew in at that lady's window at Isleworth, she was so convinced that it was the soul of the departed monarch that she treated the bird with great tenderness and respect.