No character of antiquity is more brilliant and captivating, than that
of Alchibiades, the versatile Athenian. Cornelius Nepos, the Roman
biographer, has on this occasion, become the very Rubens of character
painters, and has happily sketched every flexile feature.--Nature, says
he, appears to have exerted her strongest energies in moulding
Alchibiades. In the hour of business he was a statesman, a general and
an orator. In the hour of revel, the rakes retired from that bagnio at
twelve, which the accommodating Alcibiades gladdened at two. Inhabiting
a city, studious of magnificence, he surpassed in equipage, the most
ostentatious grandees; and, when an exile among the hardy Thebans, he
carried heavier burdens than the broadest shouldered porter in Bœtia. At
Lacedemon his palate relished the black broth of Sparta; among the
dissolute Thracians, those sensual swine of Epicurus’s stye, the greyest
veteran of Venus made one sacrifice, less than he; and in all the
taverns of Thrace, Bacchus could not recognize a more thirsty toper.
If we deduct from Alchibiades his compliance with vicious customs, no
model of conduct, can be mere worthy imitation and praise. Since the æra
of Chesterfield, a dissembling nobleman, who possibly pushed the praise
of flexibility of manners too far, accommodation has been acrimoniously
censured; and the narrow Knox, in his dogmatizing essays has asserted,
that the meanest selfishness is the parent of versatility. But, though
the Tunbridge teacher, ostentatiously vaunts of his intimacy with the
Bible, he forgot that Paul of Tarsus, whose knowledge of the world was
as indubitable as his piety, exhorts to “become all things to all men,
if by any means we may gain some.” Paul was no less a gentleman than
saint; and his knowledge of the world taught him the propriety of
varying his means to secure the end, and to become a most accommodating
apostle. Hence his compliment to Agrippa, for his skill in the
jurisprudence of Judea. Hence his adroitness in persuading the
superstitious men of Athens, that the Being they, and he worshipped,
were the same. Hence he could charm both the courtly Felix, and the
camp-bred centurion.
If the art of pleasing be worth practice in society, then will the
praises of versatility be fully justified. He who in conversation,
adheres to topics peculiar to himself, or to a profession, is deservedly
dubbed pedant; and all unite in frowning upon him, by whom all are
equally neglected. Minds of the first energy, may sometimes effect the
unyielding quality of the oak, rather than the suppleness of the ozier.
A cardinal Ximenes, a chancellor Thurlow, and a secretary Pitt, may be
“original and unaccommodating.” But he, whom every circle courts, is
that Proteus in demeanour, who can with the same ease that he shifts his
shoe, mutilate, or increase his bows, accordingly, as he associates with
the cit, or the courrier. The object of our fondest admiration is the
man of letters and the man of the world blended, who can sublimely
speculate with science in the morning, and agreeably trifle with ladies
at night. Of this class is Charles Cameleon. The “omnis homo” of Horace,
the “all accomplished” of Pope Charles, when at school, was equally the
darling of the scholars, on the first form, and the truants on the
lower. He could repeat the five declensions with promptitude, and then
drive hoop, or toss balls alertly. With the same facility, could he make
correct latin, and high flying kites. Unaided by the “ladder to
Parnassus,” he would now ascend to the summit of Virgilian verse, and
now grovel in the mire, to win marbles of every sportive schoolfellow.
At the university he heard morning prayers with the saddened sedateness
of a Pharisee, argued with tutors on personal identity, as if inspired
by the very spirit of Locke--and, on syllogistic ground, vanquished
every Aristotelean adversary. At noon you might see him sauntering with
loungers, and kindling a smile even in vacancy’s face. The declining sun
left him deploring, that twilight should snap speculation’s thread; or
compel him to leave unfinished the song to _Myra_; and when the college
bell tolled twelve, his convivial club chose Charles president, and the
room would echo with,
“Since we’ve tarried all day to drink down the Sun,
“Let’s tarry, and drink down the Stars.”
Educated for the bar, Cameleon is now an eloquent and employed advocate.
But year-books and entries, cannot preclude the system of Sydenham, and
Saurin’s sermons. An apothecary, hearing him harrangue upon the
superiority of Brown to Boerhave, mistakes him for a regular bred
physician, and asks, when he received a medical degree from Edinburgh.
Charles is intimately conversant with all the fathers of the church,
repeats whole pages from Justin Martyr, and quotes St. Gregory on good
works with more readiness than the parson. As he converses with the
grave, or the gay, he is alternately a believer, and a sceptic: and one
Sunday, after acknowledging to a devout deacon, that the internal
evidence of christianity was its chief corner stone; when afternoon
service was over, he agreed, to please a disciple of Voltaire, that the
clashing testimony of four evangelists, completely corroded the _root_
of our religion. Among the ladies, he holds most gracefully “’twixt his
finger and thumb, a pouncet box,” and chatters on Canterbury-gowns and
French millinery, like a fop of France. To a lover of the fine arts,
quotes Hogarth’s “analysis of beauty,” and viewing Trumbull’s celebrated
painting of the sortie from Gibralter, the artist acknowledged that he
talked of lights and shades more rapidly and correctly than himself. In
a club of wits, he declaims Shakespeare, in a style of _Garrick_, he
repeats original poems, the very gems of fancy, and sets the “table on a
roar” with merry tales, and ludicrous combination. The eye of every
reveller brightens at his approach, and when he retires, Milton’s
invocation to Mirth is unanimously applied:
“Haste thee CHARLES and bring with thee
Joy and youthful jollily,
Sport that wrinkled care derides,
And laughter holding both his sides.”
* * * * *
INTERESTING STORY OF MADELAINE.
By Helen Maria Williams.
[Concluded from page 399.]
Madelaine passed the remaining part of the winter in the convent of
----, during which period she received frequent letters from Auguste;
and when spring arrived he conjured her, instead of removing to her own
province, to remain a little longer in her present situation; and
flattered her with hopes of being able ere long to fulfil those
engagements upon which all his happiness depended.
In the summer of this year an event took place which will render that
summer forever memorable. The French nation, too enlightened to bear any
longer those monstrous oppressions which ignorance of its just rights
alone had tolerated, shook off its fetters, and the revolution was
accomplished.
Madelaine was a firm friend to the revolution, which she was told had
made every Frenchman free. “And if every Frenchman is free,” thought
Madelaine, “surely every Frenchman may marry the woman he loves.” It
appeared to Madelaine, that, putting all political considerations,
points upon which she had not much meditated, out of the question,
obtaining liberty of choice in marriage was alone well worth the trouble
of a revolution; and she was as warm a patriot from this single idea, as
if she had studied the declaration of rights made by the Constituent
Assembly, in all its extent and consequences.
The Count de ----, who was informed of the correspondence between the
two lovers, and who saw little hopes of his son’s subduing a passion
which this intercourse of letters served to cherish, contrived means to
have Auguste’s letters intercepted at the convent. In vain Madelaine
enquired with all the anxiety of tenderness for letters. In vain she
counted the hours till the return of the post-days. Post after post
arrived, and brought no tidings of Auguste. Three months passed in the
cruel torments of anxiety and suspense, and were at length succeeded by
despair. Madelaine believed she was forgotten--forgotten by
Auguste!--She consulted her own heart, and it seemed to her impossible;
yet, after a silence of three months, she could doubt no longer.
Poor Madelaine now recollected with anguish, instead of pleasure that
all Frenchmen were free. She would have found some sad consolation in
believing that all Frenchmen were slaves. It would have been some
alleviation of her sorrows if Auguste had been forced to abandon her;
and she fancied she could have borne to lose him, if she had been sure
that he still loved her--it was losing him by his own fault that filled
her heart with pangs almost insupportable.
The little pittance which Madelaine, after paying her father’s debts,
had left for her own support, was insufficient to defray her expenses as
a pensioner in the convent. She had already, by her sweetness and
gentleness, gained the affections of some of the nuns, to whom she was
also attached, and who incessantly conjured her to take the veil. “And
why,” she sometimes exclaimed, “why should I hesitate any longer in so
doing? Since Auguste is lost, what have I to regret in renouncing the
world? What sacrifice do I make? what happiness do I resign?”
Madelaine had no ties to the world, of which she knew but little: but to
separate herself irrecoverably, and for ever, from him to whom her soul
was devoted--to see him, to hear his voice no more--to take vows which
would make it even a crime to think of him--to banish him even from her
thoughts--alas! Madelaine felt like Eloisa--
“All is not Heav’n’s while Abelard has part,
Still rebel nature holds out half my heart!”
Sometimes, too, the idea occured, that Auguste might love her
still--“And am I then,” thought Madelaine, “going to reduce myself to a
state in which I shall be forced to wish he were unfaithful, in order to
save me from the agonies of remorse!”--She put off all thoughts of
entering on her novitiate for some weeks longer--no letters arrived, and
again her resolution to take the veil returned. “Why,” cried she, “why
should I still continue to lament that inconstant lover who thinks of me
no more! Alas, alas, did he not see the anguish of my soul at parting
with him?--Does he not know the deserted situation in which I am
left?--Oh, yes! he knows I have no other refuge, no other resource, than
taking the veil--no doubt he wishes to hear I have done so--he will find
in my renunciation of the world some excuse for his infidelity--Oh,
heavens! will Auguste hear then that I am separated from him for ever
without one sigh?--Ah, why need I deliberate any longer?--My trials will
soon be past--I feel that my heart will break--yes, death will come to
my relief--and in heaven I shall find my father!”
Madelaine, at length, determined to join the holy sisterhood of the
convent. The white veil for her novitiate was prepared. The day was
fixed; when, prostrate with her face towards the earth, and with flowers
scattered over her, and a part of her long tresses cut off, she was to
enter upon that solemn trial preparatory to her eternal renunciation of
the world--of Auguste!
A few days before that which was appointed for the ceremony, Madelaine
was called to the parlour, where she found her lover, with some of the
municipal officers of the town, wearing their national scarfs.
Madeline, at the sight of Auguste, with difficulty reached a chair, in
which she fell back senseless; while Auguste could not forbear uttering
some imprecations against the iron gate by which they were separated,
and which prevented him from flying to her assistance. He, however,
procured help, and Madelaine recovered.
One of the municipal officers then informed her, that they had received
the day before a decree of the National Assembly, forbidding any nuns to
be professed. He added, that the municipality had already given
information of this new law to the abbess, who had consented to allow
Madelaine to leave the convent immediately. As he pronounced these last
words, Madelaine looked at her lover. Auguste hastened to explain to her
that his uncle, who loved him, and pitied his sufferings, had at length
made a will, leaving him his fortune, upon condition that his father
consented to his marriage with Madelaine.
When her lover and the municipal officers departed, Madelaine retired to
her apartment, to give way to those delicious tears which were poured
from a heart overflowing with wonder, thankfulness, and joy. When her
first emotions had subsided, she began to pack up her little wardrobe in
preparation for leaving the convent on the following day. “I always
loved the revolution,” thought Madelaine, as she laid aside the white
gown in which she was to be married the next morning; “and this last
decree is surely of all others the best and wisest--but if it had come
too late!----” At this idea Madelaine took up the veil for her
novitiate, which lay upon her table, and bathed it with a flood of
tears.
The next morning Auguste and Madelaine were married in the parish church
of ----, and immediately after the ceremony set out for Paris; where
they now live, and are, I am told, two of the happiest people, and the
best patriots in France.
[[Sources:
Original: _Letters Written in France in the Summer 1790 to a friend
in England ..._, and 1791 and later editions “Containing Many New
Anecdotes”. Letter XXI (1792): Volume II, 156-182.
Author: Helen Maria Williams (1761 or 1762-1827).
Notes: The quoted poem is from “The Enthusiast; or, The Lover of
Nature” (1744) by Joseph Warton.]]
* * * * *
IVAR AND MATILDA.
A Traditional Tale in the Isle of Man.
In the thirteenth century, Ivar, a young and gallant knight, was
enamoured of the beauteous Matilda. Her birth and fortune were inferior;
but his generous mind disdained such distinctions. He loved, and was
most ardently beloved. The sanction of the king was alone wanting to
consummate their happiness. To obtain this, Ivar, in obedience to the
custom of the island, presented his bride to Reginald, a gay and amorous
prince; who, struck with the beauty and innocence of Matilda, heightened
by an air of modesty, immediately, for some pretended crimes, banished
Ivar from his presence, and by violence detained the virgin. Grief and
indignation alternately swelled her bosom; till, from the excess of
anguish she sunk into a state of insensibility. On awakening, her virtue
was insulted by the approaches of the tyrant. She was, however, deaf to
his insinuations, and only smiled at his menaces. Irritated at her
contempt, and flattering himself that severity would subdue her truth
and chastity, he imprisoned her in the most solitary apartment of the
castle; where, for some months, she passed the tedious night and day in
tears; far more solicitous for the fate of Ivar, than afflicted by her
own misfortunes.
In the mean time, Ivar, failing in an attempt to revenge his injuries,
assumed the monastic habit, and retired into Rushen Abbey. Here he
dedicated his life to piety; but his heart was still devoted to Matilda.
For her he sighed; for her he wept; and, to indulge his sorrows without
restraint, would frequently withdraw into the gloomiest solitudes. In
one of those solitary rambles he discovered a grotto, which had been
long unfrequented. The gloom and silence of this retirement
corresponding with the anguish of his mind, he sauntered onward, without
reflecting where the subterraneous path might conduct him. His
imagination was pourtraying the graces of Matilda, while his heart was
bleeding for her sufferings. From this reverie of woe, he was, however,
soon awoke, by the shrieks of a female. Advancing eagerly, he heard in a
voice nearly exhausted--“Mother of God! save Matilda!” while, through a
chink in the barrier that now separated them, he saw the virgin, with
dishevelled hair and throbbing bosom, about to be sacrificed to the lust
and violence of Reginald. Rage and madness gave new energy to Ivar; who,
forcing a passage through the barrier, rushed upon the tyrant; and,
seizing his sword, which lay carelessly on the table, plunged it into
its master’s bosom.
The tyrant died; and the lovers, through this subterraneous
communication, escaped to the sea-side, where they fortunately met with
a boat which conveyed them to Ireland: and in that kingdom the remainder
of their years was devoted to the most exquisite of all human
felicities; the raptures of a generous love, heightened by mutual
admiration and gratitude.
This is the substance of the tradition; but, according to some of the
Manks records, Reginald was slain by Ivar, not in the castle of Rushen,
but in a neighbouring meadow. This variation of the scene, however, does
not materially affect the credit of the tradition; as the Manks
historians impute Reginald’s death, not so much to Ivar’s ambition, as
to his revenge of private injuries.
* * * * *
[[For sources, see the end of the second installment. These pieces
are listed in the Index under the names of the individual persons.]]
+ANECDOTES and REMAINS+
Of Persons Connected with the French Revolution.
* * *
+Madame Lafayette.+
This lady, the wife of a man whose history is blended with two important
revolutions, was a marchioness before the late changes in France; the
family name of her husband was also both spelled and pronounced
differently, being then De la Fayette; but the _de_ being a mark of
nobility, as having a feudal allusion (the French term it, a _nomme de
terre_) it was, of course, omitted on the extinction of titles.
Madame Lafayette is an eminent instance of the instability of greatness,
the mutability of fortune, and the inefficacy of wealth. Descended from
an ancient lineage, united to an amiable and illustrious husband, who
possessed estates in Europe, America, and the West-Indies; she,
nevertheless, has not been exempted from the must bitter calamities that
can afflict suffering humanity.
When Lafayette resisted the commands of the sole remaining legitimate
power in France, his “widowed wife” was arrested. Under the despotism of
Robespierre, she escaped death only by a miracle (part of her family was
actually immolated to his vengeance) but what to some will appear more
terrible, she experienced an unremitting captivity of fifteen months,
during which, she suffered all the horrors of a close confinement, being
immured within four walls, subjected to a scanty and precarious diet,
secluded from her children, and prohibited even from the light of
heaven.
On the death of the tyrant, the voice of humanity was once more heard,
and she was liberated, and restored to the arms of her afflicted
daughters. But she was a wife as well as a mother! and her beloved
husband was still in bondage; for he who had endeavoured to avert the
execution of Louis XVI. (such is the gratitude of courts) was
languishing in an Austrian prison!
She accordingly repaired to Hamburgh, accompanied by her children only,
for she had not wealth sufficient to hire a single domestic, and she
possesses a lofty sense of independence, which taught her to reject
pecuniary assistance, even from her few remaining friends. As soon as
her health was a little restored, she posted to Vienna, and prostrated
herself at the feet of the emperor.
Francis III. is in the flower of his youth. The chilling hand of age has
not yet rendered him morose; and surely _victory_ cannot have blunted
his feelings, and made him at once haughty and insensible! No! no! there
is not a prince of his house, from the obscure count de Hapsburg, of a
former period, to the late powerful tenant of the Imperial diadem, who
has had more occasion to find and to feel that he is a _man_.
Weeping beauty did not supplicate in vain; the German monarch raised her
from her lowly posture, and promised better days. With his permission,
she flew on the wings of affection, and, strengthened by conjugal love,
knocked at the gate of the fortress that confined her dearly beloved
husband, whose speedy deliverance (vain idea!) she hoped instantly to
announce.
The massive bolts of the dungeon give way, the grating hinges of the
iron doors pierce the ears; she and her virgin daughters are eyed,
searched, rifled, by an odious and horrible gaoler; and those, who, but
a moment before, deemed themselves deliverers, now find themselves
captives!
Reclining in the bottom of thy dungeon, these tears cannot be seen,
these sighs cannot be heard, nor can the quick decay of youth and
beauty, cankered in the bloom, and dissolving amidst the horrors of a
German prison, be contemplated. But the heart of sympathy throbs for
you, ye lovely mourners; the indignation of mankind is aroused; the
present age shudders at your unmerited sufferings; and posterity will
shed a generous tear at their recital. Anguish may not yet rend the
bosoms of your persecutors, but a dreadful _futurity_ awaits them, and,
were it possible to escape the scourge of offended heaven, they will yet
experience all the vengeance of indignant history!
* * *
+Champagneaux+
Was the editor of one of the three-score newspapers, that imparted the
revolutionary stimulus to France. He is the father of a numerous family;
a man of unimpeached morals, and was attached to liberty from principle,
at a time, and in a country, when it was not unusual to be so, from mere
speculation! He was selected by Roland on account of his industry and
talents; and was put by him at the head of the principal division of the
home department. In short, during his administration, he became, what is
termed in England, _under secretary of state_.
* * *
+Camus+,
This is another of Roland’s _élèves_, and does great credit to his
discernment. Soon after the resignation of his friend, he quitted the
home department, and was elected a member of the Convention, and is now
_Archivist_ to the present legislature. He was one of the deputies
delivered over by Dumouriez to, and confined by, the Prince de Cobourg.
From an Austrian prison he has been restored to the exercise of his
legislative functions, (for he is one of the _two thirds_) and, on the
first vacancy, is likely to become a member of the Directory.
* * * * *