BERLIN, August 5th.

The greatest political event of the last ten years in Europe--perhaps the greatest since the battle of Waterloo--is the sudden rise and rapid development of the German Empire. When Napoleon was overthrown in 1815, and the allies marched to Paris, the sovereignty of Europe, and the peace of the world, was supposed to be entrusted to the Five Great Powers, and of these five the least in importance was Prussia.

Both Russia and Austria considered themselves giants beside her; England had furnished the conqueror of Waterloo, and the troops which bore the brunt of that terrible day, and the money that had carried on a twenty years' war against Napoleon; and even France, terribly exhausted as she was, drained of her best blood, yet, as she had stood so long against all Europe combined, might have considered herself still a match for any one of her enemies _alone_, and certainly for the weakest of them all, Prussia. Yet to-day this, which was the weakest of kingdoms, has grown to be the greatest power in Europe--a power which has crushed Austria, which has crushed France, which Russia treats with infinite respect, and which would despise the interference of England in Continental affairs.

This acquisition of power, though recent in its manifestation, has been of slow growth. The greatness of Prussia may be said to have been born of its very humiliation. It was after its utter overthrow at the battle of Jena, in 1806, when Napoleon marched to Berlin, levied enormous subsidies, and appropriated such portions of the kingdom as he pleased, that the rulers of Prussia saw that the reconstruction of their State must begin from the very bottom, and went to work to educate the people and reorganize the army. The result of this severe discipline and long military training was seen when, sixty years after Jena, Prussia in a six weeks' campaign laid Austria at her feet, and was only kept from taking Vienna by the immediate conclusion of peace.

Four years later came the French war, when King William avenged the insults to his royal mother by Napoleon the First--whose brutality, it is said, broke the proud spirit of the beautiful Queen Louise, and sent her to an early grave--in the terrible humiliation he administered to Napoleon the Third.

But such triumphs were not wrought by military organization alone, but by other means for developing the life and vigor of the German race, especially by a system of universal education, which is the admiration of the world. The Germans conquered the French, not merely because they were better soldiers, but because they were more intelligent men, who knew how to read and write, and who could act more efficiently because they acted intelligently.

With her common schools and her perfect military organization, Prussia has combined great political sagacity, by which the fortunes of other States have been united with her own. Such stupendous achievements as were seen in the French war, were not wrought by Prussia alone, but by all Germany. It was in foresight and antic.i.p.ation of just such a contingency that Bismarck had long before entered into an alliance with the lesser German States, by which, in the event of war, they were all to act together; and thus, when the Prussian army entered the field, it was supported by powerful allies from Saxony and Wurtemberg and Bavaria.

And so when the war was over, out of the old Confederation arose an EMPIRE, and the King of Prussia was invited to take upon himself the more august t.i.tle of Emperor of Germany--a t.i.tle which recalls the line of the Caesars; and thus has risen up, in the very heart of the Continent--like an island thrown up by a volcano in the midst of the sea--a power which is to-day the most formidable in Europe.

As Protestants, we cannot but feel a degree of satisfaction that this controlling power should be centred in a Protestant State, rather than in France or Austria; although I should be sorry to think that our Protestant principles oblige us to approve every high-handed measure undertaken against the Catholics. We in America believe in perfect liberty in religious matters, and are scrupulous to give to others the same freedom that we demand for ourselves. Of course the relations of things are somewhat changed in a country where the Church is allied with the State, and the ministers of religion are supported by the Government. But, without entering into the question which so agitates Germany at the present moment, our natural sympathies, both as Protestants and as Americans, must always be on the side of the fullest religious liberty.

Besides the Church question there are other grave problems raised by the present state of Germany:--such as, whether the Empire is likely to endure, or to be broken to pieces by the jealousy of the smaller States of the preponderance of Prussia? and whether peace will continue, or there will be a general war? But these are rather large questions to be dispatched in a few pages. They are questions that will _keep_, and may be discussed a year hence as well as to-day, _and better_--since we may then regard them by the light of accomplished _events_; whereas now we should have to indulge too much in _prophecies_. I prefer therefore, instead of undertaking to give lessons of political wisdom, to entertain my readers with a brief description of Berlin.

This can never be the most beautiful of European cities, even if it should come in time to be the largest, for its situation is very unfavorable; it lies too low. It seems strange that this spot should ever have been chosen for the site of a great city. It has no advantages of position whatever, except that it is on the little river Spree. But having chosen this flat _prairie_, they have made the most of it. It has been laid out in large s.p.a.ces, with long, wide streets.

At first, it must have been, like Washington, a city of magnificent distances, but in the course of a hundred years these distances have been filled up with buildings, many of them of fine architecture, so that gradually the city has taken on a stately appearance. Since I was here in 1858, it has enlarged on every side; new streets and squares have added to the size and the magnificence of the capital; and the military element is more conspicuous than ever; "the man on horseback"

is seen everywhere. Nor is this strange, for in that time the country has had two great wars, and the German armies, returning triumphant from hard campaigns, have filed in endless procession, with banners torn with shot and sh.e.l.l, through the Unter den Linden, past the statue of the great Frederick, out of the Brandenburg gate to the Thiergarten, where now a lofty column (like that in the Place Vendome at Paris), surmounted by a flaming statue of Victory, commemorates the triumph of the German arms.

Of course we did our duty heroically in the way of seeing sights--such as the King's Castle and the Museum. But I confess I felt more interest in seeing the great University, which has been the home of so many eminent scholars, and is the chief seat of learning on the Continent, than in seeing the Palace; and in riding by the plain house in a quiet street, where Bismarck lives, than in seeing all the mansions of the Royal Princes, with soldiers keeping guard before the gates.

The most interesting place in the neighborhood of Berlin, of course, is Potsdam, with its historical a.s.sociations, especially with its memories of Frederick the Great. The day we spent there was full of interest. An hour was given to the New Palace--that is, one that _was_ new a hundred years ago, but which at present is kept more for show than for use, though one wing is occupied by the Crown Prince.

Externally it has no architectural beauty whatever, nothing to render it imposing but _size_; but the interior shows many stately apartments. One of these, called the Grotto, is quite unique, the walls being crusted with sh.e.l.ls and all manner of stones, so that, entering here, one might feel that he had found some cave of the ocean, dripping with coolness, and, when lighted up, reflecting from all its precious stones a thousand splendors. It was here that the Emperor entertained the King of Sweden at a royal banquet a few weeks ago. But palaces are pretty much all the same; we wander through endless apartments, rich with gilding and ornament, till we are weary of all this grandeur, and are glad when we light on some quiet nook, like the modest little palace--if palace it may be called--Charlottenhof, where Alexander von Humboldt lived and wrote his works. I found more interest in seeing the desk on which he wrote his Kosmos, and the narrow bed on which the great man slept (he did not need much of a bed, since he slept only four hours), than in all the grand state apartments of ordinary kings.

But Frederick the Great was not an ordinary king, and the palace in which _he_ lived is invested with the interest of an extraordinary personality. Walking a mile through a park of n.o.ble trees, we come to _Sans Souci_ (a pretty name, _Without Care_). This is much smaller than the New Palace, but it is more home-like--it was built by Frederick the Great for his own residence, and here he spent the last years of his life. Every room is connected with him. In this he gave audience to foreign ministers; at this desk he wrote. This is the room occupied by Voltaire, whom Frederick, worshipping his genius, had invited to Potsdam, but who soon got tired of his royal patron (as the other perhaps got tired of _him_), and ended the romantic friendship by running away. And here is the room in which the great king breathed his last. He died sitting in his chair, which still bears the stains of his blood, for his physicians had bled him. At that moment, they tell us, a little mantel clock, which Frederick always wound up with his own hand, stopped, and there it stands now, with its fingers pointing to the very hour and minute when he died. That was ninety years ago, and yet almost every day of every year since strangers have entered that room, to see where this king, this leader of armies, met a greater Conqueror than he, and bowed his royal head to the inevitable Destroyer.

But that was not the last king who died in this palace. When we were here in 1858, the present Emperor was not on the throne, but his elder brother, whose private apartments we then saw; and now we were shown them again, with only this added: "In this room the old king died; in that very bed he breathed his last." All remains just as he left it; his military cap, with his gloves folded beside it; and here is a cast of his face taken after his death. So do they preserve his memory, while the living form returns no more.

From the palace of the late king we drove to that of the present Emperor. Babelsberg is still more interesting than Sans Souci, as it is a.s.sociated with living personages, who occupy the most exalted stations. It is the home of the Emperor himself when at Potsdam. It is not so large as the New Palace, but, like Sans Souci, seems designed more for comfort than for grandeur. It was built by King William himself, according to his own taste, and has in it all the appointments of an elegant home. The site is beautiful. It stands on elevated ground (it seems a commanding eminence compared with the flat country around Berlin), and looks out on a prospect in which a n.o.ble park, and green slopes, descending to lovely bits of water, unite to form what may be called an English landscape--like that from Richmond on the Hill, or some scene in the Lake District of England. The house is worthy of such surroundings. We were fortunate in being there when the Family were absent. The Empress was expected home in a day or two; they were preparing the rooms for her return; and the Emperor was to follow the next week, when of course the house would be closed to visitors. But now we were admitted, and shown through, not only the State apartments, but the private rooms. Such an inspection of the _home_ of a royal family gives one some idea of their domestic life; we seem to see the interior of the household. In this case the impression was most charming. While there was very little that was for show, there was everything that was tasteful and refined and elegant.

It was pleasant to hear the attendant who showed us the rooms speak in terms of such admiration, and even affection, of the Emperor, as "a very kind man." One who is thus beloved by his dependents, by every member of his household, cannot but have some excellent traits of character. We were shown the drawing-room and the library, and the private study of the Emperor, the chair in which he sits, the desk at which he writes, and the table around which he gathers his ministers--Bismarck and Moltke, etc. We were shown also what a New England housekeeper would call the "living rooms," where he dined and where he slept. The ladies of our party declared that the bed did not answer at all to their ideas of royal luxury, or even comfort, the st.u.r.dy old Emperor having only a single mattress under him, and that a pretty hard one. Perhaps however he despises luxury, and prefers to harden himself, like Napoleon, or the Emperor Nicholas, who slept on a camp bedstead. He is certainly very plain in his habits and simple in his tastes. Descending the staircase, the attendant took from a corner and put in our hand the Emperor's cane. It was a rough stick, such as any dandy in New York would have despised, but the old man had cut it himself many years ago, and now he always has it in his hand when he walks abroad. And there through the window we look down into the poultry yard, where the Empress, we were told, feeds her chickens with her own hand every morning. I was glad to hear this of the grand old lady. It shows a kind heart, and how, after all, for the greatest as well as the humblest of mankind, the simplest pleasures are the sweetest. I dare say she takes more pleasure in feeding her chickens than in presiding at the tedious court ceremonies. Such little touches give a most pleasant impression of the simple home-life of the Royal House of Prussia.

Our last visit was to the tomb of Frederick the Great, who is buried in the Garrison Church. There is nothing about it imposing to the imagination, as in the tomb of Napoleon at Paris. It is only a little vault, which a woman opens with a key, and lights a tallow candle, and you lay your hand on the metallic coffin of the great King. There he lies--that fiery spirit that made war for the love of war, that attacked Austria, and seized Silesia, more for the sake of the excitement of the thing, and, as he confessed, "to make people talk about him," than because he had the slightest pretence to that Austrian province; who, though he wanted to be a soldier, yet in his first battle ran away as fast as his horse could carry him, and hid himself in a barn; but who afterwards recovered control of himself, and became the greatest captain of his time. He it was who carried through the Seven Years' War, not only against Austria, but against Europe, and who held Silesia against them all. "The Continent in arms," says Macaulay, "could not tear it from that iron grasp." But now the warrior is at rest; that figure, long so well known, no more rides at the head of armies. In this bronze coffin lies all that remains of Frederick the Great:

"He sleeps his last sleep, he has fought his last battle, No sound shall awake him to glory again."

Speaking of tombs--as of late my thoughts "have had much discourse with death"--the most beautiful which I have ever seen anywhere is that of Queen Louise, the mother of the present Emperor, in the Mausoleum at Charlottenburg. The statue of the Queen is by the famous German sculptor, Rauch. When I first saw it years ago, it left such an impression that I could not leave Berlin without seeing it again and we drove out of the city several miles for the purpose. It is in the grounds attached to one of the royal palaces but we did not care to see any more palaces, if only we could look again on that pure white marble form. At the end of a long avenue of trees is the Mausoleum--a small building devoted only to royal sepulture--and there, in a subdued light, stretched upon her tomb, lies the beautiful Queen. Her personal loveliness is a matter of tradition; it is preserved in innumerable portraits, which show that she was one of the most beautiful women of her time. That beauty is preserved in the reclining statue. The head rests on a marble pillow, and is turned a little to one side, so as to show the perfect symmetry of the Grecian outlines.

It is a sweet, sad face (for she had sorrows that broke her queenly heart); but now her trials are ended, and how calmly and peacefully she sleeps! The form is drooping, as if she slumbered on her bed; she seems almost to breathe; hush, the marble lips are going to speak! Was there ever such an expression of perfect repose? It makes one "half in love with blissful death." It brought freshly to mind the lines of Sh.e.l.ley in Queen Mab:

How wonderful is Death!

Death and his brother Sleep!

One, pale as yonder waning moon, With lips of lurid blue; The other, rosy as the morn When throned on ocean's wave, It blushes o'er the world: Yet both so pa.s.sing wonderful!

By the side of the statue of the Queen reposes, on another tomb, that of her husband--a n.o.ble figure in his military cloak, with his hands folded on his breast. The King survived the Queen thirty years. She died in her youth, in 1810; he lived till 1840; but his heart was in her tomb, and it is fitting that now they sleep together.

On the principle of rhetoric, that a description should end with that which leaves the deepest impression, I end my letter here, with the softened light of that Mausoleum falling on that breathing marble; for in all my memories of Berlin, no one thing--neither palace, nor museum, nor the statue of Frederick the Great, nor the Column of Victory--has left in me so deep a feeling as the silent form of that beautiful Queen. Queen Louise is a marked figure in German history, being invested with touching interest by her beauty and her sorrow, and early death. I like to think of such a woman as the mother of a royal race, now actors on the stage. It cannot but be that the memory of her beauty, a.s.sociated with her patriotism, her courage, and her devotion, should long remain an inheritance of that royal line, and their most precious inspiration. May the young princes, growing up to be future kings and emperors, as they gather round her tomb, tenderly cherish her memory and imitate her virtues!

CHAPTER XV.

AUSTRIA--OLD AND NEW.

VIENNA, August 12th.

We are taking such a wide sweep through Central Europe, travelling from city to city, and country to country, that my materials acc.u.mulate much faster than I can use them. There are three cities which I should be glad to describe in detail--Hamburg, Dresden, and Prague. Hamburg, to which we came from Amsterdam, perhaps appears more beautiful from the contrast, and remains in our memory as the fairest city of the North. Dresden, the capital of Saxony, is also a beautiful city, and attracts a great number of English and American residents by its excellent opportunities of education, and from its treasures of art, in which it is richer than any other city in Germany. Our stay there was made most pleasant by an American family whom we had known on the other side of the Atlantic, who gave us a cordial welcome, and under whose roof we felt how sweet is the atmosphere of an American home. The same friends, when we left, accompanied us on our way into the Saxon Switzerland, conducting us to the height of the Bastei, a huge cliff, which from the very top of a mountain overhangs the Elbe, which winds its silver current through the valley below, while on the other side of the river the fortress-crowned rock of Konigstein lifts up its head, like Edinburgh Castle, to keep ward and watch over the beautiful kingdom of Saxony.

And there is dear old Prague, rusty and musty, that in some quarters has such a tumble down air that it seems as if it were to be given up to Jews, who were going to convert it into a huge Rag Fair for the sale of old clothes, and yet that in other quarters has new streets and new squares, and looks as if it had caught a little of the spirit of the modern time. But the interest of Prague to a stranger must be chiefly historical--for what it has been rather than for what it is.

These a.s.sociations are so many and so rich, that to one familiar with them, the old churches and bridges, and towers and castles, are full of stirring memories. As we rode across the bridge, from which St.

John of Nepomuc was thrown into the river, five hundred years ago, because he would not betray to a wicked king the secret which the queen had confided to him in the confessional, up to the Cathedral where a gorgeous shrine of silver keeps his dust, and perpetuates his memory, the lines of Longfellow were continually running in my mind:

I have read in some old marvellous tale, Some legend strange and vague, That a midnight host of spectres pale Beleaguered the walls of Prague.

Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, With the wan moon overhead, There stood, as in an awful dream, The army of the dead.

It needs but little imagination on the spot to call up indeed an "army of the dead." Standing on this old bridge, one could almost hear, above the rushing Moldau, the drums of Zisca calling the Hussites to arms on the neighboring heights, a battle sound answered in a later century by the cannon of Frederick the Great. Above us is the vast pile of the Hradschin, the abode of departed royalties, where but a few weeks ago poor old Ferdinand, the ex-Emperor of Austria, breathed his last. He was almost an imbecile, who sat for many years on the throne as a mere figurehead of the State, and who was perfectly harmless, since he had little more to do with the Government than if he had been a log of wood; but who, when the great events of 1848 threatened the overthrow of the Empire, was hurried out of the way to make room for younger blood, and his nephew, Francis Joseph, came to the throne. He lived to be eighty-two years old, yet so utterly insignificant was he that almost the only thing he ever said that people remember, was a remark that at one time made the laugh of Vienna. Once in a country place he tasted of some dumplings, a wretched compound of garlic and all sorts of vile stuff, but which pleased the royal taste, and which on his return to Vienna he ordered for the royal table, greatly to the disgust of his attendants, to whom he replied, "I am Kaiser, and I will have my dumplings!" This got out, and caused infinite merriment. Poor old man! I hope he had his dumplings to the last. He was a weak, simple creature; but he is gone, and has been buried with royal honors, and sleeps with the Imperial house of Austria in the crypt of the Church of the Capuchins in Vienna.

But all these memories of Prague, personal or historical, recent or remote, I must leave, to come at once to the Austrian capital, one of the most interesting cities of Europe. Vienna is a far more picturesque city than Berlin. It is many times older. It was a great city in the Middle Ages, when Berlin had no existence. The Cathedral of St. Stephen was erected hundreds of years before the Elector of Brandenburg chose the site of a town on the Spree, or Peter the Great began to build St. Petersburg on the banks of the Neva. Vienna has played a great part in European history. It long stood as a barrier against Moslem invasion. Less than two hundred years ago it was besieged by the Turks, and nothing but its heroic resistance, aided by the Poles, under John Sobieski, prevented the irruption of Asiatic barbarians into Central Europe. From the tower of St. Stephen's anxious watchers have often marked the tide of battle, as it ebbed and flowed around the ancient capital, from the time when the plain of the Marchfeld was covered with the tents of the Moslems, to that when the armies of Napoleon, matched against those of Austria, fought the terrible battles of Aspern, Essling, and Wagram.

But if Vienna is an old city, it is also a new one. In revisiting Germany, I am constantly struck with the contrast between what I see now, and what I saw in 1858. Then Vienna was a pleasant, old-fashioned city, not too large for comfort, strongly fortified, like most of the cities of the Middle Ages, with high walls and a deep moat encompa.s.sing it on all sides. Now all has disappeared--the moat has been filled up, and the walls have been razed to the ground, and where they stood is a circle of broad streets called the Ring-stra.s.se, like the Boulevards of Paris. The city thus let loose has burst out on all sides, and great avenues and squares, and parks and gardens, have sprung into existence on every hand. The result is a far more magnificent capital than the Vienna which I knew seventeen years ago.

Nor are the changes less in the country than in the capital. There have been wars and revolutions, which have shaken the Empire so that its very existence was in danger, but out of which it has come stronger than ever. Austria is the most remarkable example in Europe of _the good effects of a thorough beating_. Twice, since I was here before, she has had a terrible humiliation--in 1859 and in 1866--at Solferino and at Sadowa.

In 1858 Austria was slowly recovering from the terrible shock of ten years before, the Revolutionary Year of 1848. In '49 was the war in Hungary, when Kossuth with his fiery eloquence roused the Magyars to arms, and they fought with such vigor and success, that they threatened to march on Vienna, and the independence of Hungary might have been secured but for the intervention of Russia. Gorgei surrendered to a Russian army. Then came a series of b.l.o.o.d.y executions. The Hungarian leaders who fell into the hands of the Austrians, found no pity. The ill.u.s.trious Count Louis Batthyani was sent to the scaffold. Kossuth escaped only by fleeing into Turkey.

Gen. Bem turned Mussulman, saying that "his only religion was love of liberty and hatred of tyranny," and served as a Pacha at the head of a Turkish army. It is a curious ill.u.s.tration of the change that a few years have wrought, that Count Andra.s.sy, who was concerned with Batthyani in the same rebellion, and was also sentenced to death, but escaped, is now the Prime Minister of Austria. But then vengeance ruled the hour. The bravest Hungarian generals were shot--chiefly, it was said at the time, by the Imperious will of the Archd.u.c.h.ess Sophia, the mother of Francis Joseph. There is no hatred like a woman's, and she could not forego the savage delight of revenge on those who had dared to attack the power of Austria. Proud daughter of the Caesars!

she was yet to taste the bitterness of a like cruelty, when her own son, Maximilian, bared his breast to a file of Mexican soldiers, and found no mercy. I thought of this to-day, as I saw in the burial-place of the Imperial family, near the coffin of that haughty and unforgiving woman, the coffin of her son, whose poor body lies there pierced with a dozen b.a.l.l.s.

But for the time Austria was victorious, and in the flush of the reaction which was felt throughout Europe, began to revive the old Imperial absolutism, the stern repression of liberty of speech and of the press, the system of pa.s.sports and of spies, of jealous watchfulness by the police, and of full submission to the Church of Rome.

Such was the state of things in 1858; and such it might have remained if the possessors of power had not been rudely awakened from their dreams. How well I remember the sense of triumph and power of that year. The empire of Austria had been fully restored, including not only its present territory, but the fairest portion of Italy--Lombardy and Venice. To complete the joy of the Imperial house, an heir had just been born to the throne. I was present in the cathedral of Milan when a solemn Te Deum was performed in thanksgiving for that crowning gift. Maximilian was then Viceroy in Lombardy. I see him now as, with his young bride Carlotta, he walked slowly up that majestic aisle, surrounded by a brilliant staff of officers, to give thanks to Almighty G.o.d for an event which seemed to promise the continuance of the royal house of Austria, and of its Imperial power to future generations. Alas for human foresight! In less than one year the armies of France had crossed the Alps, a great battle had been fought at Solferino, and Lombardy was forever lost to Austria, and a Te Deum was performed in the cathedral of Milan for a very different occasion, but with still more enthusiastic rejoicing.

But that was not the end of bitterness. Austria was not yet sufficiently humiliated. She still clung to her old arbitrary system, and was to be thoroughly converted only by another administration of discipline. She had still another lesson to learn, and that was to come from another source, a power still nearer home. Though driven out of a part of Italy, Austria was still the great power in Germany. She was the most important member of the Germanic Confederation, as she had a vote in the Diet at Frankfort proportioned to her population, although two-thirds of her people were not Germans. The Hungarians and the Bohemians are of other races, and speak other languages. But by the dexterous use of this power, with the alliance of Bavaria and other smaller States, Austria was able always to control the policy and wield the influence of Germany. Prussia was continually outvoted, and her political influence reduced to nothing--a state of things which became the more unendurable the more she grew in strength, and became conscious of her power. At length her statesmen saw that the only hope of Prussia to gain her rightful place and power in the councils of Europe, was _to drive Austria out of Germany_--to compel her to withdraw entirely from the Confederation. It was a bold design.

Of course it meant war; but for this Prussia had been long preparing.

Suddenly, like a thunderbolt from a clear sky, came the war of 1866.

Scarcely was it announced before a mighty army marched into Bohemia, and the battle of Sadowa, the greatest in Europe since Waterloo, ended the campaign. In six weeks all was over. The proud house of Austria was humbled in the dust. Her great army, that was to capture Berlin, was crushed in one terrible day, and the Prussians were on the march for Vienna, when their further advance was stopped by the conclusion of peace.

This was a fearful overthrow for Austria. But good comes out of evil.

It was the day of deliverance for Hungary and for Italy. Man's extremity is G.o.d's opportunity, and the king's extremity is liberty's opportunity. Up to this hour Francis Joseph had obstinately refused to grant to Hungary that separate government to which she had a right by the ancient const.i.tution of the kingdom, but which she had till then vainly demanded. But at length the eyes of the young emperor were opened, and on the evening of that day which saw the annihilation of his military power, it is said, he sent for Deak, the leader of the Hungarians, and asked "If he should _then_ concede all that they had asked, if they would rally to his support so as to save him?" "Sire,"

said the stern Hungarian leader, "_it is too late_!" Nothing remained for the proud Hapsburg but to throw himself on the mercy of the conqueror, and obtain such terms as he could. Venice was signed away at a stroke. In his despair he telegraphed to Paris, giving that beautiful province to Napoleon, to secure the support of France in his extremity, who immediately turned it over to Victor Emmanuel, thus completing the unity of Italy.

The results in Germany were not less important. As the fruit of this short, but decisive campaign, Austria, besides paying a large indemnity for the expenses of the war, finally withdrew wholly from the German Confederation, leaving Prussia master of the field, which proceeded at once to form a new Confederation with itself at the head.

After such repeated overthrows and humiliations, one would suppose that Austria was utterly ruined, and that the proud young emperor would die of shame. But, "sweet are the uses of adversity."

Humiliation is sometimes good for nations as for individuals, and never was it more so than now. The impartial historian will record that these defeats were Austria's salvation. The loss of Italy, however mortifying to her pride, was only taking away a source of constant trouble and discontent, and leaving to the rest of the empire a much more perfect unity than it had before.