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                [Illustration: _EMPEROR WILLIAM FIRST_]

                    _Life Stories for Young People_




                         EMPEROR WILLIAM FIRST
                      THE GREAT WAR AND PEACE HERO


                     _Translated from the German of
                               A. Walter_

                                   BY
                            GEORGE P. UPTON
              _Translator of “Memories,” “Immensee,” etc._

                        WITH FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS

                  [Illustration: A. C. McCLURG & CO.]

                                CHICAGO
                          A. C. McCLURG & CO.
                                  1909

                               Copyright
                          A. C. McClurg & Co.
                                  1909
                       Published August 21, 1909

               THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A.




                          Translator’s Preface


Upon the titlepage of the original of this little volume stands
inscribed, “A life picture for German youth and the German people.” It
might, with equal pertinency, have been written, “A life picture for all
youth and all people.” Emperor William First was a delicate child, but
was so carefully nurtured and trained that he became one of the most
vigorous men in Germany. At an early age he manifested a passionate
interest in everything pertaining to war. In his youth he received the
Iron Cross for bravery. He served under his father in the final wars of
the Napoleonic campaign, and in his twenty-third year mastered not only
the military system of Germany, but those of other European countries.
During the revolutionary period of 1848 he was cordially hated by the
Prussian people, who believed that he was wedded to the policy of
absolutism, but before many years he was the idol of all his kingdom,
and in the great war with France (1870), all Germans rallied round him.

After the close of this war he returned to Berlin and spent the
remainder of his days in peace, the administration of internal affairs
being left largely to his great coadjutor, Prince Bismarck. In
connection with Von Moltke, these two, the Iron Emperor and the Iron
Chancellor, made Germany the leading power of Europe. In simpleness of
life, honesty of character, devotion to duty, love of country, and
splendor of achievement, the Emperor William’s life is a study for all
youth and all people.

                                                                G. P. U.

Chicago, May 10, 1909.




                                Contents


  Chapter                                                           Page
  I Early Life                                                        11
  II A Hard School                                                    19
  III Years of Peace                                                  36
  IV Troublous Times                                                  42
  V In Trust                                                          49
  VI The Austro-Prussian War                                          56
  VII The Franco-Prussian War                                         64
  VIII Sedan                                                          73
  IX Army Anecdotes                                                   88
  X Family Life of the Emperor                                       101
  XI The Emperor’s Death                                             112
    Appendix                                                         128




                             Illustrations


  Emperor William First                                   _Frontispiece_
  The cornflower wreaths                                              22
  The two Emperors                                                    68
  The Emperor’s deathbed                                             116




                         Emperor William First




                               Chapter I
                               Early Life


King Frederick William Second was still upon the throne of Prussia when
his son and successor, afterward Frederick William Third, was married to
the lovely Louise of Mecklenburg-Strelitz. The memory of this noble pair
is treasured in every Prussian heart, and their self-sacrificing
devotion to the people, their benevolence and piety, will serve as a
shining example for all time.

On the fifteenth of October, 1795, a son was born to them, the future
King Frederick William Fourth, and on the twenty-second of March, 1797,
the Crown Princess gave birth to a second son, whose name was destined
to be inscribed in golden letters in the book of the world’s history.
Although a handsome boy, his health was so delicate as to cause his
parents much anxiety, and it seems almost like a special dispensation of
Providence that he should have lived to an age far beyond that usually
allotted to the fate of mortals.

On the third of April the christening took place in the Crown Prince’s
palace. Chief Councillor of the Consistory Sack stood before the altar,
which was ablaze with lighted tapers, and ranged before him in a wide
semicircle were the priests, the Crown Prince, and the godparents.
Others present were the King and Queen; the widowed Princess Louise, a
sister of the Crown Princess and afterward Queen of Hanover; Princes
Henry and Ferdinand of Prussia, brothers of Frederick the Great, with
their wives; Princes Henry and William, brothers of the Crown Prince;
their sister, the Electress of Hesse-Cassel; Prince George of
Hesse-Darmstadt, and the hereditary prince Frederick William of Orange.
Proxies had been sent by the Czar and Czarina of Russia, Prince William
of Nassau, the Landgrave of Hesse-Darmstadt, and the Landgrave of
Hesse-Cassel. The principal governess, Countess Voss, handed the child
to the King, who held him during the ceremony. He received the names
Frederick William Louis, with the understanding that William was the one
by which he should be known.

On the sixteenth of November of that same year Frederick William Second
was gathered to his forefathers, and the father of our hero ascended the
throne of Prussia. Their assumption of royal honors made no change in
the simplicity of the august pair’s affection for each other or their
devotion to their children, and whenever time and opportunity permitted,
they gladly laid aside the oppressive form and ceremony of the court for
the pure and simple pleasures of home life. Every morning and evening
they went hand in hand to the nursery to enjoy the growth and
development of their children, or, bending with loving caresses over
their cradles, committed them to the fatherly care of the Almighty. The
simple cradle with its little green curtains in which Prince William
dreamed away his infancy is still preserved in the Hohenzollern Museum
at the Monbijou Palace, a touching reminder of the delicate child who
was afterward to be so famous and to serve as an instrument for the
fulfilment of the mighty decrees of Providence for the welfare of his
people.

The early years of Prince William’s life passed happily and peacefully
by. Watched over with tenderest love and care by his noble parents,
their devotion and piety, their readiness to sacrifice themselves for
each other or for their people, their prompt and cheerful fulfilment of
duty, and the courage that never failed them even in the darkest hours,
all made a deep impression on the child’s sensitive nature and helped to
form the character that distinguished the heroic Emperor up to the last
days and hours of his life.

There was little prospect at that time of William’s ever wielding the
sceptre, for his elder brother was a strong, healthy lad, and the crown
seemed in all human probability likely to descend to him and his heirs.
It was important, therefore, for the younger son to choose some vocation
which would enable him to be of use to the Fatherland and prove himself
worthy of his illustrious ancestors.

The Prince’s devoted tutor, Johann Friedrich Gottlieb Delbrück,
carefully fed his mind with the history and glories of the house of
Brandenburg, a study of which he never tired and to which he applied
himself with untiring zeal. Learning from this that a well-disciplined
standing army, firmly supported by public sentiment, was the first and
most important requisite for the advancement and maintenance of the
monarchy, he determined to devote himself to a military career and use
all his energy to fit himself for that high and difficult calling, that
he might furnish a stout support to his brother’s throne. But he had
shown a natural fondness for soldiers at an early age, long before
arriving at this maturer resolution, an inclination which his father had
carefully encouraged. The two little Princes, with their cousin
Frederick, son of the deceased Prince Louis, received their first
military instruction in Potsdam from a noncommissioned officer of the
first Battalion of the Guard, named Bennstein, and in Berlin from
Sergeant Major Cleri of the Möllendorf Regiment. The King was often
present at these exercises to note their progress, praise or criticise,
and as a reward for their industry, arranged a delightful surprise for
them.

It was Christmas Eve of the year 1803. In the royal palace at Berlin the
lighted Christmas-tree glittered and sparkled, its branches bending with
the weight of gifts provided by the royal parents for their children.
All was silent, for the family were still at divine service, with which
they always began the celebration of the holy festival. Suddenly the
clear stroke of a bell sounded through the quiet room, the great doors
flew open as if of their own accord, and the King and Queen entered with
their excited children. A perfect sea of light streamed toward them from
the huge tree that towered almost to the ceiling and filled the air with
its spicy fragrance, while red-cheeked apples and gilded nuts nodded a
friendly greeting from its branches. Here the beautiful Louise,
Prussia’s beloved Queen, reigned supreme, gayly distributing gifts and
enjoying the delight of her precious children, while the King stood
quietly by, his eyes shining with fatherly happiness. All at once the
six-year-old William gave a shout of joy. Before him, carefully tucked
away under the boughs of the tree, he saw a gay little uniform. What
joy! what bliss! The red dolman with its white cords and lacings, the
blue furred jacket, the bearskin cap, and the sabre filled his cup of
happiness to overflowing, and the happy little fellow could find no
words to thank the kind parents who had so unexpectedly granted his
heart’s desire. It was the uniform of the Rudorff Regiment, now the
Ziethen Hussars, and the Christ-child had brought his brother, the Crown
Prince, that of the body-guard, and his cousin Frederick that of a
dragoon. The next morning the three boys dressed up in their new
costumes and the delighted father presented them to the Queen as the
youngest recruits in his army. But none of them was so proud as William,
and very fine he looked in his first soldierly dress.

Two years later he saw the uhlan regiment Towarczysz, at that time the
only one in Prussia, and was so charmed with its singular uniform that
he begged his father for one like it. The King, always ready to
encourage his military tastes, granted his wish, and from that time he
alternated between a uhlan and a hussar. That year he also saw the
famous old dragoon regiment Ansbach-Baireuth of which the Queen was
commander, and the sight of his mother in her regimental colors made a
deep impression upon him.

Though he was passionately devoted to soldiering, childish sports and
games were not neglected, especially during the Summer, when the royal
family went for a few weeks to their country place at Paretz. Here the
King and Queen encouraged their children to associate freely with all
classes—from the village children to future army officers at military
schools. It was naturally among the latter that the Princes found most
of their playmates. The knowledge of the people he gained in this way
proved a great and lasting benefit to Prince William.

Thus happily and peacefully, surrounded by luxury and splendor, watched
over with tenderest care, our hero’s life slipped by till the end of his
eighth year, when a storm burst over the country that shook the Prussian
throne to its foundations.




                               Chapter II
                             A Hard School


The throne of France was occupied at that time by the insatiable
Napoleon I. Born on the island of Corsica, the son of an advocate, he
entered the French army during the Revolution and rose step by step
until by his remarkable talents and ability he attained the highest
honors of state. His ambition was to make France mistress of the world,
and aided by the blind devotion of the people he seemed in a fair way of
realizing this dream, for one country after another succumbed with
astonishing rapidity to his victorious legions.

Prussia was spared for some time, but in 1806 King Frederick William
Third, unable for his own honor or that of his country longer to endure
Napoleon’s aggressions, was reluctantly forced to declare war, and the
country’s doom was sealed. Deluded by the traditions of former glories
under the great Frederick, the army and its leaders thought it would
prove an easy task for the battalions that had once withstood the onset
of half Europe to protect the frontiers of the Fatherland against the
Corsican conqueror, but disaster followed swiftly. The guns of Jena and
Auerstädt scattered those golden mists of self-delusion and betrayed
with startling clearness the degeneracy of the military organization,
which, like the machine of government, bore little trace of Frederick
the Great’s influence save in outward forms.

The defeat of October 14, 1806, decided the fate of Prussia. Like a
roaring sea the French swept over the country, and two days later it
became necessary for the safety of the royal children to remove them
from Berlin. Their nearest refuge was the castle at Schwedt on the Oder,
where their mother joined them, prepared to share with her darlings the
cruel fate that had befallen them. Sitting with her two eldest sons and
their tutor Delbrück that evening, she spoke those stirring words that
proved such a help and inspiration to Emperor William in after years.

“In one day,” she said, “I have seen destroyed a structure which great
and good men have labored for two hundred years to build up. There is no
longer a Prussian kingdom, no longer an army, nor a national honor. Ah,
my sons, you are already old enough to appreciate the calamity that has
overtaken us. In days to come, when your mother is no longer living,
think of these unhappy times and weep in memory of the tears I now am
shedding. But do not weep only! Work, work with all your strength! You
yet may prove the good geniuses of your country. Wipe out its shame and
humiliation, restore the tarnished glory of your house as your ancestor,
the great Elector, avenged at Fehrbellin his father’s disgraceful defeat
in Sweden! Do not allow yourselves to be influenced by the degeneracy of
the age! Be men, and strive to attain the glorious fame of heroes!
Without such aims you would be unworthy the name of Prussian princes,
successors of the great Frederick; but if all your efforts are powerless
to uplift your fallen country, then seek death as Prince Louis Ferdinand
sought it!”

Their stay in Schwedt was but a short one. The rapid advance of the
French army, driving the retreating Prussians before them, compelled the
Queen and her children to flee to Dantzig and Königsberg, where they
would be safe for a time at least. But what a journey it was! There was
no time to make any preparations for their comfort. Day and night they
pressed on, without stopping to rest, in any kind of a vehicle that
could be obtained, over rough roads and through a strange part of the
country, often suffering from hunger and thirst, their hearts full of
sorrow and anxiety for the beloved Fatherland.

Emperor William used to relate an incident connected with this journey
which makes a touching picture of those dark days. “While my mother was
fleeing with us from the French in that time of tribulation,” he said,
“we had the misfortune to break one of the wheels of our coach, in the
middle of an open field. There was no place for us to go, and we sat on
the bank of a ditch while the damage was being repaired as well as
possible. My brother and I were tired and hungry, and much put out by
the delay. I remember that I especially, being rather a puny lad,
troubled my dear mother greatly with my complaints. To divert our minds,
she arose and, pointing to the quantities of pretty blue flowers with
which the field was covered, told us to pick some and bring them to her.
Then she wove them into wreaths as we eagerly watched her dexterous
fingers. As she worked, overcome with thoughts of her country’s
sorrowful plight and her own danger and anxiety for the future of her
sons, the tears began to drop slowly from her beautiful eyes upon the
cornflower wreaths. Smitten to the heart by her distress and completely
forgetting my own childish troubles, I flung my arms about her neck and
tried to comfort her, till she smiled and placed the wreath upon my
head. Though I was only ten years old at the time, this scene remains
undimmed in my memory, and after all these years I can still see those
blossoms all sparkling with my mother’s tears, and that is why I love
the cornflower better than any other flower.”

                [Illustration: _The cornflower wreaths_]

At Königsberg the Queen was attacked with a fever, but this did not
prevent her from continuing her flight to Memel with her children in
January, 1807. It seemed doubtful at one time if she would live to get
there, but she insisted upon pressing on, through cold and storm, ill as
she was. Once, almost at the point of death, she was forced to spend the
night in a poor peasant’s hut, without proper food or covering, the
freezing wind blowing through the broken windowpanes and scattering
snowflakes on her wretched cot. But God did not forsake the heroic
Queen, and she succeeded at last in reaching Memel, there to await the
no longer doubtful issue of the war, which cost Frederick William Third
half of his kingdom. This sudden change from peace and prosperity to
deepest humiliation was the anvil on which Providence forged the sword
that was one day to make Germany a united and powerful nation, and some
words of the Queen’s, written at this time to her father, are
significant and memorable.

  “It may be well for our children to have learned the serious side of
  life while they are young. Had they grown up surrounded by ease and
  luxury, they would have accepted such things as a matter of course;
  that must always be so. But alas! their father’s anxious face and
  their mother’s tears have taught them otherwise.”

Our hero was ten years old when the King was forced to sign the
disastrous peace of Tilsit, and according to the usual custom he was
raised at this age to the rank of officer. The great event should
properly have taken place March 22, 1807, but owing to the unsettled
state of the country his father presented him with his appointment on
New Years’ Day, just before the royal family left Königsberg for Memel,
and he was made ensign in the newly formed regiment of foot-guards. At
Christmas he was advanced to a second-lieutenantship, and on June 21,
1808, marched with his regiment back to Königsberg. A report made about
this time states: “Prince William, during his first two years of service
with the Prussian infantry, has become familiar with every detail of
army life and is already heart and soul a soldier,”—a tribute well
deserved by the young officer, for he was faithful and industrious and
devoted to his profession. The two following years that the royal family
remained in Königsberg were an important period in the life of Prince
William. The sole tuition of Delbrück no longer satisfied the Queen, and
on the advice of Baron von Stein, she appointed General Diericke and
Colonel Gaudy as governors for the Crown Prince, and Major von Pirch and
Professor Reimann for Prince William. At the same time Karl August
Zeller, a pupil of the Queen’s honored Swiss teacher Pestalozzi, was
summoned to Königsberg and given charge of the school system. He also
assisted in the education of Prince William, whose untiring zeal and
industry caused him to make steady and rapid progress in all branches of
learning. His best efforts, however, were given to his military duties,
and he eagerly treasured up everything that was said at court of famous
generals and heroes.

On November 12, 1808, he paraded for the first time with his regiment.
In September of the following year he was present at the placing of the
memorial tablets to the first East Prussian Infantry in the palace
chapel at Königsberg, and after the court had returned to Berlin, he
entered that city with his regiment on his parents’ wedding anniversary,
December 24, 1809. It was a melancholy home-coming, and never again did
our hero make so sad an entry into his capital, for in spite of the joy
with which the citizens welcomed the return of their beloved sovereigns
once more, the country’s shameful bondage under the yoke of Napoleon lay
heavily on all hearts. No one felt the disgrace more keenly than Queen
Louise, however: it rankled in her bosom and gradually consumed her
strength till her health began to give way under it.

In the Summer of 1810 she visited her father at Strelitz, whither the
King soon followed her, and it was decided to make a long stay at the
ducal castle of Hohenzieritz, hoping the change and rest might benefit
the Queen. Soon after her arrival, she was taken seriously ill with an
acute attack of asthma, but recovered sufficiently by the first of July
for the King to return to Charlottenburg, where the royal family were
then in the habit of spending the Summer. For some days she seemed much
better, but the attacks of pain and suffocation soon returned, and on
the nineteenth of July the King hastened back to Hohenzieritz, where he
found his wife fully conscious but so altered in appearance that he was
forced to leave the room, weeping aloud. As soon as he had recovered his
self-control he returned to the Queen, who laid her hand in his with the
question:

“Did you bring any one with you?”

“Yes, Fritz and William,” replied the King.

“Ah, God! what joy!” she cried. “Let them be brought to me.”

The two boys came in and knelt beside their mother’s bed. “My Fritz, my
William!” she murmured repeatedly. Soon the paroxysms seized her again,
the children were led away weeping bitterly, and soon afterward the King
closed forever those eyes that had been the light of his life’s dark
pathway.

The death of their beloved Queen turned all Prussia into a house of
mourning, so deeply did the sorrowful news affect the hearts of her
subjects. Still deeper and more lasting, however, was the impression
made upon Prince William by the early loss of his adored mother. All
through his life her memory was treasured as a holy image in his heart,
and to his latest days he never forgot her devotion and self-sacrifice,
or that nineteenth of July which deprived him of a mother’s care, his
father of the best of wives, and the nation of a noble sovereign and
benefactress.

The years passed on, but Prussia did not remain in her deep humiliation,
prostrate and powerless. A new spirit began to awake, and through the
efforts of such men as Stein and Hardenberg, Scharnhorst and Gneisenau,
who nobly and without hope of reward devoted themselves to the
redemption of the Fatherland, a feeling began to stir throughout the
country that the day of deliverance must come. And it did come. Arrogant
with his successes and thirsting for fresh conquests, Napoleon in the
year 1812 aspired to seize the mighty Russian Empire and add it to his
dependencies, but there a check was placed on his victorious career. To
be sure he penetrated as far as Moscow, expecting to winter there, but
the Russians sacrificed their ancient capital and Napoleon with his
troops was driven from the burning city out into the open country in the
depth of Winter. The Lord of Hosts seemed to have allied himself with
the Russians to destroy the disturber of the peace of Europe, for the
Winter was an early and unusually severe one and Napoleon was forced to
order a retreat. And what a retreat it was! Day after day, through the
heavy snows and the bitter cold, plodded the exhausted soldiers, pursued
and harried by the Russians like hunted animals. Of the five hundred
thousand men who set out in all the proud assurance of victory, only a
few thousands returned again to France. It was a bitter blow to the
aspiring conqueror—God himself had dealt out judgment to him! He hastily
collected together a new army, it is true, but now all Germany was
allied with Russia to defeat the tyrant’s schemes. The glorious war of
1813-1815 was about to begin.

Among those great men who had labored untiringly to emancipate Prussia
from the yoke of France, the work of reorganizing the army had fallen
chiefly to Scharnhorst.

It had been his idea to train the whole population of the smaller
outlying States in the use of arms, and thus continually to introduce
fresh forces into the army of forty thousand men which Prussia was
allowed to support, to take the place of older and well-disciplined
regiments which were dismissed. The news of Napoleon’s disastrous
experience in Russia filled the Prussians with new hope and enthusiasm,
but the King was slow to determine on any decisive action. Napoleon
still had powerful resources at his command, and if the struggle for
which the people clamored were to go against them, the ruin of Prussia
would be complete. Further delay, however, became at last impossible,
and on January 22, 1813, Frederick William left Berlin, where his
personal safety was still menaced by French troops, and removed the
court to Breslau. An alliance was concluded, February 28, between Russia
and Prussia, and on March 17 war was declared against Napoleon. That
same day General Scharnhorst’s ordinance in regard to the militia was
carried into effect and the large body of well-drilled men which he had
been quietly training for so long, took their place in the newly formed
army.

Shortly before this, on his deceased wife’s birthday, March 10, the King
established the order of the Iron Cross.

“With God for King and Fatherland!” was the watchword with which Prussia
entered the struggle that was to lift her to her old position of power
and independence or end in hopeless ruin. The King issued a call for
troops and the whole nation responded. Not a man but would gladly die
rather than longer endure the shame of subjection. The lofty spirit of
their departed Queen seemed still to inspire the hearts of the people,
for they arrayed themselves against the conqueror who had chosen the
heroes of Pagan antiquity for his models, with a Christian faith and
devotion rarely equalled in the history of the world. Prince William too
longed with all his heart to take part in the liberation of Prussia and
with tears in his eyes besought his father to allow him to take the
field, but out of regard for his son’s health the King was obliged to
refuse his prayer, and he remained in Breslau, in bitter discontent,
anxiously waiting and hoping for news from the seat of war, at that time
so difficult to obtain and so slow in arriving. Even his advance to a
first-lieutenantship in the course of the summer failed to cheer him,
for he felt that he had done nothing to deserve it. But after the battle
of Leipzic, in which the French were routed and driven back across the
Rhine, the King returned to Breslau and, handing the Prince a captain’s
commission, placed on his shoulders with his own hands the epaulettes
then just introduced for army officers, and told him to prepare to join
the army. This was joyful news indeed! On to France, on against the foe
that so long had held the Fatherland in bondage and sent his adored
mother to a premature grave! His heart beat high with pride and courage,
and he could hardly wait for the day of departure, which was finally set
for November 8.

The French were already driven out of Germany at that time and the
victorious allies had pursued them into their own country. On January 1,
1814, the King and his son reached Mannheim, on the Rhine, and were soon
across the borders and in the midst of the seat of war. From Brienne and
Rosny sounded the thunder of cannon, and at Bar-sur-Aube on February 27
Prince William was permitted for the first time to take part in active
service.

Early on the morning of that day the King sent for his two sons (the
Crown Prince had been with the army from the beginning of the war) and
said to them: “There will be a battle to-day. We have taken the
offensive and there may be hot work. You shall watch it. Ride on and I
will follow, but do not expose yourselves to danger unnecessarily. Do
you understand?”

The brothers dashed off to General Prince Wittgenstein, where their
father joined them, and they were soon in the middle of the fight and in
constant danger of their lives. Suddenly the King turned to Prince
William. “Ride back and find out what regiment it is over yonder that is
losing so many men,” he ordered. Like a flash William was off, followed
by admiring glances from the soldiers as he galloped calmly through the
hail of bullets, obtained the desired information, and rode slowly back.
The King made no comment, but General Wittgenstein, who had watched the
Prince with apprehension, gave him a kindly glance and shook him warmly
by the hand, William himself seeming quite unconscious that he had been
in such danger and had just received his baptism of fire.

On March 10, his mother’s birthday, he received from his father’s hand
the Iron Cross, and a few days before this the royal allies of Prussia
and Russia had bestowed on him the fourth class of the Order of Saint
George for his bravery. These two decorations, which can only be won
under fire, made the Prince realize for the first time the real meaning
of the incident at Bar-sur-Aube.

“Now I know,” he said, “why Herr von Jagow and Herr von Luck pressed my
hand and why the others smiled so significantly.”

The Emperor wore these two little crosses to the end of his life, with
special pride, as the first honors he ever won, and would never have
them replaced by new ones. They were precious relics of his baptism of
fire at Bar-sur-Aube.

Swiftly the tide of war rolled on. Battle after battle was won. Napoleon
was dethroned and banished to the island of Elba, and on March 31, 1814,
Prince William made his first victorious entry into the enemy’s proud
capital. Here he took up his quarters in the Hotel of the Legion of
Honor and on May 30 received the rank of Major in the army. After
visiting England and Switzerland with his father in the course of the
Summer, our hero returned to Potsdam on the King’s birthday (August 3),
where he was joyously welcomed by his sisters. The following year
Napoleon escaped from Elba and regained possession of the throne of
France, only to exchange it after a sovereignty of one hundred days for
the lonely island of Saint Helena in the Atlantic Ocean.

On June 8 of this year (1815) the confirmation of Prince William took
place, having been postponed till that date on account of the war. In
the palace chapel at Charlottenburg he took the usual vows and laid down
for himself at the same time those principles of life and conduct that
are a splendid witness to his nobility of mind, his seriousness of
purpose, his sincere piety and faith in the Almighty, and his lofty
conception of the duties of his high calling.




                              Chapter III
                             Years of Peace


After his confirmation Prince William was hastening back to the seat of
war when the news of Napoleon’s defeat and banishment reached him.
Nevertheless he kept on and entered Paris again with the army. During
the three months that he remained there this time he suffered from a
sharp attack of pleurisy, from which he quickly recovered, however. This
was the last evidence of his early delicacy, for henceforth he enjoyed
the most robust health and was able to endure all the hardships of a
soldier’s life, devoting himself to his chosen profession with the
greatest energy and enthusiasm and striving earnestly to advance the
military power and standing of Prussia to a place among the great
nations of Europe.

Even during his father’s reign, as well as that of his brother, he was
considered the soul of the army and looked upon by the troops as a
pattern of all the military virtues, while with his indefatigable
activity in all branches of the service he rose rapidly to the highest
commands. Frederick William Third was not slow to recognize his son’s
abilities, for when in 1818 he made a journey to Russia with the Crown
Prince, he intrusted the entire management of military affairs to him
during his absence. The following year the Prince received a seat and
voice in the ministry of war, thus enabling him to acquire as thorough a
knowledge of army organization and administration as he had already
gained in practical experience. Thereafter he took part in all military
conferences, while special details and commissions of inspection
familiarized him by personal observation with army affairs in general.

The close family ties between the royal houses of Prussia and Russia,
brought about by the marriage of the Princess Charlotte, William’s
sister, to the Grand Duke Nicholas, afterwards Czar, caused our hero to
be drawn into active intercourse with St. Petersburg. At the time of the
wedding, which took place in Berlin, it fell to his share to accompany
his sister to her future home and represent the Prussian throne at the
festivities there. He was received with great honors in St. Petersburg
and improved the occasion by attending the military manœuvres which were
held there and at Moscow. His personal relations with the Russian court
were very intimate and were the cause of frequent visits thither in the
ensuing years.

The routine of his professional duties was often varied by journeys and
visits required by the service—such as that to Italy in 1822, and a long
one made in 1826 with his younger brother Charles to the court of
Weimar, from which the two Princes carried away the most delightful
recollections, especially of the Princesses Marie and Augusta, whose
acquaintance they had made on that occasion. Nor was it to end in
memories, for Prince Charles’s betrothal to the Princess Marie was soon
announced, and on May 26, 1827, the young couple were married. As for
William, several visits to the hospitable grand-ducal court convinced
him that no other princess possessed to such a degree the qualities
necessary to his life’s happiness as the modest and amiable Princess
Augusta, and they became betrothed in February, 1829, the marriage
following on June 11 of that year.

In May Prince William journeyed to St. Petersburg to invite his sister
and her husband to the wedding, and on his return went directly to
Weimar to escort his fair bride to Berlin. On June 7 the Princess
Augusta bade farewell to her beloved home; two days later the bridal
party reached Potsdam, and on the tenth the state entry from
Charlottenburg took place. The Prussian capital had not failed to
prepare a royal welcome for Prince William’s bride, the fame of whose
virtues had preceded her, and all Berlin was agog to see and greet the
lovely Princess and the happy bridegroom. The magnificent wedding lasted
for three days, after which the royal pair took possession of the
so-called Tauenziensche House which had been assigned to the Prince as
his official residence. Later it was bought by him and rebuilt by the
architect Langhaus in substantially the form in which the present palace
at the entrance of the Linden has become familiar to every German as the
residence of the Emperor William First.

The home life of the Prince and Princess was charmingly simple and
domestic and their marriage a singularly happy one, founded on mutual
love and respect. Both were distinguished for deep religious feeling, a
strong sense of duty and the responsibilities of their position, as well
as a deep-rooted love of the Fatherland. On October 18, 1831, the
anniversary of the battle of Leipzic, the Princess Augusta presented her
husband with a son, afterward the beloved Emperor Frederick, whose
untimely death was so deeply deplored; and on December 3, 1838, she gave
birth to a daughter, Louise Marie Elizabeth, the present Grand Duchess
of Baden. These new joys brought also new duties into the lives of the
royal parents in the education of their children, to which they devoted
themselves with the most loving care. While the father endeavoured to
develop in his son the qualities requisite to make a good soldier, the
clever mother saw to it that his education should not be military only.
She was a constant patroness of art and learning and was determined that
her Fritz should have a thorough knowledge of science and be a lover of
the fine arts, while her daughter Louise was early taught to employ her
time usefully and to become accustomed to serious work under her
mother’s guidance.

After 1835 the family began to spend the Summer months at the Schloss
Babelsberg on the Havel, the site of which had been discovered by Prince
William at the time of some army manœuvres in that neighborhood in 1821.
After their marriage the artistic young wife had drawn the plans for a
country residence there, which was afterward enlarged considerably, and
thus arose the Babelsberg palace. The surroundings were soon converted
by expert hands into gardens and a magnificent park, and it became the
favorite residence of the Emperor in his later years. He used to spend
much time there, and far from wishing to hide its beauties from his
subjects, he loved to have people come and wander through the beautiful
grounds. The minister of war, Van Roon, indeed, tells how the old
Emperor once left his work to permit his study to be shown to some
visitors who had come a long distance to gaze on the abode of their
beloved sovereign.




                               Chapter IV
                            Troublous Times


On June 7, 1840, that sorely tried monarch Frederick William Third, who
had borne so much with and for his people, breathed his last, and the
Crown Prince ascended the throne as Frederick William Fourth, William
receiving the title of Prince of Prussia as had that brother of
Frederick the Great who afterward succeeded him, thus being raised to
the rank and dignity of a Crown Prince, for the marriage of Frederick
William Fourth was childless.

On June 11 the body of the deceased King was laid to rest in the
mausoleum at Charlottenburg beside that of his noble and much-lamented
Queen. And now began a period of ferment, difficult to understand by
those not directly concerned in it or its after effects. Even at the
time of the War of Liberation a feeling of discontent had begun to show
itself among the people of Germany at the condition of affairs created
by the allies at the so-called Congress of Vienna in 1814-1815. There
was an ever-increasing demand for popular representation in the
legislature, what is now called the Diet or House of Deputies, and also
a closer consolidation of the national strength and resources, such as
would be afforded by a German Confederation for the purpose of restoring
the Empire to its old power and importance. These ideas, as yet but
half-formed and visionary, were agitated, especially by the youth of
Germany, with a spirit and enthusiasm that appeared so dangerous to the
existing order of things as to require suppression. At the time of the
French Revolution of 1830, they began to assume more definite form,
though under the paternal rule of Frederick William Third no general
movement was attempted by his subjects. With the accession of Frederick
William Fourth, however, the time seemed to have come to demand the
exchange of an absolute monarchy for a constitutional form of
government, and also, perhaps, the reëstablishment of the German Empire;
but in both respects their hopes were doomed to disappointment. The
King’s refusal to grant the people a voice in the government was as firm
as his rejection of the offer of an imperial throne. His action aroused
a deep feeling of dissatisfaction throughout the country, which was
increased by several years of bad crops and famine, until at last the
French Revolution of 1848 lighted the torch of insurrection in Germany
also.

Frederick William Fourth had already assigned to his brother, the Prince
of Prussia, the responsible post of guardian of the Rhine, and at the
outbreak of these disturbances he made him Governor General of the
Rhenish provinces and Westphalia. Before the Prince had left Berlin,
however, the uprising had spread to that city also, so he remained in
close attendance upon the King, taking a leading part in his councils as
first Minister of State. Frederick William Fourth was much disturbed by
such an unheard-of state of affairs in Prussia, and possibly failed to
appreciate the significance of the outbreak, but rather than come to
open conflict with his people he had all the troops sent away from
Berlin. Bitter as the recollection must be, it remains a lasting honor
to the Prussian army that this trying order was obeyed without a murmur
or complaint, and adds another laurel to those since won on many a
hard-fought field. The removal of the troops gave the insurgents free
scope for a time, and the efforts of the leaders to direct the anger of
the deluded populace against the army, that stanch and loyal bulwark of
the throne, resulted in setting the turbulent masses against the Prince
of Prussia likewise, who was well known as the army’s most zealous
friend and patron. They even went so far as to threaten to set fire to
his palace, but a few patriotic citizens succeeded in restraining them
at the critical moment. To avoid any further occasion for such excesses,
the King sent his brother away to England, where he remained until the
storm had subsided, returning in May, 1848, to Babelsberg, where he
spent several months in retirement. The King was finally forced to
recall the troops, then under the command of General von Wrangel, to
quell the tumult in Berlin, and shortly afterwards Prussia was given its
present constitution, by which the people were granted a chamber of
representatives.

The insurrection of 1848, meanwhile, had spread throughout the country
and led to a revolution in Baden, which overthrew the existing
government and assumed such serious proportions that the Grand Duke
besought the help of King Frederick William Fourth, who at once
despatched his brother, the Prince of Prussia, to Baden with an army. It
was William’s first experience as a commander.

In June, 1849, he proceeded from Mainz to the Palatinate of Bavaria,
where he was welcomed with open arms by the inhabitants. With the
assistance of his gallant young nephew Frederick Charles, he soon
quickly crushed the insurgents who were besieging the Palatinate and
pushed on across the Rhine to Baden, where in a succession of
engagements he proved an inspiring example of coolness and courage to
his enthusiastic troops. After the fight at Durlach, the townspeople
brought out bread and wine for the victorious Prussians. The Prince was
also offered a piece of bread, which he was about to eat with relish
when he saw a hungry soldier watching him with longing glances. Quickly
breaking it in two he held out half to the man, saying kindly, “Here,
comrade, take some too!”

It was by such acts as this that he won the devotion of his soldiers. On
June 25 he entered the capital, Carlsruhe, and was hailed with joy by
the citizens, while the leader of the rebellion retired to the castle of
Rastall, where, after a few more unsuccessful resistances, the greater
part of the insurgents also took refuge. The Prince immediately laid
siege to the place, and with such good results that on July 23 it
surrendered at discretion, and the Prussians took possession the same
day. On August 18 the Grand Duke of Baden returned to his capital,
accompanied by the Prince of Prussia, to whom he gave public thanks as
the restorer of order in the country, and soon after William set out on
his return to Berlin, where he was welcomed with enthusiasm by his
family, the populace, and above all by the army.

His duties as military governor of Westphalia and the provinces of the
Rhine required him to take up his residence at Coblentz, where he
remained till 1857, with occasional journeys made in the interest of the
service or for the government. These were unsettled and not very
pleasant times, for Austria was perpetually seeking to undermine the
power of Prussia and more than once the sword was loosened in its
sheath. But there were bright spots also in the lives of the princely
pair, such as the marriage of their daughter Louise to the Grand Duke of
Baden. Another favorite wish was gratified by the alliance of Prince
Frederick with the Princess Royal, Victoria of England, in 1857. Fresh
troubles occurred in this year also, for on the occasion of some army
manœuvres at Giebichenstein, King Frederick William Fourth was stricken
with apoplexy and his brother was appointed to represent him at the head
of the government. At first it was hoped that the trouble might be
relieved, and the arrangement was made for three months only; but the
apoplectic fits continued at intervals, and at the end of a year,
finding his condition worse rather than improved, the King was forced to
make the Prince of Prussia Regent of the kingdom. Four years later
Frederick William Fourth was released from his sufferings, and his
brother ascended the throne of Prussia as William First.




                               Chapter V
                                In Trust


Our hero was nearly sixty-four years old when he was called by
Providence to assume this exalted position, an age at which men usually
begin to look about for a quiet spot wherein to end their days in peace
and freedom from care. But for King William, though already on the
threshold of age, this was out of the question. This Nestor among German
princes had been chosen as an instrument for the restoration of national
unity and power. It was his task, as head of the “Holy German Empire,”
to overthrow all her enemies and crown her arms with victory and fame.
And nobly did the venerable monarch fulfil this trust, keeping a
watchful eye on the interests and welfare of the Fatherland for more
than twenty-seven years.

The aims and hopes with which he began his reign are set forth in the
proclamation issued to his people at that time. It hints too at the
serious struggle he saw approaching, in which Prussia would have to
fight for her existence against the neighboring countries, jealous of
her growing power. It had been the labor of his life to provide the
country with a strong, well-disciplined army; his task now as sovereign
was to make it equal in size to any demand that might be made upon it.
During his regency he had tried to secure the consent of the Diet to a
large increase in the standing army, and preliminary measures had
already been taken to this effect, but after the Prince’s accession to
the throne the House of Deputies withdrew its consent and absolutely
refused to grant the necessary appropriation. This was a hard blow to
the King, but he felt that his duty to the country required him to
persist in his demands, a decision in which he was loyally upheld by his
recently appointed councillor, Otto von Bismarck, a man of remarkable
talents and ability, to whom might well be applied the poet’s words:

  “He was a man, take him for all in all,
  I shall not look upon his like again.”

For a time, however, their efforts met with no results, the Diet
remaining firm in its refusal, and finally disclaiming any participation
in the policy of the government, domestic or foreign. Not until great
events had occurred, not until splendid proofs had been furnished of the
wisdom of the King’s judgment, were the representatives convinced that
the aims of the government were for the country’s best good. Nor was it
long before an opportunity for such proofs was offered.

For many years the Kings of Denmark had appropriated to themselves the
title of Duke of Schleswig-Holstein, though more as a matter of form
than of real sovereignty, for the two sea-girt duchies had retained
their own constitution, their laws, and their language. Within the space
of ten years, however, it had become more and more apparent that Denmark
was aiming at complete absorption and suppression of their nationality.
In 1840, and again in 1850, they had struggled to retain their
independence, but in vain, being too weak themselves and meeting with
insufficient support from their German brethren, who at that time had
all they could manage with their own affairs. When, however, on November
15, 1863, King Frederick Seventh of Denmark died and Christian Ninth
ascended the throne, Germany decided to interfere in behalf of the
duchies. As the various States could come to no agreement, Prussia and
Austria, as the two leading powers, took matters into their own hands.
The Danish King was called upon to evacuate Holstein within forty-eight
hours and to withdraw the form of government introduced into Schleswig,
and on his refusal to comply with these demands Schleswig was at once
invaded. The general command of the expedition was given to Von Wrangel,
Prince Frederick Charles leading the Prussian troops, Field Marshal
Lieutenant von Gablenz the Austrians who had come on through Silesia and
Brandenburg.

On February 1, 1864, Wrangel gave the order to advance “in God’s
name!”—an order which proved the signal for a succession of heroic deeds
that covered the German army with glory, for from the Danish War sprang
that between Prussia and Austria two years later, and in 1870 the
Franco-Prussian War. The first of February, 1864, therefore, surely
deserves a place in the pages of history as the starting point of the
glorious achievements of the German army and the victorious career of
its royal commander.

King William himself took no active part in the Danish War. Only about
one and a half army corps were mobilized, too small a force to be under
the command of the sovereign of so powerful a nation as Prussia. But
when after a number of victorious engagements Prince Frederick Charles
succeeded in storming Düppel and capturing all the supposedly
impregnable intrenchments, thus proving that Prussia’s old valor still
survived in a younger generation, King William could no longer keep away
from his victorious troops. His arrival in Schleswig was hailed with joy
by the people as well as the army, and at Grevenstein he held a review
of the columns that had fought so brilliantly at the storming of Düppel,
praising and thanking them personally for their bravery. He also visited
the hospitals, encouraging the wounded with his presence and kindly
words of cheer. The people of Schleswig were assured that their affairs
would be brought to a happy issue, and a feeling of confidence in the
speedy liberation of their brethren from the power of Denmark spread
throughout Germany.

And so it proved, for on June 28 the enemy’s defeat was completed by the
capture of the island of Alsen, used by the Danes as a storehouse for
arms and provisions. A truce was proclaimed, and on October 30, 1864,
the Peace of Vienna was concluded, by which the King of Denmark
renounced all his rights to the duchies of Schleswig, Holstein, and
Lauenburg in favor of the King of Prussia and the Emperor of Austria,
and agreed to recognize whatever disposition the allies should make of
the three States. This treaty, by completely freeing the duchies from
the power of Denmark, realized one of the dearest wishes of the people,
a wish that had long been cherished in the hearts of patriots; while to
Germany it gave a greater increase of territory and influence than had
fallen to her share for many years.

In spite of this fact, however, the idea of German unity still seemed
far from realization owing to the conflicting interests of the several
States, of which there were more than thirty, each jealous of the
slightest supremacy of the others. When Prussia proposed, therefore,
that the three duchies should be governed by their liberators rather
than be added to the German States, of which there were already too
many, the plan was bitterly opposed by the majority of the
Confederation. But Prussia was determined not to yield, and with the
coöperation of Austria succeeded in carrying her point. By the treaty of
Gastein it was agreed that Austria should assume the provisional
administration of Holstein, and Prussia that of Schleswig, while
Lauenburg was made over to the Prussian government for the sum of seven
and a half million marks.

It would seem that the army’s splendid achievements might have inclined
the Diet to withdraw its long-standing opposition to the plans and
wishes of the government, but such was not the case. Not only did the
majority of representatives refuse as before to grant any appropriation
for increasing the army, but also failed to make provision for the cost
of the recent victorious campaign, expecting in this way to force the
government to yield. Nothing was farther, however, from the intentions
of King William and his trusty councillor, Bismarck. Firmly convinced
that they were in the right, it would have seemed treachery to the
Fatherland to abandon their purpose. Recognition of their efforts must
come some time, and as it proved, that day was not far distant.




                               Chapter VI
                        The Austro-Prussian War


At Gastein, as has already been stated, the Schleswig-Holstein affair
had been brought to a settlement, but it was only a preliminary one.
Fresh disputes soon broke out between the two powers. Austria, already
regretting her compliance, inclined more and more to the side of the
enemies of Prussia, who wished to restore the independence of Schleswig
and Holstein and make them part of the Confederation. The old jealousy
broke forth anew, and, unable to reconcile herself to any real increase
of Prussian power, Austria attempted to force King William to yield to
the wishes of the Confederation. Laying before the Diet the danger of
permitting Prussia to have its way, she succeeded in having a motion
carried to oppose that power. Convinced that war was again inevitable,
King William declared all former negotiations off, and urged Saxony,
Hanover, and electoral Hesse to form an alliance preserving their
neutrality. But here, too, meeting with a repulse, he was forced to put
his whole army in the field and enter the struggle alone. His real
feelings on the subject are evident from his parting words to Prince
Frederick Charles after war had been declared and the march of troops
into the enemy’s country had begun:

“I am an old man to be making war again, and well know that I must
answer for it to God and to my conscience. Yet I can truthfully declare
that I have done all in my power to avert it. I have made every
concession to the Emperor that is consistent with the honor of Prussia,
but Austria is bent on our humiliation and nothing short of war will
satisfy her.”

Thus with a firm faith in God’s help and the righteousness of his cause
the aged monarch placed himself at the head of his army, resolved to
perish with it rather than yield in this vital question. Nor did he
trust in vain. By forced marches Generals Vogel von Falkenstein and von
Manteuffel invaded northern Germany, took possession of Hanover, and
forced King George, after a gallant resistance at Langensalza, to
capitulate, abdicate his throne, and abandon the country permanently.
The main army, divided into three parts, commanded respectively by the
Crown Prince, Prince Frederick Charles, and General Herwarth von
Bittenfeld, speedily overran the enemy’s country, and before the King
had left for the seat of war he was informed by telegraph of the
victories of Skalitz and Münchengrätz, of Nachod and Trautenau. The
first decisive results had been accomplished by the Crown Prince, and on
the morning of June 29 the King joyfully shouted to the people from the
open window of the palace: “My son has won a victory—good news from all
quarters! All is well—my brave army!” The next day he left Berlin, and
on July 2 reached Gitschin in Bohemia, where he was welcomed with joy by
Prince Frederick Charles and his victorious troops. On the following day
occurred one of the most famous battles of history—that of Königgrätz.

The King had just lain down to rest the previous night on the plain iron
camp cot that accompanied him everywhere, when Lieutenant General von
Voigts-Rhetz reached Gitschin with the news that the Austrians were
stationed between the Prussian army and the Elbe. King William at once
summoned his great strategist, General von Moltke, and Adjutant Count
von Finkenstein was hastily despatched to the Crown Prince with orders
to bring up his army, which was then in the mountains of Silesia. The
guns were already booming from the neighboring heights and the smoke of
battle beginning to fill the valleys like a mist when the King mounted
his favorite mare Sadowa at the little village of Kleinitz, early on the
morning of July 3, and dashed into the thick of the fray. The fire was
so sharp that his staff, large enough to have been easily taken for a
regiment of cavalry, was forced to scatter, but finally reached a
position on the Roscoberg, where Count Finkenstein soon appeared with
word that the Crown Prince was already on the march. Hour after hour
passed, however, and nothing was to be seen of him. The issue was
critical, and King William’s anxiety grew more and more intense, until
at last, about two o’clock in the afternoon, the guns of the Crown
Prince were heard in the enemy’s rear and the day was won. The Austrians
were soon in full flight and were pursued as far as the Elbe by the
victorious foe.

Soon after the Crown Prince’s arrival the King left the Roscoberg and,
followed by his staff, rode down into the battle-field, urging the men
to fresh valor by his inspiring presence, and disregard of danger from
the enemy’s fire. None of his escort dared remonstrate with him, until
at length the faithful Bismarck summoned courage and, riding up beside
the King, begged him not to place his life in such jeopardy. Kindly but
earnestly he answered: “You have done right, my friend. But when these
brave fellows are under fire, the King’s place is with them. How can I
retire?”

The results of this splendid victory were decisive, but the chief glory
rests with the Crown Prince, whose troops after a long and exhausting
march arrived just in time to save the day. It was a touching moment
when the father and son met upon the field of battle, and all eyes were
wet as the King, embracing Prince Frederick with fatherly pride, pinned
on his breast the Order of Merit. The crushing defeat of Königgrätz
effectually broke the enemy’s resistance, and the Prussians had advanced
almost within sight of Vienna when the announcement of a truce put an
end to hostilities.

In southern Germany the army of the Main under General Vogel von
Falkenstein had also ended the struggle by a series of successful
engagements, and on August 23 a treaty of peace was signed at Prague, by
which Austria agreed to withdraw from the German Confederation; and
Schleswig-Holstein, Hanover, electoral Hesse, Nassau, and the free city
of Frankfort-on-the-Main were permanently incorporated with Prussia.
Thus were King William’s labors at last crowned with success. Alone and
almost without a friend in Germany he had gone forth to battle against a
powerful enemy, and victory had been his. Beyond the Alps, however, he
had found a friend in need in King Victor Emmanuel of Italy, who had
aided him by attacking Austria at the same time from the south, thus
dividing her forces. Covered with laurels, the victorious troops
returned, meeting with ovations everywhere, but especially in Berlin.
The whole city was _en fête_ to welcome them. Triumphal arches were
erected. Countless wreaths, banners, and garlands of flowers decorated
the streets. Strains of music, pealing of bells, thunder of cannon
proclaimed the arrival of the army, as it entered the city gates, headed
by the heroic monarch and greeted with tumultuous shouts by the
populace. An altar had been erected in the Lustgarten, where a praise
service was held, the troops and people joining in singing “Ein’ feste
Burg ist unser Gott.” The eleventh of November was appointed as a day of
general thanksgiving throughout the country, and trees were planted
everywhere in commemoration of the joyful occasion.

The results of this war did even more than those of the preceding one
with Denmark to prove the wisdom of the King’s position in regard to the
army, besides the large increase of territory it brought to Prussia. By
far the most important issue of the campaign, however, was the
establishment of the North German Confederation and the conclusion of an
offensive and defensive alliance between this and the South German
States, by which both agreed to respect the inviolability of each
other’s territory and bound themselves in time of war to place their
whole military force at the other’s disposal, the chief command of the
united armies to be intrusted in such case to King William of Prussia.
Thus did our august hero advance slowly but surely toward the
realization of his hopes and aims, and visions of a restoration of the
glories of the ancient holy German Empire already thrilled the hearts of
patriots with a promise of the final fulfilment of their long-cherished
dreams, as the King in his magnificent speech before the Imperial Diet
on February 24, 1867, painted in glowing terms the future of a united
Fatherland. Even the Prussian House of Deputies were weary of the long
contention, and in the face of the universal recognition and admiration
awarded their sovereign’s achievements, it abandoned its opposition to
the government, and the King’s courage and perseverance were at last
rewarded.




                              Chapter VII
                        The Franco-Prussian War


The period immediately following the Austro-Prussian War was a
comparatively peaceful one, but the gradual increase of national
strength and power in Germany had long since aroused the jealousy of
France, and there was little hope of bringing about the unification of
the country until the opposition of this hereditary enemy had been ended
by a final and decisive struggle. And for this France herself soon
furnished a pretext, though without any just cause.

The throne which Napoleon Third had seized by force was weak and
crumbling, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that he was able
to keep up an appearance of the magnificence for which his court had
been famous. Nor was it founded on patriotism and love of liberty, those
firm supports of sovereignty; on the contrary, the present occupant of
the throne of France had aroused much dislike and condemnation among his
subjects, and not without cause. Public dissatisfaction throughout the
country increased daily, and the Emperor, alarmed for the future,
determined at length that the only resource left him was to occupy the
attention of the people by a great war, and give them something else to
think of. Should it prove successful, his sinking star would doubtless
rise once more to dazzling heights, while if defeated, no worse fate
could overtake him than that which now threatened. As to whom the war
should involve in order to make the strongest appeal to the sentiments
and prejudices of the French, there could be no doubt, for from the
earliest times there has been no nation so hated by them as Germany.
Ever since the battle of Königgrätz King William and his ministers had
felt sure that France would not view Prussia’s increase of power without
a protest, though they had been careful to avoid giving her any pretext
for making trouble. But there is an English saying, “Where there is a
will there is a way,” the truth of which was proved by the French.

After the revolution which had deposed Queen Isabella the Spaniards were
looking about for a King, and of the many candidates who offered
themselves their choice fell on Prince Leopold of Hohenzollern. This was
cause enough for grievance on the part of France, and King William, as
head of the house of Hohenzollern, was requested through the French
ambassador Benedetti to forbid his kinsman’s acceptance of the Spanish
crown. To this our hero replied by refusing to put any constraint on the
Prince’s decision; but Leopold, finding that his acquiescence in the
wishes of Spain was likely to cause serious complications between France
and Prussia, voluntarily withdrew his candidacy, thus, it would seem,
removing any cause for trouble between the two powers. France, however,
whose chief desire was to humiliate Prussia, had no intention of
allowing this opportunity to slip through her fingers. Benedetti was
ordered to obtain from King William, who was then staying at Ems, a
written declaration that he regretted the annoyance this matter had
caused Napoleon and would never again permit Prince Leopold to be a
candidate for the throne of Spain.

The King’s behavior on receipt of this insulting demand was worthy of so
great a sovereign. Calmly turning his back on the obtrusive Benedetti,
he refused to have anything more to say to him and referred him to the
ministry in Berlin for further discussion of the subject. This was on
the thirteenth of July, 1870, and a stone now marks the spot on the
promenade at Ems where this brief conference took place.

War was declared on the following day in Paris, and King William
responded by issuing an order for the immediate mobilization of the
entire army. The news was hailed with joy throughout the country.
Napoleon had already brought about the very thing he most wished to
prevent—the unification of all the German-speaking peoples. The whole
nation rose in indignation at the insult that had been offered to the
aged King, and his return to Berlin was like a triumphal progress.
Everywhere crowds assembled to greet him, eager to express their
admiration of the dignified way in which he had met the insolence and
presumption of France. His appearance in the capital was hailed with
wildest enthusiasm by his loyal subjects, and, deeply moved by their
devotion, the King turned to his companions, saying: “This is as it was
in 1813!” What most gratified him, however, was the despatch that
promptly arrived from South Germany, which, but a short time since in
arms against Prussia, now that a common enemy threatened the Fatherland,
hastened to enroll her whole forces under the banner of the
commander-in-chief. Little did France know the people or the spirit of
Germany when she counted on the support of the South German States,
expecting them to hail her with joy as their deliverer from the yoke of
Prussia! Events now crowded fast on one another, yet there was little
commotion in the country. Thanks to King William’s splendid
organization, even this sudden mobilization of the whole army proceeded
quietly and steadily, as if it were no more than the execution of some
long-prepared-for manœuvre,—a state of things that served to calm and
encourage both army and people. The German forces were divided into
three great armies: the first, commanded by General von Steinmetz,
stationed along the Moselle; the second, under Prince Frederick Charles,
at the Rhine Palatinate; while the third, consisting chiefly of the
South German troops under the Crown Prince, occupied the upper Rhine
country.

                   [Illustration: _The Two Emperors_]

The King left Berlin July 31 to take command of the united forces. At
half-past five in the afternoon the iron gates of the side entrance to
the palace were flung open and the King and Queen drove out in an open
carriage drawn by two horses. A roar of welcome greeted the vigorous old
hero, who in military cloak and cap sat bowing acknowledgment to the
rousing cheers of his enthusiastic subjects, while the Queen at his side
seemed deeply affected. The royal carriage could scarcely make its way
through the weeping and rejoicing throngs that swarmed about it all the
way to the railway station, eager to bid farewell to their beloved
sovereign and wish him a happy return. Banners floated from the roofs of
houses and handkerchiefs fluttered from open windows,—a scene which was
only typical of the feeling that pervaded the whole land. At the station
the King’s companions were already awaiting him, his brother Prince
Charles, General of Ordnance, and that great trio who had so ably
assisted him in the previous war, Bismarck, von Moltke, and Minister of
War van Roon, surrounded by a group of other generals. After the Queen
had departed, King William entered the waiting train and moved off
westward toward the seat of war, followed by the unanimous shout “With
God!”

And truly God was “with King and Fatherland,” for in seemingly endless
succession the telegraph brought news to the astonished people of one
great victory after another. The French were wildly enthusiastic when
with two entire army corps they finally forced a single Prussian
battalion of infantry and three squadrons of uhlans to retreat after the
latter had held out for fourteen days, and then with more than twenty
guns bombarded the unprotected town of Saarbrücken; but it was to be
their only occasion for rejoicing.

On the fourth of August Queen Augusta received the following message:

  “A splendid but bloody victory won by Fritz at the storming of
  Weissenberg. God be praised for this first glorious achievement.”

The news quickly spread throughout the country, bringing joy and renewed
confidence to all hearts. Two days later word came of a second victory
for the Crown Prince. He had completely defeated the great Marshal
MacMahon at Wörth, August 6, and King William in his despatch to his
wife might with just pride send word to Berlin that “it should be in
love with Victoria!”

A series of engagements followed, in the neighborhood of Metz, on the
fourteenth, sixteenth, and eighteenth of August, which changed the
general plans of the German army. The French Marshal Bazaine had
attempted to invade the enemy’s territory from that place, but without
success, while MacMahon, who had advanced from Châlons to the borders of
the Palatinate and Baden, had suffered such losses at Weissenberg and
Wörth that he was forced to fall back to his former position. It was
therefore decided that the two French armies should unite in the
neighborhood of Châlons and, thus strengthened, offer battle to the
enemy. To prevent this, the Germans at once attacked Bazaine, cutting
off his retreat to Châlons and occupying him until the arrival of some
of their delayed corps. The manœuvre was successful, and after two days
of hard fighting at Courcelles on the fourteenth, and Mars la Tour on
the sixteenth, the struggle culminated two days later in the great
battle of Gravelotte. It was for life or death; the desperate struggle
of a brave army—the best, perhaps, that France ever sent into the field.
But all in vain. Closer and closer about them drew the iron ring. German
courage and tenacity permitted no escape.

At nine o’clock that evening King William sent his wife this despatch
from the camp at Rezonville:

  “The French army attacked to-day in strong position west of Metz.
  Completely defeated in nine hours’ battle, cut off from communication
  with Paris, and driven back towards Metz.

                                                              “William.”

In the letter that followed he says:

  “It was half-past eight in the evening before the firing ceased....
  Our troops accomplished wonders of bravery against an equally gallant
  enemy who disputed every step. I have not dared to ask what our losses
  are. I would have camped here, but after several hours found a room
  where I could rest. We brought no baggage from Pont-à-Mousson, so I
  have not had my clothes off for thirty hours. Thank God for our
  victory!”




                              Chapter VIII
                                 Sedan


Bazaine was now shut up in Metz and closely surrounded by the first,
seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth corps, under the command of Prince
Frederick Charles; MacMahon’s diminished army had retreated to Châlons,
where it was met by the Garde Mobile. Except for this the road to Paris
was open. It was therefore determined by the Germans to mass all their
available forces and advance upon the capital without delay. It was
fully expected at headquarters that MacMahon would dispute their way and
that another battle must first be fought in the neighborhood of Châlons.
Great was the surprise, therefore, when news was brought by scouts that
the enemy had abandoned this important post and retired northward. This
was inexplicable. Why not have gone to the westward in the direction of
Paris? The commander-in-chief was not easily deceived, however, and as
for Moltke, one must indeed rise betimes to get the better of him in
strategy. MacMahon’s purpose soon became apparent. By a wide circuit
from Châlons northeast to the Belgian frontier, and then southward
again, he hoped to annihilate the besieging forces at Metz, release
Bazaine, and thus reinforced to attack the rear of the army that was
advancing on Paris,—a fine plan, but not fine enough to succeed against
King William and his generals. A flank movement by the combined German
forces to the right was ordered and a series of forced marches made to
intercept MacMahon before he could reach Metz. It was a bold and
exciting chase, led by the Crown Prince, Frederick William.

The French struggled desperately to gain their end, but all in vain; on
the first of September they found themselves completely surrounded at
Sedan, a fortress on the Belgian frontier, and forced to a decisive
battle. King William himself was in command, and what a battle it was!
Prussians, Bavarians, Würtembergers, Saxons vied with one another in
deeds of daring and contempt of death against an enemy who, with the
courage of despair, accomplished marvels of valor; yet when the day was
ended MacMahon’s army had surrendered, and with it the author of all the
trouble,—Napoleon himself.

Great were the rejoicings over this victory! King William and his
gallant son were hailed on all sides with the wildest enthusiasm, their
praises sounded far and wide. The Crown Prince and his cousin Prince
Frederick Charles were rewarded for their services to the Fatherland by
being made field marshals immediately after the fall of Metz, an event
that had never before occurred in the history of the house of
Hohenzollern.

The first telegram sent by the King to the Queen after this latest
victory ran as follows:

  “Before Sedan, September 2, 2.30 P.M.: The capitulation of the entire
  army in Sedan has just been arranged with General Wimpffen commanding
  in place of MacMahon, who was wounded. The Emperor only surrendered
  himself to me personally, since he is not in command, and has left
  everything to the Regency in Paris. I will decide on his place of
  residence after the interview which I am to have with him at once.
  What a fortunate turn of affairs has been vouchsafed by Providence!”

On the third of September this despatch was followed by a letter, from
which we quote:

                                          “Vendresse, September 3, 1870.

  “By this time you have learned from my telegram the extent of the
  great historical event that has just happened. It is like a dream,
  even though one has seen it unroll itself hour by hour.”

Then follows a brief and concise description of the battle and its
results:

  “On the night of the thirty-first the army took up its prearranged
  positions about Sedan, and early in the morning firing began in spite
  of a dense fog. When I arrived at the front about eight o’clock, the
  large batteries had already opened fire on the fortifications, and a
  hot fight soon developed at all points, lasting almost the entire day,
  during which our side gained ground. A number of deep wooded defiles
  hindered the advance of the infantry and favored the defence, but
  village after village was captured and a circle of fire gradually
  closed in about Sedan. It was a magnificent sight from our position on
  a height behind one of the batteries.

  “At last the enemy’s resistance began to weaken, as we could perceive
  from the broken battalions that were driven back from the woods and
  villages. Gradually their retreat was turned into a flight in many
  places, infantry, cavalry, and artillery all crowding together into
  the town and its environments; but as they gave no intimation of
  relieving their desperate situation by surrendering, there was nothing
  left for us but to bombard the town. After twenty minutes it was
  burning in several places, and with the flaming villages all about the
  field of battle the spectacle was a terrible one. I therefore had the
  firing slackened and sent Lieutenant von Bronsart of the general staff
  with a flag of truce to demand the surrender of the army and citadel.
  On inquiring for the commander-in-chief, he was unexpectedly taken
  before the Emperor, who had a letter he wished delivered to me. The
  Emperor asked his errand, and on learning it replied that he should
  have to refer him to General von Wimpffen, who had assumed command
  after MacMahon was wounded, and that he would send his Adjutant
  General Reille with the letter to me. It was seven o’clock when the
  two officers arrived; Bronsart was a little in advance, and from him
  we first learned with certainty that the Emperor was in Sedan. You can
  imagine the sensation this news caused! Reille then sprang from his
  horse and delivered to me his Emperor’s letter, adding that he had no
  other commission. It began as follows: ‘Not having been able to die at
  the head of my troops, it only remains for me to place my sword in the
  hands of Your Majesty.’ All other details were left to me.

  “My answer was that I regretted the manner of our meeting and
  requested him to appoint a commission to arrange for a capitulation.
  After I had handed my letter to General Reille, I spoke a few words
  with him as an old acquaintance, and he took his departure. On my side
  I named Moltke with Bismarck to fall back upon in case any political
  questions should arise, then rode to my carriage and came here,
  greeted everywhere with thundering shouts by the marching troops that
  filled the streets, cheering and singing folk-songs. It was most
  thrilling! Many carried lighted candles, so that at times it was like
  being escorted by an improvised torchlight procession. I arrived here
  about eleven o’clock and drank with my staff to the army which had
  achieved such glorious results. The next morning, as I had heard
  nothing from Moltke of the negotiations which were to take place at
  Donchery, I drove as agreed to the battle-field about eight o’clock
  and met Moltke, who was coming to obtain my consent to the proposed
  surrender. He told me that the Emperor had left Sedan as early as five
  o’clock and had come to Donchery. As he wished to speak to me and
  there was a small _château_ in the neighborhood, I chose this for our
  meeting.

  “At ten o’clock I arrived on the heights before Sedan; at twelve
  Moltke and Bismarck appeared with the signed articles of capitulation,
  and at one I started, without Fritz, escorted by the cavalry staff. I
  alighted before the _château_, where the Emperor met me. The interview
  lasted a quarter of an hour; we were both much moved at meeting again
  under such circumstances. What my feelings were, after having seen
  Napoleon only three years before at the summit of his power, I cannot
  describe. [King William had been in Paris in 1867 on the occasion of
  the World’s Exposition there.]

  “After this interview I reviewed all the troops before Sedan; their
  welcome to me, the sight of their ranks so terribly thinned—all of
  this I cannot write of to-day. I was deeply touched by so many proofs
  of loyalty and devotion, and it is with a full heart that I close this
  long letter. Farewell.”

“_Hurrah! du grosse Zeit!_” It was indeed a glorious but also a solemn
and heart-stirring time. Men, women, and children of all classes stood
breathlessly about the public bulletin-boards, and when the news of
Sedan was received, an irrepressible storm of enthusiasm swept over the
country, even to the remotest solitudes. Men whose hearts had long been
hardened by the cares and troubles of life burst into tears of joy; the
hands of enemies were clasped in reconciliation, and mothers rejoiced
that their sons had been so fortunate as to take part in this great
event. Napoleon a captive at Wilhelmshöhe in Cassel, MacMahon’s army
prisoners of war in Germany, Marshal Bazaine shut up in Metz, and
France, imperial France, prostrated at the feet of the foe she had so
wantonly injured! But King William had said to Count Bismarck after the
capture of Sedan, “Great and glorious as is this victory, it will not
bring us peace as yet”; and he was right. It is true that with
Napoleon’s surrender and the subsequent flight from Paris of the Empress
Eugénie, who had been appointed regent, the Empire fell, but hard on its
heels followed the Republic, the “Government for the National Defence,”
headed by General Trochu as Governor of Paris, the most important
members of which were Jules Favre and Gambetta. In what spirit these men
undertook to conduct the government is evident from a circular letter to
the French ambassadors in foreign courts which was full of lies and
calumnies of over-weaning pride and self-deception. Had they really
wanted peace, they might have easily availed themselves of the
opportunity offered by the ensuing negotiations for a truce. But
unwilling to own herself defeated, France would only agree to peace on
terms which were impossible for King William, as guardian of Germany’s
honor, to accept. This high-sounding letter, therefore, had no more
influence with Germany than with the other powers, and the war pursued
its bloody course.

All the available forces of Germany now advanced on Paris, and soon the
great city was completely invested. Attempt after attempt was made by
the new Republic to place new armies in the field. The imprisoned forces
in Paris, Metz, and Strassburg harassed and struggled against the
encircling enemy, but all in vain. Battle after battle was won by the
invincible Germans. Orleans, Coulmiers, Armiens, Le Mans, St. Quentin,
La Bourget, Belfort, and many others testified to their valor. Fortress
after fortress capitulated,—Strassburg, Toul, Metz, and finally Paris,
after a terrific bombardment. In the midst of all these conquests,
however, a great and solemn act was quietly consummated,—the fulfilment
of the dream of thousands of patriots, the restoration of the glories of
the old Empire in the final unification of Germany. In the palace of
Louis Fourteenth, that Prince whose whole aim and endeavor had been to
bring about the destruction and humiliation of Germany, King William
First of Prussia was proclaimed German Emperor January 18, 1871, the
same day on which, one hundred and seventy years before, his ancestor,
the Elector Frederick Third of Brandenburg, had been crowned King of
Prussia. The grand salon of Versailles was chosen as the scene of the
ceremony, and amid all the splendor that had surrounded the Kings of
France a modest altar was erected, covered with red velvet and adorned
with two lighted golden candelabra. Before it stood a Prussian divine in
his plain black robes, and on either side troops were stationed,
consisting of men chosen from each of the regiments encamped about
Paris. The banners of these regiments, each supported by a
non-commissioned officer, were placed on a dais at the end of the hall,
in which about six hundred officers were assembled, their gay and varied
uniforms making a brilliant scene.

Just at noon the King entered with the Crown Prince, followed by a train
of royal and noble guests, and took his place before the altar, Bismarck
and von Moltke standing near by. The service opened with the chorale,
“Praise the Lord, all the World,” sung by a chorus of soldiers with
trombone accompaniment; then the liturgy, followed by another hymn, and
a sermon by Rogge, the court chaplain from Potsdam, from the
twenty-first Psalm, concluding with an exultant “Now all thank God.”

The King then rose and, followed by all the princes and Count Bismarck,
walked over to the dais where the standard-bearers stood, and halted at
the edge of the platform, the Crown Prince on his right, to the left the
Chancellor of the Confederacy, the princes ranging themselves behind the
King. In a voice shaken by emotion the aged monarch declared his
acceptance of the imperial throne that had been offered him by the
unanimous voice of the princes of Germany and the free imperial cities
and representatives of the North German Confederation. Count Bismarck
then read aloud a proclamation prepared by the King for this occasion,
which ran as follows:

  “To the People of Germany:

  “We, William, by God’s grace King of Prussia, hereby announce that the
  German princes and Free Towns having addressed to us a unanimous call
  to renew and undertake, with the reëstablishment of the German Empire,
  the dignity of Emperor, which now for sixty years has been in
  abeyance, and the requisite provisions having been inserted in the
  constitution of the German Confederation, we regard it as a duty we
  owe to the entire Fatherland to comply with this call and to accept
  the dignity of Emperor.

  “Accordingly, we and our successors to the crown of Prussia henceforth
  shall use the imperial title in all our relations and affairs of the
  German Empire; and we hope under God it may be vouchsafed to the
  German nation to lead the Fatherland on to a blessed future under the
  auspices of its ancient splendor. We undertake the imperial dignity,
  conscious of the duty to protect, with German loyalty, the rights of
  the Empire and its members, to preserve peace, to maintain the
  independence of Germany, and to strengthen the power of the people. We
  accept it in the hope that it will be granted to the German people to
  enjoy in lasting peace the reward of its arduous and heroic struggles
  within boundaries which will give to the Fatherland that security
  against renewed French attacks which it has lacked for centuries.

  “May God grant to us and our successors to the imperial crown, that we
  may be the defenders of the German Empire at all times, not in martial
  conquests, but in works of peace in the sphere of natural prosperity,
  freedom, and civilization.

  “Given at Headquarters, Versailles, the eighteenth of January, 1871.

                                                              “William.”

After the reading of this proclamation the Grand Duke of Baden stepped
forward and cried in a loud voice, “Long live King William, the German
Emperor!” and an exultant shout burst from the great assembly. Tears
rolled down the cheeks of the aged sovereign and his stately form was
visibly shaken with emotion. The Crown Prince was the first to do homage
to the newly made Emperor by kissing his hand, but the father clasped
his son in his arms and kissed him repeatedly. He also embraced his
brother Charles and his cousin, Admiral Adalbert, his brother-in-law,
the Grand Duke of Weimar, and his son-in-law the Grand Duke of Baden,
after which he was saluted in turn by the other princes and the rest of
the assemblage, for each of whom he had a kindly word. As the Emperor
departed from the royal palace of the Bourbons the banner of the
Hohenzollerns was lowered and the German Imperial ensign floated out
upon the breeze. Thus was this great act consummated amid the thunder of
guns that shook the capital of France and woke so mighty an echo in the
heart of the Fatherland.

The war was continued for a time, but after the destruction of the
armies of the Loire and of the north the guns about Paris were silent,
and on January 29, 1871, the Emperor sent the following telegram to his
wife from Versailles:

  “Last night a three weeks’ truce was signed. All troops in Paris are
  prisoners of war. The Provisional Government guarantees to maintain
  order. We occupy all forts. Paris remains in a state of siege and must
  provide for itself. All arms to be surrendered. A Constituent Assembly
  will be elected to meet at Bordeaux in fourteen days. This is the
  reward of our people for their patriotism, their sacrifices and heroic
  courage. I thank God for all His mercies. May peace soon follow!”

The Emperor’s prayer was soon to be granted, for on the twenty-fifth of
February the Empress received the following message:

  “With a glad and thankful heart I am able to inform you that the
  preliminaries of peace have just been arranged. Now there is only the
  consent of the National Assembly at Bordeaux to be obtained.

                                                              “William.”

In a letter dated March 2, 1871, he writes:

  “I have just ratified the treaty of peace. Thus far the great work is
  finished which seven months of victorious warfare has made possible,
  thanks to the bravery and endurance of the army in all its branches
  and the willing sacrifices of the Fatherland. The Lord of Hosts has
  blessed our undertaking and led to this honorable peace. To Him be the
  glory! To the army and the Fatherland my deepest and most heart-felt
  thanks!”

It was indeed an honorable peace, won by a series of victories
unparalleled in the world’s history. Alsace and Lorraine, formerly torn
by France from Germany when enfeebled by internal warfare, were restored
to her, Strassburg once more mirrored her cathedral spires in the waters
of a German Rhine, and five milliards of francs were also to be paid by
France as indemnity for the expenses of the war.

On the sixteenth of June the victorious troops made their entry into
Berlin amid celebrations even more imposing than those of 1866. The
whole length of the Sieges strasse, through which the troops passed, a
distance of almost a mile, was bordered with cannon captured from the
French, while non-commissioned officers from each regiment, decorated
with the Iron Cross, carried eighty-one French eagles and standards. A
continuous ovation greeted the Emperor, his generals, and the troops all
along the line of march. The celebration of the victory found a fitting
climax in the unveiling of the monument to Frederick William Third in
the Lustgarten, at the foot of which his son could lay the trophies of a
glorious and successful war, and as the head of a newly restored and
powerful German Empire consecrate the fulfilment of his trust.




                               Chapter IX
                             Army Anecdotes


Innumerable anecdotes are told of the personal relations between the
Emperor William and his soldiers, a few of which may be given as helping
to throw light on the portrait of this great yet kindly sovereign.

After the battle of Mars-la-Tour, the country all about was strewn with
dead and wounded soldiers. It was only with the greatest difficulty that
a small room was found for the King’s use, containing a bed, a table,
and a chair. As he entered it he asked:

“Where are Bismarck and Moltke lodged?”

“Nowhere as yet,” replied the adjutant, well knowing how needful rest
was to them also.

“Then ask them to come and camp here with me,” said the King. “You may
take away the bed—it will be needed by the wounded—and have some straw
and blankets brought here; they will do very well for us.”

And so it chanced that the three old comrades spent a rainy night
together on the straw; nor was it the only time during this hard and
cruel war.

                            * * * * * * * *

The day after the victory of Gravelotte, as King William was returning
to Pont-à-Mousson, he passed through the village of Gorze. The
Commander-in-chief was greeted everywhere with the wildest enthusiasm,
even by the wounded, with whom the little town was filled. Among the
latter was Captain von Zedtwitz. He was lodged with an old soldier
Antoine, who had lost a leg at Magenta and who with his little daughter
nursed and cared for the desperately wounded officer as well as he was
able. When the captain heard the shouts outside, and learned that King
William was passing through Gorze, he insisted on sending a greeting to
his sovereign likewise. He asked one of the musicians to deliver to the
Commander-in-chief a pure white rose with the message: “A wounded
officer who can scarcely live through another day, sends this rose to
Your Majesty, in memory of Gravelotte!” The King bade his coachman stop.
Deeply moved, he took the rose and fastened it in his buttonhole. Then,
after asking the name of the thoughtful donor and sending his hearty
thanks with wishes for a speedy recovery, went on his way. After a long
and tedious illness the captain finally recovered, but was no longer fit
for active service. In recognition of his services to the Fatherland he
was given the position of district commander in Halberstadt. He had long
since forgotten the rose of Gorze, but the Emperor had a good memory
where his faithful soldiers were concerned, as Captain von Zedtwitz was
to discover. On Christmas Day, 1871, he received a box containing a
magnificent oil painting depicting a monument on which were inscribed
the words “Gorze, August 19, 1870.” A German flag half covered the
monument, at the foot of which was an infantry helmet decorated with an
Iron Cross and encircled by a laurel leaf. At the top of the heavy gold
frame gleamed a massive silver rose. Accompanying this gift was the
following note in the Emperor’s own handwriting:

  “In grateful remembrance of that never-to-be-forgotten day in Gorze
  when you, desperately wounded, sent me a rose from your couch of pain
  as I, unknowing, was passing by. May the accompanying picture serve as
  a lasting token of your devotion to your sovereign and his gratitude
  to you. Christmas, 1871.

                                                          “William I. R.

  “December 22, 1871.”

                            * * * * * * * *

After the battle of Sedan the King’s headquarters were at Clermont, with
a regiment of Bavarian cavalry in guard. The men had had a long, hard
march in the rain that day, and their commanding officer, feeling ill,
despatched his orderly in search of some wine. It was forbidden to ask
for supplies at headquarters, so the colonel gave him a thaler and
charged him to buy it somewhere. On reaching the marketplace the trooper
discovered a large tavern, before the door of which stood two Prussian
staff orderlies who, as he approached, motioned him to pass on. With the
thaler in his hand, however, the Bavarian felt himself as good as any
one, so he marched boldly up to the door of the inn and knocked loudly.
For some time there was no response, but at length it was opened by an
elderly officer, who asked him what he wanted.

“My colonel is sick and must have a flask of wine,” replied the orderly.

“In just a moment, my son!” said the old man with a kindly smile, and
disappeared within the house, but soon returned with a flask which he
handed to the other, saying, “Here is what your colonel needs. I hope it
will do him good.”

The Bavarian took the wine in his left hand, still grasping the thaler
in his right. What should he do? He was not allowed to accept anything
without paying for it, neither could he offer money to an officer. At
length the old man, perceiving his embarrassment, inquired whether his
colonel had given him any other commission. Whereupon the honest fellow
explained his difficulty, at the same time attempting to thrust the
thaler into the old man’s hand. But the latter only waved him away,
saying:

“Never mind that, my good man, but hurry back to your colonel with the
wine, and say the King of Prussia sends it to him with wishes for a
speedy recovery.”

“The King of Prussia!” repeated the Bavarian in bewilderment. “Where is
the King of Prussia, then?”

“I am he,” replied the old man, and shut the door.

The colonel was anxiously waiting his orderly’s return, but looked very
grave when he laid the thaler on the table beside the flask.

“You fool!” he cried angrily, “did I not tell you not to make any
requisition?”

“But I did not, sir,” replied the fellow with a grin. “There was an old
man at the tavern who said he was the King of Prussia; he gave me the
flask and wished you a quick recovery.”

“What is that!” cried the colonel in great excitement. “From the King of
Prussia, did you say?” and he gazed with astonishment at the good
monarch’s gift. With awe he lifted the first glass to his thirsty lips,
thinking to himself, “This is from the King of Prussia,” but as the last
drop disappeared he shouted aloud in a burst of enthusiasm, “Long live
King William!”

                            * * * * * * * *

One day during the siege of Paris, as the King was visiting the
outposts, he discovered a fusileer deeply absorbed in a letter, his
weapon on the ground at his feet and apparently quite oblivious to his
duties. Roused by the sound of hoofs and recognizing his
commander-in-chief, he hastily dropped the letter, took up his gun, and
presented arms. The King rode up to him and said, smiling:

“A letter from the sweetheart at home, no doubt, my son!”

“No, sire,” replied the terrified soldier; “it is from my mother.”

Somewhat doubtful of the truth of these words, the King looked sternly
at him and asked to see it.

“Certainly, Your Majesty,” replied the soldier, and quickly picking up
the letter he handed it to his chief. The King read it through, glanced
kindly at the fusileer, and told his adjutant to take the man’s name,
then rode on. The letter _was_ from the man’s mother, telling of his
sister’s approaching marriage and the sorrow of all there that he could
not be present.

The next day the fusileer was ordered to appear before his captain, and
he obeyed the summons with an anxious heart, thinking to himself, “Now I
am undone! This means at least eight days’ arrest for neglect of duty.”
Great was his surprise, therefore, when the captain informed him that by
the King’s orders he had been granted fourteen days’ leave to attend his
sister’s wedding, and that free transportation there and back would be
furnished him. The overjoyed soldier was soon on the train bound for his
distant home, where a joyous welcome waited his unexpected arrival. When
the wedding guests heard the story of the letter, they all clinked
glasses joyfully and drank to the King’s health with a rousing cheer.

                            * * * * * * * *

A grenadier of the First Regiment of Guards was also one of the
gardeners at Babelsberg. The Emperor arriving there unexpectedly one
day, this man was sent to accompany him about the park to point out the
various improvements. The Emperor was much pleased with his intelligent
conversation, but presently noticed that he began to be very uneasy and
even looked at the time, which was not considered proper in the presence
of the sovereign.

“What is the matter, young man?” he asked.

“Well, Your Majesty,” replied the other, “this is my first year of
volunteer service, in the First Regiment of Guards, and my captain is
very strict. I am due at the barracks in three-quarters of an hour, and
it is impossible for me to get there now except with the utmost haste. I
shall be late unless Your Majesty will be so gracious as to release me.”

Much pleased with his gardener’s punctuality, the Emperor sent him to
don his uniform with all speed and ordered his carriage to be brought
around immediately. Then motioning to the grenadier to take the seat
beside him, they set off for the town with a gallop. The company was
already in line as the carriage drew up at the barracks, but the Emperor
spoke to the captain in person, explaining that it was his fault that
the man was late and asking that he should not be punished.

                            * * * * * * * *

Still another instance of King William’s unfailing kindness and
consideration to all classes is shown in the following incident. At a
grand review held on the field of Tempelhof, the Emperor’s sharp eyes
suddenly discovered a sergeant-major who could scarcely stand upright
and whose deathly pallor betrayed either serious illness or some violent
emotion. He rode up at once to the man and asked what ailed him.

“It is nothing, Your Majesty, I am better already,” was the answer; but
the tears in the eyes of the bearded soldier belied his words. The
Emperor’s gaze rested on his pale face with fatherly kindness and he
said encouragingly,

“Do not try to conceal anything from me, sergeant; you too wear the Iron
Cross, so we are brothers in arms, and comrades should have no secrets
from each other.”

Unable to resist this exhortation, the sergeant responded,

“Alas, Your Majesty, just now as we were marching out here, my only
child, a promising boy of six, was run over by a wagon, and I do not
know what has become of him.”

The Emperor immediately sent an adjutant to appropriate one of the
near-by conveyances occupied by spectators for the use of the sergeant,
whom he excused for the rest of the day, and the anxious father with
tears of gratitude in his eyes hastened home to his family.

                            * * * * * * * *

A touching trait of the Emperor’s character is shown in his habit of
making the rounds of the hospitals in time of war to assure himself
personally that his wounded subjects were receiving the necessary care,
and cheer them with a kindly word of encouragement or some slight gift.
In the bloody year of 1866 the Woman’s Aid Society built a private
hospital in Berlin, which King William frequently honored with his
presence. Among the patients was a musketeer who had lost his left arm.

“Your Majesty,” said this man one day to the King, “I am twenty-four
years old to-day. To have had the happiness of seeing the King on my
birthday—I shall never forget it, sire!”

“Nor shall I, my brave fellow,” replied the King, giving his hand to the
soldier, who kissed it with deep emotion. The King passed on from bed to
bed, but just as he was about to leave he said to his suite, “I must see
that man again whose birthday it is,” and returning to the musketeer’s
cot he talked with him for some time. That night, after the invalid was
asleep and dreaming of his sovereign, one of the royal huntsmen appeared
with a gold watch and chain, sent by the King as a remembrance of the
day. The lucky man was often asked where he got this fine watch.

“Guess!” he would always say, and after the inquisitive questioner had
tried in vain to solve the riddle, he would shout with a beaming face:
“It is from my King, my good King William!”

                            * * * * * * * *

Once while the King was visiting the hospital at Versailles with the
Crown Prince and several of his generals, they came to the cot of a
Silesian militiaman who had had his right leg amputated and been shot in
the right shoulder also. When asked what his injuries were, he replied:

“I have lost my right leg, Your Majesty, which troubles me much, for now
I shall not be able to go on to Paris with the rest of the army. And
besides that the churls have shot me here in the shoulder.”

Every one laughed, and the King said: “Cheer up, my son! You shall have
a new leg and enter Paris with us yet.”

“That may be, sire,” declared the simple-hearted Silesian, “but I can
never win the Iron Cross now.”

Again there was a laugh; but the Crown Prince laid his hand on the brave
fellow’s head, saying,

“You shall have that too, my man,” and the King quietly nodded assent
and passed on, his eyes moist with tears.

                            * * * * * * * *

On another cot at this same hospital lay a pale young infantryman. The
physician had given him a sleeping potion which had brought temporary
forgetfulness of his sufferings. As the Emperor stood quietly looking
down at him, his eye fell on an album which the invalid had evidently
been reading when sleep overtook him. He picked it up and wrote in
pencil on one of the pages, “My son, always remember your King,” then
laid it back on the bed and passed on. When the wounded man awoke and
found his sovereign’s greeting, tears of joy streamed down his cheeks
and he pressed the precious writing to his lips, sobbing. On the
Emperor’s next visit he saw, by the deathly pallor of the wounded
infantryman, that death was near and the poor fellow was past all aid or
comfort. But the soul had not yet left the body, a gleam of
consciousness still lingered in the fast-glazing eyes, and he recognized
the Emperor standing beside him. The half-closed eyelids opened wide,
and with a last supreme effort the dying man lifted himself and cried
out,

“Yes, I will remember Your Majesty, even up above!” then fell back
lifeless on his cot.

“Amen!” murmured the Emperor, and he gently closed the eyes of the young
hero who had died so true a soldier’s death.




                               Chapter X
                       Family Life of the Emperor


We have already had glimpses of Emperor William’s domestic affairs at
the time of his marriage and when the birth and education of their
children brought new duties to the august parents. After the wars were
over and our hero had more time and opportunity to enjoy the pleasures
of home, he took the greatest delight in his grandchildren, the sons and
daughters of the Crown Prince. Of these his special favorite was the
eldest, who in turn had the greatest affection and reverence for his
grandfather. In this Prince Frederick William—or William, as he was
called after reaching his majority, by the Emperor’s express command—the
latter beheld the future heir to the throne, and watched over his
education, therefore, with the greatest care; inculcating in him, above
all things, the true German spirit of devotion to the Fatherland, a deep
appreciation of the army, which had been so largely his own creation,
and lastly a boundless faith in that Providence which had so often
proved his best help in time of need.

On the ninth of February, 1877, he placed his grandson in the First
Regiment of Foot Guards. “Now go on and do your duty!” was the
conclusion of his address to the Prince on that occasion, and these few
words expressed the ruling purpose of his own life,—a career that
offered such a noble example to the young soldiers. Without fear or
hesitation he had always done his duty faithfully, and thereby won fame
and greatness for his house, his people, and all Germany.

His grandfather’s injunctions proved a powerful incentive to Prince
William. A true Hohenzollern from head to heel, he has devoted himself
heart and soul to the army, following in the footsteps of the two heroic
figures that were so near and dear to him. Both father and grandfather
watched with deepest pride and interest the quick advancement of the
young officer, whose military career must often have reminded the
Emperor of his own youth.

It was a great satisfaction to the aged monarch that he was spared to
witness his favorite’s marriage to the charming Princess Augusta
Victoria of Schleswig-Holstein, which took place February 27, 1881; and
still greater was his happiness when on May 6, 1882, a son was born to
the young couple. This was God’s crowning mercy! Four generations,—the
patriarch whose eighty-five years had indeed bleached his hair and
furrowed his brow, but with bodily and mental vigor still unimpaired;
the noble grandfather, a magnificent figure in the nation’s history,
sound of heart and ripe in experience; the young father, in the first
flush of manly vigor, with a long and brilliant future before him; and
last, the infant son, grandson, and great-grandson just opening his eyes
to a conscious existence. It is not hard to understand the feeling of
exultation in which, at news of the happy event, the Emperor shouted,
“Hurrah! four Kings!”

But, alas! this bright promise of a smiling future was soon to be
darkened by a cloud so thick and heavy that it threatened to overwhelm
the stanch old hero who had stood fast through so many of the storms of
life. Early in the year 1887 symptoms of an alarming throat trouble
began to show themselves in the Crown Prince. At first it was considered
merely an obstinate attack of hoarseness, but it soon became evident
that a much worse and more dangerous malady was to be reckoned with. All
that was within human power and skill to accomplish was resorted to. The
most celebrated authorities on diseases of the throat were consulted,
the most healthful resorts of Europe tried, but in vain. All possible
measures for relief were powerless. The whole country was
grief-stricken, nor was the public sorrow confined to Germany alone. All
seemed to see the noble figure of the Crown Prince shouting to his men
at Königgrätz, “Forward, in God’s name, or all is lost!” or leading his
army from victory to victory in the war with France, and now stricken
with an insidious disease that slowly but surely sapped away his life.
Nor did they feel less for the afflicted father, waiting anxiously for
news from San Remo of his beloved son and heir. It was indeed a dark
shadow on our hero’s otherwise bright evening of life!

In these days the Emperor clung more fondly than ever to his daughter,
the Grand Duchess of Baden, and her devoted husband. At least once a
year when visiting the springs at Ems or Gastein he had always been in
the habit of spending a few days with them, and these visits were bright
spots in the old man’s life. Here for a brief time he was “off duty”;
free from the daily burden and pressing cares of state, among his loved
ones, and surrounded by that tender care that only a loving daughter can
bestow. He was always happy at these times, chatting in his friendly way
with great and small, and rejoicing at any opportunity of giving
pleasure to others.

Once, soon after the war, when he was staying at Ems, a bookseller there
had his show window decorated with pictures of the Emperor. As the
latter was passing the shop one day, he saw a crowd of boys gathered
about the window. Stepping up to them he asked, “What is here, children?
What do you like best of all these pretty things? Which would you rather
have? Tell me.”

The boys looked at him and at one another in confusion and did not know
what to answer, till at last one lively urchin helped them out of their
dilemma by shouting, “I will buy the German Emperor!”

“Good!” replied the Emperor, “you shall all have him. How many are there
of you?” He counted the boys, then went into the shop and bought a
number of the pictures, which he distributed among them.

Another favorite diversion of Emperor William was hunting, and he often
went in the fall or winter to shoot at Letzlingen, Hubertsstock, or
elsewhere. Once at the Count von Stolberg-Wernigerode’s, they had had a
successful day, and the Emperor had distinguished himself, for he was an
excellent marksman. When the game was counted, it was announced that the
sovereign’s share was twenty-eight, whereat His Majesty smiled roguishly
and remarked to his companions:

“These results remind me of the quotation ‘There are more things in
heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy’—for is it not a
marvel that I should have shot twenty-eight pieces of game and only
fired twenty-five cartridges?”

All the Emperor’s servants had the deepest respect and affection for
him, and with good reason, for never was there a more kind and generous
master, continually making them presents and never forgetting to bring
back some little gift when he went on a journey. His dependents were
always treated with the greatest kindness and indulgence and never
received a harsh word, yet they never failed to feel that he was the
master. One evening he went to the Victoria Theatre alone, accompanied
only by the coachman and a _jäger_, the latter of whom betook himself to
a restaurant across the street as soon as his master had alighted.
Whether the play did not please His Majesty, or what the reason was,
does not signify, but he left the theatre again after about a quarter of
an hour. The carriage was there, but no _jäger_. The Emperor must wait.
At a sign from the coachman one of the theatre attendants ran to fetch
the delinquent, who, terrified, began to stammer out excuses with
trembling lips. But the Emperor only remarked quietly, “Why make so much
of the matter? You must often have been obliged to wait for me, now for
once I have waited for you; so we are quits. Open the carriage door for
me!”

At another time, when he was suffering from a severe cold, his
physician, Dr. von Lauer, had carefully prepared, besides the necessary
medicines, a tea for use during the night to allay his cough, and shown
the attendant exactly how much of the liquid should be warmed and given
to the patient at each coughing-spell. When he made his morning visit,
he was joyfully informed by the faithful old servant that his master had
had a quiet night. Much relieved, the physician entered his patient’s
sleeping chamber, but a glance at the worn face and another at the empty
teapot made him doubt the accuracy of the information he had just
received. The Emperor answered the unspoken question himself, however.

“I have coughed a great deal, doctor,” he said, “and slept but little”;
then added, in answer to the physician’s glance, “I took the tea several
times but did not ring for my valet. The old man needs his sleep, so I
warmed the drink myself over the spirit lamp.”

It was this same old servant who once declared, “I have been for forty
years with my royal master and have yet to hear him give an order or
speak a harsh word. With His Majesty it is always ‘Please’ and ‘Thank
you,’ never anything else.”

This very regard and consideration for others may have proved fatal to
himself, for on the night of March 3, 1888, when obliged to leave his
bed for a short time, instead of summoning his servant, as Dr. von Lauer
had repeatedly charged him to do on such occasions, he let the old man
sleep and attempted to get up by himself; but a sudden faintness seized
him and he sank helpless on the floor. By the time the valet had come to
his assistance the Emperor was chilled through and unable, so says the
Berlin “Court Chronicle,” to show himself at the window the following
day. He begged the valet, however, to say nothing of this to the
physician.

Yet in spite of his leniency, the Emperor was too thorough a soldier not
to be a strict disciplinarian also. His slightest nod was equivalent to
a command with his dependents, and a reproof therefore was seldom
necessary. If anything went wrong he would merely say quietly, “That is
not the way I care to have things done,” and this simple remark was more
effective than a string of oaths would have proved from another. But if
their royal master’s admonition was “This shall not be done,” then the
whole household trembled.

It was also characteristic of the Emperor that he never remembered a
fault or laid it up against the offender. If the kindly expression gave
place to sternness for the time, it was never long until his usual
cheerful serenity returned; while if he himself had erred or given an
undeserved rebuke, he was quick to acknowledge it and ask pardon.

Once in the seventies, while staying at the grand-ducal court of
Schwerin, a visit had been planned to the Court Theatre, at that time
under the direction of the Intendant Baron von Wolzogen, and the Grand
Duke had ordered a special armchair to be placed in the royal box for
the august guest. As expected, the Emperor made his appearance that
evening at the theatre. It was devoted to light comedy, of which he was
especially fond; but as he seated himself, sitting down somewhat
heavily, as was his custom, the chair that had been provided for him
gave way, and he found himself for a moment on the floor, though
fortunately unhurt. In the audience the accident was scarcely noticed;
but to the Intendant, who anxiously hastened to the box, His Majesty
said shortly and coldly:

“In future, when you receive guests, see to it that at least they are
not given disabled chairs,” and turned quickly away without giving the
mortified Intendant any opportunity for excuses. As it chanced, however,
the providing of the chair had not been intrusted to him, but to the
Court Chamberlain. During the next intermission, therefore, the Emperor
sent for the Intendant and greeted him kindly with the words:

“My dear Baron, I did you an injustice just now; my reprimand was
directed to the wrong address, as I have learned in the meantime. I am
sorry and wanted to tell you so this evening, so we should both sleep
the better.”




                               Chapter XI
                          The Emperor’s Death


“The days of our years are threescore and ten years; and if by reason of
strength they be fourscore, yet is their strength labor and sorrow.” So
sings the Psalmist, and thus it was with the life of Emperor William,—a
ceaseless round of toil and weariness, of care and struggle, that
reached its climax in those astounding victories that strengthened the
throne of Prussia and brought about the unification of Germany. Even in
his old age he was not permitted to end his days quietly, as we have
seen, but still devoted his whole time and strength to the welfare of
the Fatherland, nobly striving to maintain peace both at home and
abroad. He had lived to see Germany a free and united Empire once more,
with a position among the nations of the earth she had never before
attained, and might well say with Simeon, “Lord, now lettest thou thy
servant depart in peace,” were it not for the war clouds that still hung
about the horizon, and had the Crown Prince stood beside him in all his
old health and vigor, ready to take the reins of government from his
hands. This was the great sorrow that clouded his declining years and
caused him painful anxiety as to the future in view of his own death,
which could not now be far distant. The Emperor naturally possessed a
powerful constitution, strengthened by the regular life he led and his
freedom from early excesses of all kinds. An occasional cold, or attack
of a painful but not at all serious ailment to which he had been subject
for many years, would confine him to his room or bed for a short time,
but except for this he had enjoyed excellent health. But having reached
an age far beyond that usually allotted to mortals, it was not strange
that during his latter years, whenever it was announced that His Majesty
was ill, the physicians’ daily reports were anxiously awaited, or that
when the aged monarch again appeared at the familiar corner window of
his palace he was greeted with cheers by the assembled crowds, while the
solemn tones of the “Heil Dir, im Siegerkranz,” swelled up into the sky.

It was on Friday, March 2, 1888, that the Emperor drove out for the last
time. There was an icy north wind blowing in Berlin that day, and he
contracted a cold which, in his already somewhat enfeebled health, he
was unable to throw off. His physical condition was aggravated, too, by
anxiety over the political situation and his son’s illness; and when in
addition to this news was received of the sudden death of a favorite
grandson, Prince Louis of Baden, the shock was too great for the old man
to recover from. On Monday, March 5, his condition was far from
encouraging, and on the following day it became even more critical. A
sleepless night greatly reduced the patient’s strength, and on Thursday,
toward evening, he sank into a death-like stupor, from which, except for
one or two brief intervals of consciousness, he never rallied. At
half-past eight the following morning, March 9, the soul of the aged
hero, the father of the Fatherland, passed quietly away into the land of
eternal peace.

During the Emperor’s last hours the members of his family, together with
some of the highest court officials, were gathered round his bedside. On
Thursday afternoon, at the suggestion of Prince William, the dying man
was asked if he would like to see the Court Chaplain, Dr. Kögel, and on
his assenting the divine was sent for. After a few words of greeting to
his royal master, in which he expressed the sympathy of the whole
people, he recited some passages of Scripture, and at the sick man’s
request a few verses of some of his favorite hymns, followed by a
prayer, the Emperor now and then responding clearly, with an expression
of satisfaction or assent. From seven till ten o’clock that evening
there seemed a marked improvement, during which the august patient
conversed cheerfully with Prince William. The greater part of the
family, feeling much encouraged, permitted themselves a few hours of
sleep. Toward four o’clock in the morning, however, symptoms of collapse
showed themselves. He became unconscious again, and it was evident that
death was near. The family and watchers were hastily summoned and Dr.
Kögel again sent for. He recited the Lord’s Prayer, Her Majesty the
Empress joining in, and then read the twenty-seventh Psalm, beginning
“The Lord is my light and my salvation.” When he had finished, the Grand
Duchess of Baden, who had hastened to her father’s bedside at the first
news of his illness, leaned over and asked: “Did you understand, Papa?”

The Emperor answered clearly, “It was beautiful.”

She then asked: “Do you know that Mamma is sitting here beside you,
holding your hand?”

The dying man’s eyes opened and he looked long at the Empress, then
closed them for the last time. His parting look was for her, but his
last sigh for the beloved son, stricken unto death and in a foreign
land, as was evident from the touching cry, “Alas, my poor Fritz!”

When life was extinct, all present knelt while Dr. Kögel offered a
prayer, concluding with the supplication, “O Lord, have mercy on our
royal house, our people, and our country, and in the death of the
Emperor may Thy words be fulfilled, ‘I will bless thee, and thou shalt
prove a blessing.’ Amen.”

The excitement throughout the country at the news of Emperor William’s
death was tremendous. Bells were tolled from every church spire, flags
hung at half mast or were wrapped in crape, while hundreds of sad-faced
people wandered into the churches to pray or seek comfort in the words
of the priests.

                [Illustration: _The Emperor’s deathbed_]

On the night of March 11 the earthly remains of the deceased Emperor
were taken from the palace to the cathedral, where they were to lie in
state. In spite of a heavy wind and snowstorm the Unter den Linden was
so thronged with people that progress was impossible, and the police had
hard work to keep the way clear, yet the most solemn stillness
prevailed. At five minutes before twelve the regular tramp of marching
troops was heard and torchbearers were seen issuing from the palace. The
soldiers took their places, Colonel von Bredow with a squadron of the
body-guard being in charge of the arrangements, and formed a solid wall
on both sides of the street from the palace to the cathedral, long crape
streamers falling from the plumes on their helmets.

At midnight the bells of the cathedral began to toll, and an hour later
the head of the procession appeared, advancing slowly between a double
line of torches, led by the first division of the body-guard under
Colonel von Bredow. Behind these at some distance was a battalion of
foot guards, followed by all the Emperor’s servants in a body, including
his own coachman, _jäger_, and valet. Then came thirty non-commissioned
officers with snow-white plumes, bearing on their shoulders the coffin
of the deceased Emperor, covered with a plain black pall. Immediately
behind it rode the Crown Prince and Prince Henry, followed by all the
generals and foreign military _attachés_, among them Count Moltke. Then
another division of mounted body-guards clattered by, and the procession
ended in a long line of carriages.

The interior of the cathedral was an impressive sight. The chancel had
been converted into a grove of palms and laurels, in the centre of
which, on a black catafalque, rested the casket of purple velvet heavily
decorated with gold. On either side stood huge candelabra from which
countless tapers shed their soft radiance, while close beside were
placed white satin stools embroidered in gold. At the foot of the coffin
were laid the rarest and costliest wreaths. After it had been lifted on
to the catafalque the Emperor’s own valet, who had always attended to
His Majesty’s personal wants during his lifetime, approached and lifted
the pall. Even in death the monarch’s features wore the same expression
of noble serenity that had characterized them in life. Upon the
venerable head was placed the military forage cap. The body was clothed
in the uniform of the First Foot Guards, the historic gray cloak drawn
carefully about the shoulders. His only decorations were the Star of the
Order of the Black Eagle, the collar of the Order of Merit, and the
Grand Cross of the Order of the Iron Cross. At his feet lay a single
wreath of green laurel. Keeping watch on the right side of the bier
stood two of the palace guards with arms lowered, on the left two
artillerymen with raised arms, this honorary service being shared in
turn by all the guard regiments. From this time until the day of the
funeral the cathedral became the centre of attraction, not only to the
people of Berlin but to the thousands of strangers who thronged the
capital anxious to obtain one more last look at the beloved Emperor.
From early morning till far into the night a vast multitude surrounded
the cathedral, waiting and hoping to gain entrance; but although an
average of seventy-five hundred people passed through the edifice every
hour, there were still hundreds left outside, unable to gratify their
desire.

Meanwhile Unter den Linden, through which the funeral procession was to
pass on its way to the mausoleum at Charlottenburg, had been transformed
into a street of mourning. Art and patriotism combined to achieve the
highest results of the decorator’s skill, and the wide thoroughfare
presented an appearance of gloomy magnificence impossible to describe
here in detail. All the public buildings were draped in black and
elaborately decorated; the streets were lined with Venetian masts
connected with festoons of black and surmounted by the royal golden
eagle, while many ornamental structures of various kinds had been
erected, some enclosing statues of allegorical figures. The Brandenburg
Gate was most imposing, and well might it be, for the sovereign who had
entered it so often as a conqueror was now to pass out of it for the
last time. All along the Siegesallee also were displayed signs of
mourning, while at Charlottenburg the public grief found touching
expression in the crape-wreathed banners and sable-hung houses and
monuments.

The funeral obsequies were held on Friday, March 16. On the stroke of
eleven the brazen tongues of the cathedral bells gave the signal, which
was answered by those of all the churches in Berlin tolling at intervals
all during the ceremonies. At the same time the doors of the cathedral
were opened; the various officers took their appointed places at the
head and foot of the coffin. The Minister of State and the Lord
Chamberlain stepped behind the tabourets on which lay the imperial
insignia,—crown, sword, orb, sceptre, etc.,—the generals and military
deputies present grouping themselves on the lower step of the estrade.
The invited guests, knights of the Black Eagle, members of the
diplomatic corps, heads of noble houses, and others who had assembled in
the outer part of the church, were then shown to their places, and last
of all the Empress Victoria, Queen Elizabeth of Roumania, and the royal
princesses entered and took the seats placed for them in a semicircle
before the altar, the other foreign princesses occupying an enclosure to
the left. The foreign ambassadors had places reserved for them in the
body of the church immediately behind the most illustrious guests.

The funeral services, which at the Emperor’s own request were conducted
by the Court Chaplain, Dr. Kögel, assisted by the cathedral clergy,
began shortly after noon. While the mourners were assembling the
organist had been playing soft preludes into which Emperor William’s
favorite tunes were skilfully woven, but when all had arrived its deep
tones died away and the service began with the reading of portions of
the ninetieth Psalm and of the eleventh chapter of the Epistle of Saint
John. Then came the singing of “I know that my Redeemer liveth” by the
cathedral choir and the funeral sermon by Dr. Kögel. He had chosen as
his text the verses from Saint Luke, “Lord, now lettest thou thy servant
depart in peace, for mine eyes have seen thy salvation,” and the
trembling tones of the great preacher betrayed his deep emotion as he
spoke of the dead monarch, to whom, as spiritual adviser, he had stood
so close. After a short prayer, followed by other selections from the
choir, the congregation joined in singing a hymn, and the service
concluded with the pronouncing of a benediction over the departed
Emperor.

It was a quarter before two when a salvo of artillery announced that the
funeral procession was about to start. First came a squad of mounted
police trotting briskly through the centre of the Linden, followed in a
moment by another. Then through the cold snow-laden air sounded the
strains of Beethoven’s Funeral March and the trumpeters of the First
Hussars appeared on their white horses, leading the musicians. In
seemingly endless array followed squadrons of the First and Second
Dragoons, the First, Second, and Third Uhlans, the body-guard in their
gorgeous uniforms, and cuirassiers; then six battalions of infantry and
regiment after regiment of artillery, all with crape-wound banners and
muffled drums. The mournful strains of the funeral marches with the slow
tramp of the marching columns was unspeakably melancholy and impressive
in its effect, and the vast throng of spectators, held back by a barrier
formed of seventeen thousand members of Berlin guilds and societies,
stood in awed silence, not a voice raised or a sign of impatience
visible all during the hour that the procession required in passing.

Behind the troops, at a short distance, came a group of twelve divines
headed by Dr. Kögel; then a long line of court officials,
gentlemen-in-waiting, and pages, their brilliant costumes forming a
startling contrast to the prevailing gloom. Following these, and
uniformed in accordance with their military rank, were the Emperor’s two
physicians, Dr. Leutbold and Dr. Tiemann, Dr. von Lauer having been kept
away by illness. The gorgeously embroidered uniforms of the chamberlains
and gentlemen of the bedchamber next appeared, and behind them the
ministers, bearing the imperial insignia on purple velvet cushions,
preceded by four marshals whose hereditary titles recalled the days of
Germany’s ancient splendor,—the Lord High Cup Bearer Prince Hatzfeld,
the Grand Master of the Hunt Prince Pless, the Grand Master of the
Kitchens Prince Putbus, and the Lord High Marshal Prince Salm.

Then came the imperial hearse, a sort of catafalque on wheels, drawn by
eight horses, each led by a staff officer, and over it a yellow silk
canopy adorned with the eagle and emblems of mourning, supported by
twelve major-generals. The ends of the purple velvet pall that covered
the bier were held by Generals von Blumenthal, von der Goltz, von
Treskow, and von Oberwitz, and on either side of it walked the twelve
officers who served as pallbearers. Immediately following the hearse was
the deceased Emperor’s favorite saddle horse, with bridle and housings
of black, led by an equerry.

And now appeared an array of princes and dignitaries such as the world
has seldom seen assembled. General Pape, flanked by Count Lehndorff and
Prince Radziwill, bore the imperial standard in advance of the Crown
Prince William, who walked alone, wrapped in a military cloak and deeply
affected. About five paces behind him followed the Kings of Saxony,
Belgium, and Roumania, then Princes Henry, Leopold, George, and
Alexander with the Hereditary Prince of Saxe-Meiningen, and after them
fully a hundred illustrious mourners walking four, six, and even eight
abreast, Russian grand dukes, Austrian archdukes, royal representatives
from Italy, England, Portugal, Spain, Greece, Denmark,—princes from all
the sovereign houses of Europe, reigning or deposed, envoys and deputies
from every State and Republic in the world.

But there was no attempt at display; enveloped for the most part in
cloaks and furs they quietly and humbly followed the earthly remains of
him who in life had been the greatest of them all, and behind them came
the military deputies of foreign powers,—generals from France, pashas
from the Golden Horn, princes from the north and the south, even the
venerable Cardinal Galimberti, representing Pope Leo Thirteen.
Conspicuous by their absence from this assembly, however, were the two
pillars of the Empire, Prince Bismarck and Count von Moltke, whom the
inclement weather and their state of health had kept at home. Following
these personages was a vast number of mourners of all ranks, while two
battalions of infantry brought up the rear.

On arriving at the Siegesallee, the procession halted while the princes
and dignitaries walking behind the bier entered the equipages that were
waiting to convey them to Charlottenburg, and the royal insignia was
taken back to the palace in Berlin by eight officers under escort of the
bodyguard. The cortege then resumed its march to Charlottenburg, where
from the window of the palace the Emperor Frederick watched with
streaming eyes his beloved father’s last royal progress.

At the Luisenplatz another halt was made to permit the mourners to
descend from the carriages and escort the remains to the mausoleum,
where the Emperor’s own company of the First Foot Guards was waiting to
receive them. The coffin was borne in and placed temporarily between the
two stone slabs that mark the resting place of Frederick William Third
“The Just,” as he was called by his people, and his wife, Queen Louise
of blessed memory. The court chaplain offered a short prayer, a parting
salute of a hundred and one guns was fired, and the last solemn rites
were ended. Under the cypress boughs that shade the national sanctuary,
at the feet of the parents he had honored all his life with so childlike
a devotion, the remains of the heroic sovereign were laid to their
eternal rest.




                                Appendix


The following is a chronological statement of the principal events in
German history connected with the narrative:

    1797    Birth of William First.
    1807    Received officer’s patent.
    1813    Appointed Captain.
    1814-1815    Served in Napoleonic campaign.
    1829    Married Augusta of Saxe-Weimar.
    1840    Heir presumptive.
    1848    German revolution.
    1849    Suppressed the insurrection in Baden and the Palatinate.
    1854    Field Marshal and Governor at Mainz.
    1858    Regency for his brother Frederick William.
    1861    Ascended the throne of Prussia.
    1862    Appointed Bismarck Minister of Foreign Affairs.
    1864    War with Denmark.
    1866    Austro-Prussian War.
    1867    President of the North German Confederation.
    1870-1871    Franco-Prussian War.
    1871    Proclaimed German Emperor at Versailles.
    1871    Returned with the army to Berlin.
    1888    Died at Berlin.




                     LIFE STORIES FOR YOUNG PEOPLE

                    _Translated from the German by_
                            GEORGE P. UPTON

                          24 Volumes Now Ready


                     _Historical and Biographical_

  Barbarossa
  William of Orange
  Maria Theresa
  The Maid of Orleans
  Frederick the Great
  The Little Dauphin
  Herman and Thusnelda
  The Swiss Heroes
  Marie Antoinette’s Youth
  The Duke of Brittany
  Louise, Queen of Prussia
  The Youth of the Great Elector
  Emperor William First
  Elizabeth, Empress Of Austria

                          _Musical Biography_

  Beethoven
  Mozart
  Johann Sebastian Bach
  Joseph Haydn

                              _Legendary_

  Frithjof Saga
  Gudrun
  The Nibelungs
  William Tell
  Arnold of Winkelried
  Undine

                    Illustrated. Each 60 cents _net_
                      A. C. McCLURG & CO., Chicago




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