In all these ideas, Frederick was a couple of centuries ahead of his day. His contemporaries shook their heads when the king gave his Catholic subjects a piece of land that they might build themselves a church right in the heart of his capital. They began to murmur ominous words of warning when he made himself the protector of the Jesuit order, which had just been driven out of most Catholic countries, and they definitely ceased to regard him as a Christian when he claimed that ethics and religion had nothing to do with each other and that each man could believe whatever he pleased as long as he paid his taxes and served his time in the army. Because at that time they happened to live within the boundaries of Prussia, these critics held their peace, for His Majesty was a master of epigram and a witty remark on the margin of a royal rescript could do strange things to the career of those who in some way or another had failed to please him. The fact however remains that it was the head of an unlimited monarchy, an autocrat of thirty years’ standing, who gave Europe a first taste of almost complete religious liberty. In this distant corner of Europe, Protestant and Catholic and Jew and Turk and Agnostic enjoyed for the first time in their lives equal rights and equal prerogatives. Those who preferred to wear red coats could not lord it over their neighbors who preferred to wear green coats, and vice versa. And the people who went back for their spiritual consolation to Nicaea were forced to live in peace and amity with others who would as soon have supped with the Devil as with the Bishop of Rome. That Frederick was entirely pleased with the outcome of his labors, that I rather doubt. When he felt his last hour approaching, he sent for his faithful dogs. They seemed better company in this supreme hour than the members of “the so-called human race.” (His Majesty was a columnist of no mean ability.) And so he died, another Marcus Aurelius who had strayed into the wrong century and who, like his great predecessor, left a heritage which was entirely too good for his successors. CHAPTER XXV VOLTAIRE In this day and age we hear a great deal of talk about the nefarious labors of the press agent and many good people denounce “publicity” as an invention of the modern devil of success, a new-fangled and disreputable method of attracting attention to a person or to a cause. But this complaint is as old as the hills. Events of the past, when examined without prejudice, completely contradict the popular notion that publicity is something of recent origin. The prophets of the Old Testament, both major and minor, were past-masters in the art of attracting a crowd. Greek history and Roman history are one long succession of what we people of the journalistic profession call “publicity stunts.” Some of that publicity was dignified. A great deal of it was of so patent and blatant a nature that today even Broadway would refuse to fall for it.