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UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
GENERAL LIBRARY
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AND
POLYDORUS.
TO WHICH IS PREFIXED,
A TREATISE ON MORALS.
isques
By J. J. BARTHÉLEMY,
AUTHOR OF THE TRAVELS OF ANACHARSIS.
WITH THE
LIFE OF THE AUTHOR.
000000
$
LONDON:
Printed for OTRIDGE and SON; R. FAULDER; J. WALKER;
R. LEA; J. CUTHELL; J. NUNN; OGILVY and SoN;
LACKINGTON, ALLEN and Co.; and VERNOR and Hoop.
1799.
848
B2852
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Dunning
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Pickering
12-20- Coffee C
THE
LIFE
OF THE
AUTHOR.
THE family of Jean Jacques Barthé-
lemy had been established for a consi-
derable time at Aubagne, in Provence ;
where they enjoyed much of the pub-
lic esteem, and were entitled to it, not
from hereditary distinction, but from
hereditary virtue.
He was born the 20th of January,
1716, at Cassis, a small town not far
from Marseilles. His mother, a woman
respectable for the qualities of her
mind, and the goodness of her heart,
A
left,
(iv)
left, at her death, four young children.
Barthélemy, one of them, was then
four years old. His father, Joseph Bar-
thélemy, took upon himself the charge
of his earliest education. When he
had attained his twelfth year, he was
admitted into the College de l'Oratoire
at Marseilles, where his progress in his
studies was very rapid. He had, for his
tutor, the Père Raynaud, one of the
best preachers of that time. The fa-
mous Chalamont de la Visclede, a great
friend of the Père Raynaud, took a
peculiar interest in his young pupil, and
contributed greatly to his improvement.
Barthélemy retained, during the whole
of his life, a grateful remembrance of
that worthy man.
When of a suitable age, he studied
philosophy and theology, under the care
of the Jesuits. His great application
to the Greek and Oriental languages
had been beyond his strength, and he
did
( v )
did not recover his health until he en-
tered the seminary*.
Though he had the greatest respect
for the Christian religion, and proved a
faithful observer of its morals, his vo-
cation was not for the ministry of the
gospel. All his thoughts were engaged
in the studies of the sciences; he made
frequent journies to Marseilles, to get
instructions from M. Cary, a very
learned antiquarian, and was initiated
by him in the Numismatick art. He
found at Aix, in Provence, a great
many precious manuscripts in the li-
brary of the president Mausaugues,
which had been the property of the
illustrious Peiresc. There he used to
pass many days alone; he imagined
himself in a temple, in which he could
call up the spirits of the dead. Such
The place where young clergymen were to
perform a sort of noviciate, before they could be
admitted to holy orders.
A 2
enthu-
(vi)
enthusiasm soon wanted more nourish
ment, and Paris was the proper place,
where he could find instruction propor-
tionate to his love of learning.
On his arrival in the capital, he soon
found many friends and instructors.
One of these was the Secretary of the
Academy of Inscriptions and Belles-
Lettres, M. Gros de Boze, who was
entrusted with the care of the cabinet
of medals of the French King; and
he was so satisfied with the talents of
Barthélemy, that he obtained from go-
vernment an appointment for him of
joint commissioner for that employ-
ment, when he had not been more than
eighteen months in Paris.
Bougainville, a very able writer, and
a very honest man, left, by his will, to
Barthélemy, as a proof of his peculiar
esteem, all the precious manuscripts of
the learned Freret.
In
(vii)
In the year 1747 Barthélemy was
elected a member of the Academy of
Sciences. Being offered the employ-
ment of secretary of that society, he
refused it, and solicited for his friend
Charles le Beau, and succeeded. This
was not the only instance of his mo-
desty and generosity. The same place
being again offered to him some time
after, he pointed out the learned Du-
puy as a more proper person. At the
death of De Boze, the place he had
held, of keeper of the cabinet of me-
dals, was given to Barthélemy. A year
after, he obtained from the prime mi-
nister, d'Argenson, the necessary order
for a journey, in August 24, 1754, in
Italy. He received only about £.300 for
his expences; but, having taken with
him the medals of which there were
duplicates in the cabinet, he succeeded
in making the most advantageous ex-
change, and in rendering, with very
A 3
small
(viii)
1
small sums of money, the cabinet of
his Sovereign one of the most complete
in Europe.
He was received with the greatest affa-
bility by the Pope, Benedict the XIVth,
and treated with great distinction by
the Cardinals Spinelli, Passionei, and
Albany, men who did honour to their
rank by their abilities, and their love
for the fine arts. It was at Rome he
became acquainted with Madame de
Stainville* and her husband, who, some
* Barthélemy had the highest opinion of that
respectable lady. A few months before his death
he had traced of her the following picture in a
letter to a friend: "The Countess de Stainville,
"not yet seventeen, inspired those who saw her
"with that profound veneration that is seldom
"shown but to persons who have a long time
"
practised the duties of virtue. Every thing in
her commanded admiration, her age, her face,
"the vivacity and delicacy by which all her ac-
tions were animated and directed; the wish to
please others, and to turn her success to the
*satis-
(ix)
time after, was the famous Duc de
Choiseul, prime minister of Louis the
XVth, and one of the greatest politi-
cians that France ever boasted. The
Duc de Choiseul, who, amongst the qua-
lities of a great statesman, possessed, in
an eminent degree, à faculty of discern-
ing talents and virtues, and who never
forgot his friends, was no sooner in
power than he procured for Barthélemy
the favour of the king. By the pos
session of different places, he soon
found himself in very easy circum-
stances. When the Duke was in dis-
grace, and had retired to his country
seat at Chante-Loupe, in the beautiful
r
"satisfaction of her husband, the worthy object
"of her tenderness and regard; those fine feel-
ings which extended her sensibility to others,
"and made her happy in the happiness of her
friends, or miserable from their woes; and,
"above all, that purity of soul, which never per-
*mitted even an idea of any thing vicious to
"enter her mind.”
6.5
coun-
( x )
་
country of Touraine, along the river
Loire, Barthélemy accompanied him,
and employed his talents, and the charms
of his conversation, for the entertain-
ment of his benefactor. The work of
Anacharsis had employed many years
of his life; but he determined to offer
it to the public, only when he was in-
consolable at the death of the Duke.
The care and attention which his publi-
cation would demand, he hoped, would
divert this melancholy; and, besides,
he would find some consolation in call-
ing into life again his illustrious friend,
and in expressing his admiration for
the Dutchess in the episode of Arsame
and Phedim, in which he has made a
very strong allusion to the lives and
characters of the Duke and Dutchess
de Choiseul.
The most respectable academies and
societies of learned men in Europe had
not waited for that publication before
they
(xi)
they had admitted him into their num-
ber*; but it was at that time that the
most ancient of those associations, the
French Royal Academy, received him as
one of its forty members (August 25,
1789).
The horrid excesses of the French
volution having deprived him of his
most intimate friends, his health was
considerably affected. He had lost a
revenue of about one thousand pounds,
and was reduced to a degree of poverty;
which, nevertheless, did not secure him
against the cruelty of the new tyrants.
He was arrested, and would have been
sent to the scaffold, had not all the lite-
rary people interceded in his favour.
Some time after as a reparation, he was
offered the place of librarian of the
* He was associated to the Royal and Anti-
quarian Societies in London, and to the Acade-
mies of Madrid, Cortone, Pesaro, Hesse-Cassel,
and Marseilles.
National
14
(xii)
National Library, which he thought
proper to refuse. He was then about
eighty years old; and though, every
day he saw his end approaching very
fast, he never ceased to show the greatest
concern for his friends. In his last
moments, he asked for the Epistles of
Horace, but soon his feeble hands let
the book fall; he expired, without any
apparent pain, on the 30th of April,
1795.
The character of Barthélemy was
marked by an extreme modesty; a faith-
ful and constant attachment to his
friends; the mildness of his temper;
the purity of his morals; his perfect
disinterestedness; his constant applica-
tion to study, and his endeavours to
encourage in others the same exertions,
and to promote them to advantageous
employments, according to their abili-
ties. He never showed in company any
sort of pedantry; and, from his na-
tural
(xiii)
tural simplicity and unaffected good
humour, as well as from his social vir-
tues, he deserved the name of homme
de bonne compagnie-and yet this worthy
man had hardly a single friend to attend
him to his grave: where he was con-
veyed in the most melancholy silence,
and without even the least ceremony.
The Treatise on Morals was written
in 1755, and dedicated to Madame
Marie Louise de Lamoignon, sister to
that illustrious and upright magistrate,
Malsherbes. It was composed by Bar-
thélemy for her son, as well as the ro-
mance of Carite and Polydorus. We
shall conclude this sketch of his life
with the following
ANECDOTES.
1.
When Barthélemy had come into more easy cir-
cumstances than he had been at the early period
of his life, and somebody expressed a wonder that
he had no carriage, I would have set up one,"
said Barthélemy, "had I not been afraid of meet-
ing
( xiv)
ing some men of letters, whose accomplish-
"ments I prize more than my own, walking on
« foot."
2.
Doctor Maty wrote to Barthélemy on the sub-
ject of his literary discussion with Doctor Swin-
ton: "What I know, after I had perused both of
your writings, is, that I would rather be in the
<<
wrong with you, than in the right with him;"
pointing at the difference between the amenity of
the Abbé and the rudeness of his antagonist.
3.
The Authors of the Monthly Review have been
greatly mistaken in the interpretation they gave
to the word of Barthélemy, who, shocked at the
horrors committed at the end of the French revo-
lution, called it une révélation. The idea of the
Abbé was-that such enormous cruelties in ci-
vilized nations had been so opposite to his idea of
the human heart, that to have seen them, could
be called une révélation ; by which he meant a
discovery, which certainly could never have been
foreseen by a man of so much mildness as he
was.
+
0
A TREA-
?
A
TREATISE
O N
MORAL S.
INTRODUCTION.
LAW OF THE ANCIENT PERSIANS.
XENOPHON, when he is speaking
of the institutions of the Persians rela-
tive to their youth, says" to give
them an early knowledge of the laws
and the formalities of justice, tribunals
were established in the public schools,
at which youths were accustomed to
B
accuse
( 2 )
accuse such among themselves as of-
fended against the laws of their lit-
tle society; and ingratitude was the
fault punished with the greatest seve-
rity." He adds "the Persians in-
cluded in the crime of ingratitude all
offences committed directly against the
gods, a man's parents, his country, or
his friends."
This admirable custom not only pro-
vided for the practice of a man's du-
ties, but reached the source of all vir-
tue, by rendering his duties habitual
to him. As no one could be wanting
in his duties, without incurring the
disgrace of ingratitude, to cultivate a
sense of gratitude, was to cultivate
every virtue; and thus the Persians ar-
rived at that sublime and luminous prin-
ciple-that virtue should be made the
habit of man.
It is much to be wished that some
person of superior talents should dedi-
cate
( 3 )
cate a great portion of time, and em-
ploy all his powers, to develop this
important truth. It is the basis of
morality, and the only security for
happiness; for when we act from ha-
bitual passion, we act with promptness
and effect; and when passion is duly
regulated, we are happy.
When I have been tempted to hazard
some reflections on this subject, I have
been terrified with its magnitude and
grandeur, compared with the medio-
crity of my talents; but the purity of
my designs and the value of my object
at length relieve my mind from all
reasonable fears. I am willing to give a
proof of my zeal for the interests of per-
sons with whose kindness I am affected
as greatly as I am honored by their es-
teem. I make a sacrifice of my self-
love to their service, being willing,
indeed, to make any sacrifice to the
same object; and if this little work is
B 2
not
(4)
not animated with the grateful senti-
ments that fill my soul, I am persuaded
that my understanding, and not my
heart, is to blame.
I propose, in this Treatise, to discuss
the topics mentioned in the passage I
have quoted from Xenophon; which
are-Religion, our Parents, our Coun-
try, and our Friends.
CHAP.
( 5 )
CHAP. I.
OF RELIGION.
THE silly and disgraceful disputes
of theologians; the ignorance of the
clergy, and the still greater ignorance
of people of fashion; an affectation of
singularity; an extravagant philosophy,
that has risen on the ruins of sober
Reason, were the causes that spread the
present universal neglect and contempt.
of Religion.
An open disdain of every thing that
is holy pervades the conversations, and
still more the writings of the present
day; and it is necessary that you should
be informed of this evil, that you may
be guarded against its effects.
I will not take upon me to lay before
you the proofs of the truth of the
B 3
Chris-
J
( 6 )
Christian religion, for you will find
them ably exhibited in the works of
Pascal, Abbadie, Bossuett, Fénélon, and
other illustrious writers. Yet, I offer
to your serious consideration the follow-
ing reflections: Infidels universally
acknowledge that the morality of the
Christian religion is sublime, although
they reject its mysteries as ridiculous.
"These mysteries," they say, " are in-
comprehensible, and therefore to be
rejected." But it is to be demanded of
them, if there are not in physics and
geometry truths which are incompre-
hensible, but which, nevertheless, we
receive as incontestable. If it were not
demonstrated, that two lines might
eternally approach each other without
ever meeting, it would be deemed im-
possible. That we cannot comprehend
a mystery is therefore no reason for
treating it with ridicule. Believers say
with justice" it is not because the
myste
( 7 )
mysteries of our religion are above our
comprehension, that we receive them
as objects of our faith; it is because God
has revealed them to us, and has com-
manded us to receive them as his word.
He has spoken by the prophets, by
miracles, by the testimony of the first
martyrs, and by the manner in which
the Christian religion was established."
When, instead of an open attack
upon the mysteries of our religion, you
see ridicule cast upon them, tell the
scoffer that he does not even under-
stand the nature of the question, and
to convict him of his ignorance, ask
him-how he would act, if the Su-
preme Being should deign to stand
before him, and command him, in
clear and precise terms, to believe in
the mysteries of the Christian religion?
no doubt, he will say" in such a
case, I would yield obedience." But
we obey, because we are persuaded,
B 4
that
( 8 )
that God formerly spoke to man in this
manner; and if we are deceived, it is
not in believing doctrines that are in-
comprehensible, but in believing that
these points have been revealed. If
infidels, therefore, would reason with
us on sound principles of controversy,
they ought not merely to object to
articles of our belief, but to the motives
on which we adopt them. But this
reasonable course you will never find
them take, since that mode of arguing
would include knowledge they despise,
and would demand a labor to which
they have been unaccustomed to sub-
mit. If they did pursue this course,
they would no longer have objections
to offer, because they would see that
we have due motives for believing in
our mysteries, although in themselves
incomprehensible.
But we may go further: we will
suppose, that the proofs of the truth of
Our
( 9 )
our religion are perfectly balanced by
the objections adduced against them;
then the question is doubtful, and in
that case we ought to practise what
religion prescribes, according to that
maxim which reason has dictated and
its utility sanctioned, and which says—
where there is doubt, the course is to
be taken in which there is least danger.
We may go further still, and put an
extreme case. Suppose, after an accu-
rate examination, some one should ima-
gine he had detected an error in the
principles and motive of our belief,
would it be his. duty to publish this
apparent discovery? Undoubtedly not.
Reason and duty would impose silence
upon him. It has always been said,
and it will ever continue to be repeated,
that religion is necessary to the happi-
ness of man. And what more noble
gift can be made him than precepts
which command him to do no wrong
B 5
to.
( 10 )
to others, to have compassion on their
mistakes, to pardon injuries, to suffer
with fortitude, to cultivate universal
charity, and to be happy in this life, in
the hope of an eternity of happiness.
But these are the maxims of our reli-
gion; and if infidels will not be per-
suaded that it is of divine origin, at
least let it be regarded by them as the
noblest and most beautiful of political
institutions. It is true, religion has
been the pretext for inhuman contests
and unjust wars; but it is no more to
be deemed the author of these evils
than reason or virtue which have often
been abused to the same purposes.
On this subject I would say to men,
"believe," if they had the misfortune
not to believe, I would say, "doubt ;" if
they cannot doubt, "observe inflexible
silence." And may we not safely ask-
what advantage is proposed by light
discourse on this solemn subject? Part
of
( II )
of the audience may join in the laugh
from vicious habit or ill-timed com-
placency, but such conversations ever
afflict men of sense, and give pleasure
only to the superficial. Unhappy will
it be for a nation, when they become
general among the industrious classes
of the people, who are but too much.
exposed to their influence, by the suf-
ferings of their condition, the faults of
their education, and the influence of
example. Will they be kept, by the
mere terrors of justice, within the
bounds that order in society prescribes ?
Who will think himself secure in the
midst of domestics each of whom have
an interest in seizing on his property,
and, perhaps, in taking away his life,
when they have nothing further to do
than to contrive the means of impu-
nity? The laws of man hold back the
hand from wrongs; those of religion
restrain the heart. Have we reason to
B 6
expect
( 12 )
expect that the former are sufficient of
themselves to inspire the love of vir-
tue; when, aided by the latter, they
scarcely produce that effect?
But to disturb the order of society
is not the only effect of indecent de-
clamations against religion; they taint
with despair the minds of the unfortu
nate. No country or condition is with-
out virtuous people, who weep in secret,
from the outrages of fortune, the in-
justice of the wicked, or the natural
evils of life. And who is he that
would tear from them the only conso-
lation that remains ?-that of believing
that all is conducted by the hand of a
God who sees their tears, is full of
compassion for them, and has in store.
for them blessings to compensate for
all their sufferings. If our system be
an illusion, it is a thousand times to be
preferred to the fatal knowledge infidels
would give us in lieu of its delights.
I need
( 13 )
I need not assume the character of a
devotee, nor even a theologian. My
appeal is made to beneficent minds,
to hearts open to compassion. I de-
mand of them to say, what is the cha-
racter of that barbarity that would per-
suade the unfortunate that they are
condemned to be the gratuitous victims
of suffering; and, when they no longer
have any hope in this world, tell them
they are cheated in looking for peace
in another?
You are not to suppose that all who
deny religion have foreseen these con-
sequences; some are betrayed by the
levity of their tempers, or by an at-
tachment to speculative opinions; some
sedulously seek for partisans to support
them against the reproaches of con-
science; while there are others in whom
all just feelings are lost in excess of
sensual enjoyments, and in whom con-
science is annihilated. Infidels of every
con-
( 14 )
dition loudly vaunt their virtue, but it
is not of a kind to be scrupulcusly exa-
mined. What solidity is there in the
virtue that proclaims implacable hatred
to a religion which inculcates, inspires,
recompenses nothing but virtue? and
which, founding all probity upon hu-
man principles, invites us to consider
even those principles as no more than
the prejudice of education? This is an
awful problem for infidels to solve.
If religion were no more than the
work of men's hands, he who first con-
ceived the idea of opening an inter-
course of affection between an Infinite
Being and feeble man, formed the most
beneficent of projects.
The Christian religion, detached from
extraneous things with which men have
confounded it, is the purest system of
morals and the best source of happi-
ness; it enriches the mind with all vir-
tue; it enlarges the circle of virtues;
it
( 15 )
Mikó saluma
it expands the soul, filling it with sweet
and lasting peace: that peace which the
world cannot give nor take away, which
is even unknown to the world, and which
makes us at peace with ourselves and
the whole human race.
CHAP.
( 16 )
CHA P. II.
OF OUR PARENT S.
I WELL know your ardent affection
and esteem for parents in all respects
worthy of your love and veneration;
and I am not about to remind you of a
duty, but to felicitate you on your hap-
piness, which, if it were possible, I
would augment in retracing its image
before you. You will dwell with plea-
sure upon a subject so tenderly regarded
by you, and will pardon the defects of
my picture from veneration for the mo-
tives with which it is drawn.
Nature has deeply impressed upon
the heart of man a lively sentiment re-
lative to the Author of his being, whose
principal character is that exquisite
tenderness which is the most pleasing
bond
( 17 )
bond of the human affections. When
the Supreme Being would excite our
confidence in him, he presents himself
to our view, sometimes under the image
of a kind father ever ready to listen to
the story of our wants, and at others
that of a tender mother, who presses
her child to her bosom. It was not
always by the painting of violent and
irregular passions that the Greek trage-
dies excited terror and pity: they often
delineated the conflicts of tenderness and
affection among relations borne down by
fortune; and these delightful pictures
never failed to draw tears from the eyes
of a people above all others prompt in
seeing and comprehending the truest
touches of nature. In a tragedy of
Euripides, the Greeks are represented
as having resolved to sacrifice Polyxena,
the daughter of Hecuba, on the tomb
of Achilles. After an affecting scene
between the mother and daughter, Po-
lyxena
( 18 )
lyxena passionately beseeches Ulysses
to lead her forth to death, that she may
be spared the sight of her mother's
grief, more intolerable than her own
fate. IIecuba cries out-" Unfortu-
nate woman that I am! My powers
fail me! My knees refuse their sup-
port.-Ah, my child draw near to
me; give me thy hand! give it to me!
-Oh companions! oh friends! why
do you leave me childless!-Alas! I
die."
If our love for near relations is infi-
nitely delightful, its value is increased
by its capacity, which is without
bounds. In a large family, it may be
extended to many without being en-
feebled. Every child is the object of a
generous father's care; and when death
deprives him of one, in vain does he
seek consolation, in the transports of
his grief, from the idea that others still
remain. Nature speaks with a louder
voice
( )
(19
19
2
voice than reason or interest: she re-
claims with invincible power her rights,
in despight of length of time or cir-
What then must be its
force when concentered, as
concentered, as in your
case, in one object !
cumstances.
But it may be asked, how it happens,
that for the most part, we do not find
in children the same degree of affection
towards their parents? Has Nature, whose
system tends to unite beings by the ties
of love, has she miscalculated, in giving
to parents the sensibility she withholds
from children? Undoubtedly not. But
the sensibility of children is diverted
from their parents, by passions which
have their birth at the same time with
reason, but develop themselves, and
grow up more quickly. In infants,
while their affections are yet uncor-
rupted, their love for their parents is
expressed with shouts of joy and vehe-
ment transports. Afterwards, children be-
come
( 20 )
come timid; they shun advice; they
seek for independence.
Of these propensities, the first some-
times has its source in the excessive fear
of offending, the second in pride, and
the last, in that love of liberty in man,
which is naturally extreme. They may
degenerate into vice, and become pro-
ductive of pernicious consequences;
and, unhappily, they appear at an age
when we have not experience to teach
us their evil tendency.
Timidity degenerates easily into a
fault. He offends by habit who has ever
an unreasonable fear of offending; and
the child's heart ought to be open to
the parent who, by kindness, endea-
vours to lessen the distance between
parent and child. And let it not be
asked, what are the expressions fit for
a child's confidence in his parent?
When the heart is moved, it expresses
itself in every action, look, and word;
but
( 21 )
$
but all becomes equivocal when the
path of nature is quitted.
The propriety of restraints is to be
determined by the necessity and mo-
tives which engender them, and
the advantages they propose. Even
harsh restraints may become useful,
since they cultivate patience and doci-
lity; qualities more essential than is
generally allowed in all the different
conditions of life, and which it is im-
possible to acquire after the flexible
years of childhood. In general, good
dispositions are not impatient of re-
straint, because they wish their faults
to be corrected; while vicious children
hate restraint, because they are averse
to amendment.
It proceeds from ignorance, when
there is a desire for premature indepen-
dence. Is it already time to become in-
dependent, when, with the reason little
enlightened by experience, a child sees
no
*
( 22 )
no farther than the present moment,
and little suspects the consequences that
lie hid in the future? What reproaches
may not the child justly make to the
parent that, by rendering it too early
master of itself, has subjected him to
his own passions, or to errors more dan-
gerous even than those passions? And
what is the objection offered to the
authority whose yoke some would ren-
der more easy? This authority requires
an obedience that one is almost ashamed
to rank among duties. It is delightful
to depend upon those whom we love;
to be conducted by their will; and to
sacrifice even our dearest tastes to them.
Unhappy is he who has never made
such sacrifices! His soul has never
known gratitude or friendship: it is
either the sorrowful abode of indiffe-
rence, or a prey to licentious passions.
Let not youth, then, be so unjust as
to regard those to whom they owe their
being
( 23 )
being as severe judges or imperious
masters; they are tender, compas-
sionate, though incorruptible friends;
and for their inflexibility, are to be pre-
ferred to those that are ordinarily called.
friends. Where, among the latter, shall
we find one to be compared to Eucharis,
that worthy mother, whom one of the
Greek philosophers proposed as a mo-
del to the women of Greece. In speak-
ing of her, he says, that he was desi-
rous of giving a portrait of this admi-
rable woman, but that his diligence
attained no further than to give a slight
outline of her excellence.
The birth of Eucharis, says the au-
thor, placed her in the rank of persons
of distinction in Athens, and her accom-
plishments would have set her among
the first of her sex in every country
throughout the universe. At a period
of life commonly given to frivolous
amusements, she was neither dazzled
with
( 24 )
1
with the opulence and splendor that
surrounded her, nor touched with the
pleasures of which her own exquisite
graces made her habitation the happy
seat her heart, as virtuous as it was
alive to sensibility, cherished one dar-
ling object. She had a son, who, with
a fine and interesting form, had received
from nature those dispositions which
prepare the human character for excel-
lence, and those dangerous passions which
too often confine men to mediocrity.
Eucharis imposed upon herself the task
of deciding, by the education of her son,
in this fearful alternative; her husband,
one of the most respectable senators of
Athens, approved of her design, and
appeared confident of her success. She
assembled round her son masters in the
finer arts, and the sciences: she directed
their zeal with her judgment; she gave
an interest to their lessons by her pre-
sence; she ordered, that he should be
accus-
( 25 )
accustomed to view and comprehend
the great outline of things; and to
be left to himself as much as possible
to fill up the picture; and to be less
satisfied with any instances of success,
than with exertion and perseverance.
She reserved to herself the task of
forming his morals and cultivating his
affections; and it was not by the mul-
titude and severity of precepts that she
proposed to succeed, but by select and
fertile principles, the developing of
which she committed to his own care.
She corrected lighter faults by a word,
a look, or an example, happily intro-
duced; and heavier offences by a ri-
gour, whose worst effects fell upon
herself for then it was that she was
most truly to be pitied. Sometimes
she found it necessary to withhold from
her son the too evident marks of her
extreme affection, at the hazard of de-
troying herself with the concealment
C
of
( 26 )
of sentiments that he was about to abuse,
and which were ever ready to escape
from her mouth. At length, she was
compelled to disguise her sorrow under
the appearance of resentment and in-
dignation, till her culpable son should
doubt if he had not dried up the
sources of her love for him. Her con-
flicts were severe, and she soon fled
from the observation of all eyes, to in-
dulge her fears and afflictions in secret.
When she was alone, free to give way
to her thoughts, she saw nothing in
their object but motives of despair. It
was in vain, then, she imagined, she
had taken so lively an interest in her
son's happiness; in vain, had sacrificed
her enjoyments, her repose, and her
health. The past and the present of-
fered nothing to her view but a fright-
ful mixture of good and evil. And
what was to become of her unhappy
son, if the evil prevailed? Far from
finding
(27)
W
2
K
3
finding consolation in the future, it
was the subject of new terrors. "Ah."
said she, rather than see him abandon
the path of virtue, may he"-She
was about to finish the expression of
her wish, when she heard a secret
voice, saying" Make your choice,
Eucharis. Consent that your son live.
disgraced, or the wish that was escaping
from your mouth shall be instantly
accomplished."-"Ah! hold," she cried,
"let him live, let him be virtuous;
and if it is blood the Gods must have,
let his mother be the victim !”
Eu-
The Gods were moved to compassion
with her noble disinterestedness.
charis wished to transfuse her soul into
her son, and die; but in his birth he
had imbibed her spirit, and time only
was wanting to remove the imperfec-
tions of youth. The Gods hastened
the period of his reformation; his mind
rapidly expanded itself, and appeared
C 2
such
( 28 )
such as it was by nature, full of sensi-
bility, bold and active: it displayed
grandeur of ideas, combined with taste
and judgment; and an absolute love
of virtue and of truth. Eucharis re-
ceived the sweet price of her labours;
her husband rejoiced in the confidence
he had placed in her; and her son,
penetrated more and more with love
and esteem for her, wanted only words.
to express unbounded gratitude.
The author adds, that he became
one of the principal ornainents of
Athens; that he was incessantly occu-
pied in causing his glory to be reflected
upon his parents, and that he was more
sensibly touched by their approbation
than by the applauses of all Greece.
Most youths would be surprised to
hear this language; they see not
far removed from them a time when
those that gave them being, almost in-
different spectators of their pains and
plea-
( 29 )
pleasures, require from them nothing
more than cold and sterile marks of
their good breeding, rather than their
love or respect: but such is not the
beneficent design of Nature; she de-
mands, that when we are ourselves be-
come parents, we should never feel
our happiness more complete than in
adding to the happiness of a father and
mother, who have often sacrificed to
ours; that we draw nearer the ties that
unite us to them; and that when death.
shall break these ties, we shall feel, in
the midst of distinctions and honors,
a want in being no longer able to share
their glory and benefit with our pa-
rents.
May these inestimable truths, a thou-
sand times preferable to the vain boasts
of science, pervade every heart, to
make one mind of every family, and
one family of the universe!
C 2
CHAP.
( 30 )
CHA P. III.
ON OUR COUNTRY.
IT is said that the love of one's coun-
try prevails most in a republic, and a
sentiment of honour in a monarchy;
but it has never been asserted, that un-
der this last form of government it
would not be advantageous to inspire
youth with an enlightened love of their
country. This passion, united in the
same breast with a sentiment of honour,
would produce the greatest atchieve-
ments, accompanied with a manner
that would render them the more illus-
trious: the two principles might even
tend to perfect each other; the senti-
ment of honour might be freed from
its prejudices, sometimes so hurtful to
the state, and the love of one's coun-
try
( 31 )
try of that ferocity which is not less.
injurious.
In a monarchy, the love of one's
country is seldom the subject of praise;
doubtless, because it is a passion sup-
posed to be inimical to the authority
of the Prince, as if his interests could
be at variance with those of the coun-
try, and as if it was not his noblest
and most splendid prerogative to be its
father and benefactor.
He who loves his country will desire
to see it respected abroad by its power
or by advantageous alliances, and tranquil
at home by an equitable administration
of its laws, and a spirit of humanity
and justice spread among the people.
The country, therefore, will need able
generals, and men skilled in its poli-
tical interests to manage its foreign
concerns; while those who stand be-
tween the throne and the people should
be men acquainted with the interests
C 4
of
( 32 )
of both, and should possess an inflexi-
ble integrity, watching over individual
as well as public interests, so that every
member of the state, in whatever sta-
tion, may be made to concur to general
happiness in the pursuit of his own
particular interests. Hence will result
an extensive chain of duties in the
several occupations of life; and hence
will also result, if I be not deceived, a
love of the country, which, in other
words, is a love of our duties, a noble
and disinterested passion, which, far
from depending upon the opinion of
others for its existence, exults, when it
happens to be inisrepresented and re-
viled, in its own integrity.
You, my young friend, for whose
benefit these reflexions are designed;
you, whose interests fill me with regret
that my words fall so far short of the
eloquence worthy of the truths which
penetrate my mind; you, whose happi-
ness
( 33 )
E
ہو
2
ness is my desire: oh! never forget that
the exercise of your talents and virtues
is due to your country! that the career
to which you are called is of a noble
kind; and that whatever be the parti-
cular path into which you may be con-
ducted by fortune or choice, you will
have duties to perform and benefits to
confer. Leave to mean and trivial
minds the wretched privilege of lan-
guishing through life in the bosom of
opulence and ease: permit them to
grovel on the earth, and drag with
them to the tomb the shame of a sen-
sual and unprofitable life. Nor do I
fear to invite you to a worthier course;
but you cannot be too often told, that
to pursue it with constancy and renown,
it is now in your youth that you must
prepare to enter on it. Soon will your
parents be called upon to decide on the
occupation of your future life. No
doubt, their choice will be directed by
C 5
wis-
( 34 )
}
wisdom. It is for you to make it
amongst the most glorious; and, with-
out anticipating it, I will offer such
remarks to your notice as appear to me
proper for this critical moment of your
youth.
I am of opinion, that you should
begin by forming a system of life for
yourself: I mean, the directing the
whole course of your views and actions
to one determinate end; by which
means you will have the greatest secu-
rity possible against dissipation, and
will, in the completest manner, enjoy
the controul of your powers. Our fa-
culties insensibly yield to habit, and
easily acquire that regularity and order
which gives so much facility to our
execution, and effect to our labours.
The system of which I speak is the epi-
tome of him who is actuated by it;
you readily foresee his conduct, but it
is in vain you would comprehend the
views
( 35 )
or foretel the actions of a man who
does nothing upon principle, and whose
deeds are solitary, capricious, and often
compounded of contending qualities.
Those in whom imagination predomi-
nates are subject to a defect in system;
imagination, the most imperious of our
faculties, overleaps all obstacles to her
views, till at length she inthrals herself
in the number of her unfinished pro-
jects. He who thus gives the reins to
imagination becomes fickle, and has
no command of his talents; he is soon
incapable of conducting others, and
too often reduced to the necessity of
being conducted himself.
To give you an abstract of the sys-
tem I recommend; it is comprised in
this short rule-to do with ardour
whatever it is your duty to do, and to
abstain with constancy from all things
your duty prohibits.
C 6
When
( 36 )
When this general disposition is ge-
nerated, it remains to enquire into the
duties that are prescribed to us. For
your part, the sciences to which you
have access will tend to form your taste
and disposition; method and accuracy
in your mode of thinking you will ac-
quire from the study of geometry;
physics will unveil to your eyes the
wonders of nature, and raise your
thoughts to their author; history will
supply you with instructions, and give
you an insight into the events that are
before you; the great writers of anti-
quity will give you models of that
sound eloquence which becomes every
age and country; and the contempla-
tion of the finer arts will ornament
your mind with graces, which, without
being necessary to every species of ex-
cellence, give a thousand advantages to
their possessors. It is not every part
of a lyre that sounds, but every part
con-
(37)
concurs to the formation and develop
ment of the sound. If you have the
ambition to be a grace to society, or
the nobler ambition to be serviceable
to your country, you will find nothing
useless in the several departments of
your education; and in the midst of
distaste, that will imperceptibly affect
some of the hours of your studies, you
will understand what Horace says in
the following verse:-
Condo & compono quae mox depromere possim:
Prejudice, in the different degrees of
reputation which it gives to various
acquirements, often wounds our reason:
prejudice gives the reputation of genius
to works of little utility, and offers the
cold praise of good intention to talents.
employed for the public benefit. A
writer of genius in the Belles-Lettres,
or an artist who displays a cultivated
taste in his productions, gains the ad-
L
mira-
( 38 )
miration of his own age, and extends
his fame to posterity. An enlightened
magistrate, by his wise administration
of the laws, acquires the esteem of his
countrymen, and engenders a desire in
those who are under his jurisdiction
to be for ever placed under so equitable
and beneficent an authority: but, with-
out consulting your heart, judge which
of these is the most serviceable to his
country, and the most deserving of
lasting fame.
Talents, usefully employed, are pre-
ferable to those engaged in objects that
serve merely for our amusement; but,
far from recommending the latter to be
neglected, you are to consider them as
adding splendour to the former, in like
manner as a fine day displays the most
beautiful pictures to advantage for
this reason, the first fruits of labour
should be dedicated to them. You
must not give them too important a
place
( 39 )
place in your feelings and judgment,
but they must be among your acquire-
ments, for they are necessary to your
success and happiness. Remember that
the ancients held that the graces be-
stowed on men not only what is pleas-
ing and elegant, but wisdom and elo-
quence.
Plato exhorts his disciple
Xenocrates to offer sacrifices to them.
Never forget, that the orators among
the Greeks and Romans did not ne-
glect these exterior qualities which
give force to the art of persuasion.
Call to mind Demosthenes, submitting.
to patient efforts to correct a defect
in his pronunciation, and Cicero learn-
ing to declaim from the actor Roscius.
It was by uniting the acquirement of
the Belles-Lettres to a profound know-
ledge of the laws that several of our
magistrates in the last age obtained an
immortal reputation. How delightful
is it to me to cite examples in your own
fami-
(40)
family! The president Lamoignon gave
his serious hours to the laws, and his
intervals of leisure to the Belles-Lettres.
Often, when he had pronounced deci-
sions in the sanctuary of justice, which
are still respected as oracles there, he
departed to converse on subjects of
literature with the most distinguished:
in its circles. It is true, talents without
virtue, were never favourably received
by him; but Bourdaloue and Despréaux
partook of his confidence and esteem;
he was the subject of many encomiums.
during his life; and as they were vir-
tuous men who praised him, encomiums
of the same kind have been dedicated
to his memory. Virtue, justice, and the
muses, placed his portrait in the temple
of fame; and have preserved a place
for his descendant, which hope con-
stantly watches with care.
It is of little importance to know
what is required of you, if you have
no:
( 41 )
no zeal to discharge your duties with
honour. At your years, every moment
is precious; and such moments as you
lose are a deduction from the pleasure
and utility of every part of your re-
maining life. A period will arrive,
when, busied in important occupations,
you will have no leisure for acquire-
ments that are a solace in employment;
and you will
regret the time when they
might have been yours at an easy rate.
If you should have nothing to reproach
yourself with on that subject, you will
be the first who had no reason to com-
plain of neglect of opportunities in
youth for making provision for the hap-
piness of manhood and age.
How much is it to be wished that
application in youth were the fruit of
passion, and not the produce of advice
and constraint. It cannot be too fully
understood, that it is the energy of
passion that makes great men; it is an
ardent
( 42 )
ardent and constant passion which
raises and supports them in every effort;
it is passion which figures to them a
perfection that seems to retire as they
approach it; and it is often in under-
taking things beyond their powers
that they call forth all the powers they
have. This affection, of which I speak,
embraces the soul, flashes in the eyes,
and enters into the voice of a superior
man whenever he speaks of its object.
If it sometimes happens that it does
not manifest itself in the manners of a
man of genius, it is no less active
within. M. de Turenne, although cold
in his manners, felt the flame no less-
in his soul without it, he had wanted
the genius that marks his character;
since genius itself is that vehement
sentiment which spreads light through
the mind.
What difference is there between a
man who, throwing himself with irre-
sisti-
( 43 )
។
S
*
sistible passion into a grand career,
rushes forward over every obstacle, and
he who indolently suffering himself to
be dragged into it, is impeded by every
difficulty? I do not speak of that dis-
graceful indolence which nothing can
seduce from its own sensual enjoyment,
and which is to be delivered over to
universal contempt; but of that indo-
lence which is dangerous even to men
of talents, suspending for a while the
functions of the soul, and plunging it
into a reverie in which it beholds no-
thing but indistinct and useless images.
He who gives himself up to these
dreams soon weakens the habit of think-
ing deeply, and sees with agony the
hour arrive of some necessary labour
that requires intense thought: in vain
does he endeavour to remedy the evil,
or to disguise his imbecility by tempo-
rary efforts, and by an appearance of
facility in the execution of his work;
ሰ
his.
( 44 )
his efforts are inconstant and of short
duration; his facility produces abor-
tions, while his supreme fault, frequent-
ly combated, but always returning with
fresh force, condemns him to a subal-
tern rank, when he had powers to give
lustre to the highest.
You do not perform all you ought,
when you
do not perform all you can.
Two young men enter at the same time
the path of glory; the talents of one
are inferior, but he endeavours to sup-
ply the defect by an ardour for employ-
ment, for occupation. The eyes of the
public are upon them, and compare
their progress. The youth with supe-
rior talents will be little admired if he
does not excel the other, and will be
contemptible, if he does not equal
him.
You will see that the application I
recommend is as far as possible from
that promptitude which does every
thing
(
45 )
thing by sallies. A torrent that rushes
over a valley does not fertilize it. The
great task is, to submit to labour with
patience, with difficulty, with con-
stancy, and never to desert an object
of study till we know all it includes.
Augustus, whose advice it was to pro-
ceed, but to proceed with no more
speed than constancy, is among the
princes who have done the most, and
who did every thing in the most effec-
tual manner.
I have given you some ideas, in a
very general way, on the means of per-
forming your duties; but I ought not
to conclude without speaking of that
spirit of love and benevolence which I
regard as one of the means of being
useful to one's country. It is a tem-
per that is natural to the human cha-
racter, and that ought to be restored
to society, from which it has been ba-
nished by our passions and prejudices:
it
( 46 )
1
it would prevent men from being for
ever at war with each other, from open-
ing their hearts to jealousies that so
cruelly disturb their repose, and from
confounding the errors of the judg-
ment with the crimes of the heart. I
know there are false and detestable men
in the world, and, far from throwing a
veil over their vices, I would have all
people of worth publicly assembled to
tear the masks from their visages; but
as to the generality of men, they have
more of weakness and inconstancy than
malignity; an irrefragable proof of
which is to be found in the sincere ho-
mage which, in all ages, is paid to
virtue.
Beneficence or humanity, according
to Cicero, is a part of that probity
which, Plato says, men would inevitably
become enamoured of, if its beauty
could be distinguished by the eyes of
the body. To give a more perfect idea
of
( 47 )
>
of this passion, I may add, that it ne-
ver decays. A passion for sensual plea-
sures, or even a taste for the arts and
sciences, is often satiated, and wears
away insensibly; but beneficence is
never extinguished, never decreases by
· time.
The emperor Titus, whose youth
threatened nothing but misery to the
world, was called the delight of man-
kind, because it was his desire that no
day should pass without being marked
by some benefit conferred by him on
others.
There is no individual who may not
become a Titus in the sphere which
limits his power. Beneficence is not
expressed only by splendid donations,
or distinguished patronage, but it is
infinitely diversified, according to the
wants of men. A single word of con-
solation; advice given with gentleness
and good-will; trifling marks of respect;
are
( 48 )
are, in their turns, expressions of bene-
ficence, when they are informed by the
passions of a feeling heart. Be zealous
to render services to others, in despight
of themselves, and, as often as you
can, unknown to them; and remember
that, in whatever condition man is
placed, his obligation to do good re-
mains, whilst there remains another
man whose misfortunes he can alle-
viate.
How much more is this duty imposed
upon all who occupy distinguished sta-
tions in society! Imagine yourself to
be in one of these, and look forward
to the future. Behold families you have
rendered happy by your services, vir-
tuous men you have saved from the
hand of oppression, fellow-creatures
whose lives are owing to your cares, and
the unfortunate who, being out of the
reach of all remedy but the sympathy
of an affectionate heart, saw yours
sym-
( 49 )
-
sympathize with them. See around
you a multitude eager to associate their
souls to yours, and who never turn their
eyes to you but with looks of gratitude
and love. Ah what a spectacle! The
presence of the ungrateful shall not
disturb your repose; they will fly from
your path, or, if they dare insult you
with their presence, they will avenge
you with the internal sadness they feel
for it is in vain that the ungrateful
arm themselves with effrontery: no-
thing effaces from the soul the know-
ledge of a benefit received, and it must
either console itself with gratitude, or
seek a remedy in the pangs of hatred,
A
3
}
D CHAP.
( 50 )
}
was
CHA P. IV.
OF OUR FRIENDS.
IN
one of the most beautiful countries
of Greece was a temple, whose archi-
tecture was simple and majestic; it
consecrated to friendship, and
night and day incense was burnt before
the altar; but this was offensive instead
of being acceptable to the divinity of
the place: although the temple was
incessantly crowded, the goddess per-
ceived none but mercenary votaries,
whose professions were insincere, or
whose friendship was corrupt in its
principle.
One day she cried to a rich man, the
friend of Croesus, that presented him-
self at her altar-" Begone with thy
splendid offerings; they are improperly
laid
( 51 )
**
laid before me, they are meant for for-
tune." She replied to an Athenian,
who called himself the friend of Solon
"Thy vows are the offspring of thy
vanity in uniting thyself to an illus-
trious man, thou seekest to conceal thy
vices, and share in his glory." She said
to two women, who closely embraced
each other at the foot of her statue-
"A mutual love of pleasures unites
you; but your hearts are kept asunder
with jealousy, and soon will speak out
with open hatred."
At length, two inhabitants of Syra-
cuse, named Damon and Pythias, pre-
sented themselves before the goddess,
and, in broken words, expressed the
sentiments of a sincere and tender
friendship. "I receive
“I receive your offerings,"
she answered," for they come from the
hands of virtue; but this shall not be
your sole distinction; I abandon this
building, too long sullied with impious
D 2
sacri-
( 52 )
#
sacrifices, and henceforth will have no
hearts. Return
other temple but your hearts.
be happy; you will soon have need of
my aid, which shall not be denied you.
You shall shew to the tyrant of Syra-
cuse, to this generation, to posterity,
of what friendship is capable in pure
minds."
Pythias was, soon after, condemned
to die by Dionysius, with whom to be
accused, was to be guilty. Pythias
demanded of the tyrant a few days, to
settle some important affairs in a neigh-
bouring city. Dionysius granted his re-
quest, on a condition which he thought
could not be performed; he required a
friend to be put into his hands, who
should die in the place of Pythias, if
he did not return on the appointed
day, Damon joyfully became an hos-
tage for his friend.
The day arrives: the people assem-
ble; they blame, they pity Damon,
who
a
( 53 )
who walks tranquilly to the scaffold:
too certain that his friend is on his
return, and too happy, if he should not
arrive in time. The sword of the exe-
cutioner is about to be raised, when
the cries of the multitude announce
the arrival of Pythias. He flies to the
spot; he sees the arm of the execu-
tioner already lifted up; he throws
himself into the arms of Damon, and,
in the midst of embraces and tears,
they contend which shall die for the
other. The crowd shout with joy; weep
with compassion. The tyrant, for the
first time in his life, is touched with
pity; he precipitates himself from his
throne, and, bidding them live, de-
mands to be the partaker of their glori-
ous friendship.
Men talk of friendship, and profane
the name by connections that are the
effect of chance, and the work of a
day. A slight conformity of tastes and
D 3
pur-
(54)
pursuits brings two opposite characters
together. In the commencement of the
union, the friends, as they call them-
selves, discover in each other every
thing they desire; but the illusion soon
passes away, and each is seen by the
other as he really is, or, perhaps, with
his faults exaggerated. Some are be-
trayed by friends; and they renounce
friendship wholly, or seek to be more
fortunate in a change of objects.
As the generality of men pass the
greater part of their life without re-
flection, and the remainder of it in
scandalizing others, rather than in stu-
dying others or themselves; they know
little of the real nature of the friend-
ship they contract. If they dare put
the question to themselves of the sin-
cerity of the friends with whom they
think themselves surrounded, they
would tremble to perceive the deceitful
appearances, which they took for eter-
nal
( 55 )
nal ties. The prospect would be deso-
lating to their hearts; for nothing is
more humiliating, than to be compelled
to acknowledge to ourselves that we
have no friends: but it would compen-
sate for the suffering, if it induced
them to look around, and form friend-
ships for which they need not blush.
It will be useful to you, to be fur-
nished with some rules to guide you
in your future choice of friends
I offer you the following observations:
and
1st. You must beware how you take
brilliant talents for a sufficient founda-
tion for friendship. As wit and genius
often seek only to display themselves,
and seldom endure superior, or even
equal talents near them, they are natu-
rally destructive of the equality neces-
sary to friendship. Wit is almost al-
ways inimical to friendship, drawing its-
nourishment from self-love, and care--
lessly or maliciously wounding the feel-
D 4
ings
( 56 )
ings of others. Friendship is more
consistent with that delicacy of temper
which never speaks but to give pleasure
by flattery, and which, nevertheless, ap-
pears to speak immediately from the
heart. But the reason of the delight
we receive from this disposition to flat-
ter is, its appearance of feeling and
sincerity; and you have always to en-
quire, if its seductive graces be not
the fruits of politeness, or even of hy-
pocrisy. The same, with little deduc-
tion, may be said of more solid talents,
whose suffrage in your favour is so
much the more dangerous if insincere,
because it appears to be the result of
judgment. Talents, and a love for the
arts and sciences, give a grace and
sweetness to friendship; they are pro-
perly its embellishments; but must not
be relied on, to form its sole founda-
tion.
2d.
( 57 )
2d. Affection is the only bond of
friendship, and the heart its only source
-but as the heart is naturally impe-
tuous, and is always in search of objects
of its attachment, your choice may be
unhappy, if you do not inform and
regulate its movements.
3d. Minds are permanently united
by kindred dispositions, and a mutual
love of virtue. Neither of these quali-
ties can be wanting in a solid friend-
ship. Two men eminently virtuous,
but with opposite tempers, may have
infinite esteem for each other, but ne-
ver an ardent friendship; and vicious
men, of similarity of disposition, will
form no friendships with each other
but what are frail and unfortunate.
These are general observations, that
will aid you in your choice of friends.
There remains one which I was on the
point of omitting, so disgraceful to
human nature is it to acknowledge its
D 5
neces-
( 58 )
necessity. You must not too warmly
flatter yourself to be united in a lasting
friendship with men who have the same
objects of ambition with yourself, or are
treading the same road to fortune and
to fame. It demands incessant effort to
preserve the purity of friendship exposed
to jealousy and intrigue; and we must
not imagine that our disinterestedness
loses nothing of its strength in these
contests, even when it triumphs.
A steady friendship presupposes a
knowledge of the human heart; and
it will be difficult to gain a true friend
without long experience of his charac-
ter. Sudden and violent expressions of
attachment are to be mistrusted, as hav-
ing their source in insincerity, whose
detection desolates the feeling heart.
Virtue is not so eager to ally herself-
modest and timid, she is backward to
express herself, or to make advances
where
( 59 )
where she may afterwards have to re-
treat.
Mistrust instances of friendship from
an unworthy character. You will see
examples of equity among the most
unworthy; of wisdom in minds usually
governed by accident; and of huma-
nity in obdurate and cruel characters.
In friendship, the thing required is not
the light and passing flame of imagi-
nation, but the constant warmth of
reason. When you have often visited
the recesses of his heart, and every
proof has served to shew it with new
value, then you have found another
self; you begin to live in another's
being. From this moment, a disparity
of birth, rank or fortune disappears,
except when sometimes they are able
to give a new charm to the union. How
delightful is it to remind a person that
we love of the superiority which he
has forgotten!
1
D 6
Our
( 60 )
Our friends often perceive our inte-
rests when we mistake them; they are
watchful as ourselves over our reputa-
tion; and enter into our plans, or cor-
rect their defects. When any scheme.
is to be executed for our benefit, their
zeal no longer acknowledges any bounds,
and is only increased by obstacles;
and they do not even hesitate to per-
form offices that would be degrading,
if they were not ennobled by friendship.
Delightful are such sacrifices to the
heart!
Hatred and envy will eagerly seek to
display our faults, and flattery will af
fect to find none. Friendship does not
pry into our defects, and, finding them,
is sincerely afflicted; but she is not
satisfied with useless sorrow, she is
equally zealous to conceal our errors
from the public, and to correct them
in secret. The reproofs of a friend are
never severe, nor rude; being dictated
by
( 61 )
by esteem and love, they are uttered
with a deference which, pointing out
our faults, still leaves to us the power
of turning them into subjects of
triumph.
When two persons are informed
with a sincere friendship, they deem it
almost a theft to enjoy pleasures which
cannot be communicated to both; and
when it necessarily happens from the
absence of one, how much is the en-
joyment of the other embittered by
the reflection, that his friend is not
present to add to its value by partaking
of it. Honours and distinctions no
otherwise affect a noble mind than as
they justify the esteem of friends.
But there is a privilege of friendship
which is still greater. If it augments
our pleasures and happiness, it also di-
minishes our sorrows, and counteracts
misfortune. If we look at a man un-
der affliction, and observe those who
are
( 62 )
are brought by politeness to condole
with him, if we consider their embar-
rassment, their coldness and constraint,
can we be surprised that they fail to
lessen his sorrow? A weariness in the
discharge of the irksome duty is the
only thing to be discovered in their
conduct, and the treachery of their
professions is seen, notwithstanding the
exterior of their civility.
A true friend speaks a different lan-
guage; penetrated with the grief of
the object of his love, his tears, his
words, his silence, are all eloquent, and
his soul, mingling with that of the
sufferer, gives him new life and cou-
rage.
In lighter afflictions, the very pre-
sence of a friend is sufficient to restore
tranquillity to the mind. It is thus
that we see those stars, which fable has
consecrated to Castor and Pollux, be-
nignly smile, after the storm they are
said
(63)
said to have subdued; and this fiction
informs us, that even the most raging
elements acknowledge the influence of
friendship.
I know it will be objected to me,
that friendship, cultivated to the ex-
treme I am supposing, would become
a burthen to us; it will be said, that
we have sorrows enough that are per-
sonal and inevitable, without making
those of others our own. But I ask-
have we a power to be indifferent? If
you were destined to live a solitary
being on Mount Caucasus, or in the
deserts of Africa, perhaps nature would
have kindly withheld from you a feel-
ing heart; but if she had given you
a sympathizing temper, sooner than
not have felt, you would have made
acquaintance with tigers, and attached
yourself to stones. Sensibility is im-
posed upon us by nature, and all our
duty is to employ it on worthy objects.
It
( 64 )
It is true, that sensibility makes us
sometimes taste of bitterness; but have
not all the passions their evils? and is
there no compensation, when we suffer
at once for nature and for virtue?
What we endure from friendship is
unaccompanied with perplexity or re-
morse. It is a tender impression which
renders our friends dearer to us, and, in
that sweet effect, gives us a secret si-
lent compensation. The soul finds
something in this kind of suffering to
which it attaches itself; and whatever
it becomes attached to, is one more
added to its blessings.
There is, however, one affliction in
friendship which nothing can soften.
In losing a true friend, we see, for the
first time, the whole extent of the
blessing we have enjoyed; and thence-
forth there is a void in the heart that
night and day is its terror and torment.
But let us banish this sad image, or
rather,
( 65 )
rather, let us contemplate it to our
advantage, by regarding our friends
while they live with the same eyes we
shall cast upon their memories when
dead; let us consecrate to friendship
all the moments we can honestly with-
draw from other duties-delicious mo-
ments! which approach so slowly, and
pass away so rapidly; when every word
that is spoken is sincere, and no pro-
mise of future love and service is faith-
less; when the unreserved heart gives
importance to every trifle, and utters
secrets that become new ties of love;
when even silence proves that two kin-
dred minds may be happy by the mere
presence of each other!-Nothing is
said; but there are two friends in pre-
sence of each other!
The union of two kindred souls is
like a fine day, from the sun rising
till noon, for friendship knows of no
decline.
If
( 66 )
If you demand of me rules to guide
you in the discharge of the duties of
friendship, and to point out how far
your sacrifices for another may rea-
sonably extend, I ansswer-Be most
careful in your choice of a friend, but
afterward repose wholly on your mu-
tual feelings; for the decision of the
heart is not only more prompt, but
more sure than that of the judgment.
Should it fortunately happen, that a
young man finds in his parents the
qualities that would attach him to a
friend, he ought to employ all his
power to belong to this new union;
and he will be but too happy to love
from choice those he is bound to love
by gratitude. In that case, indeed, the
picture I have given you of friendship
will be indeed too feeble.
There are other connections which
you will find yourself obliged to con-
tract in society, and which indeed it is
useful
( 67 )
useful to multiply; they may be con-
sidered as partaking of the nature of
friendship, when they are founded on
esteem, and suppose a resemblance, ra-
ther than a conformity of character:
but, as they possess not rights in com-
mon with friendship, nor beget like
confidence, they demand great circum-
spection to render them useful or dura-
ble. If I be not deceived, a single and
very simple rule will direct you in this
matter-it is, as much as possible, to
respect the self-love of others in all
transactions to the most minute, and
without an appearance of paying that
attention to it; for an avowed respect
is offensive, by shewing a man that his
self-love is detected.
Among the Romans, it was the cus-
tom for a young man, in his very early
years, to attach himself to certain se-
nators respectable for their age, their
knowledge and employments. Fron
their
( 68 )
their conversations he imbibed the
principles of wisdom, and a love of
employment: he availed himself of
their experience, and thence soon ac-
quired a maturity of mind that made
him, in his turn, useful to his country.
It is to be wished, that this excellent
custom were established among us;
and that young men, instead of the
frivolous connections they form, should
dedicate their time to the company of
men distinguished by their stations and
virtues. They would begin such con-
nections with an admiration of their
models, and would very often conclude
by superior excellence.
I do not wish, however, that they
should wholly sacrifice the amusements
of their youth to austere conversations.
All affectation is ridiculous; and that
wisdom only is amiable and solid which
is happily mingled with relaxations.
consistent with its character.
I have
( 69 )
I have only to conclude, by inviting
you most deeply to reflect, that the
preceding observations are no more
than a development, in some degree, of
this truth-that it is in the heart that
the whole man resides, and there only
it is he can expect to find his peace,
his honour, and his happiness.
END OF TREATISE ON MORALS.
CARITE AND POLYDORE.
CARITE
AND
POLYDORU S.
CHAP. I.
PISISTRATUS was the friend and
minister of Egeus, king of Attica;
and when a cruel war was waged by Mi-
nos, king of Crete, against that monarch,
Pisistratus was the support of the throne,
and the saviour of his country.
Sometime afterwards, when Attica
began to recover from the evils of the
late war, Pisistratus retired from the
court, not so much to enjoy the repose
he had dearly earned as to fly from a
place
E
( 74 )
place where his services were forgotten,
and his virtues and talents had become
obnoxious.
At a small distance from Athens, on
the left of the port Pireus, was a delight-
ful eminence, which the gratitude of that
city had long before dedicated to Nep-
tune; and to a temple built on the
spot, in the simple style of the Dorians,
the people resorted in crowds, on cer-
tain days of the year, to thank the god
for his protection.
In that happy region prevailed an
eternal spring; the verdure of the trees
never declined; and the pleasing sound.
of falling waters, the freshness of the
air, and a sweet sensation that flowed
into the soul on approaching the conse-
crated ground, conspired to announce.
the presence of a beneficent deity.
It was on a spot at the foot of this
beautiful hill that Pisistratus sought a
retreat from the injustice of men, and
the
(75)
the ingratitude of his country. The
observations and reflections of many
years had prepared him for a change
of fortune; he saw how little is to be
relied on the love of a nation, however
dearly and honourably won; and a still
voice had often repeated within him-
that it would be a misfortune to be
born with a virtuous temper, if virtue
itself did not communicate a happiness.
at once independent of accident, and
free from corruption.
The friends that surrounded Pisistra-
tus during his possession of power had
disappeared; his household gods and
an only child, were all the companions
of his retreat. This child, who was a
boy, and whose name was Polydorus,
had scarcely passed the years of infancy.
Sostrate, his mother, died very shortly
after she gave him birth; and the un-
happy event bound the father more
closely to Polydorus, the pledge of the
E 2
sweet-
( 76 )
t
sweetest of unions. Pisistratus was no
sooner disengaged from other objects,
than he gave his time wholly to the
worship of the gods, and the education
of his son; and the man, whose life
had been long employed in controuling
the fate of a kingdom, now found there
were occupations sufficiently large and
elevated in the duties of a father and
preceptor.
Not far distant from his habitation,
lived a young widow, whose name was
Sterope; she had retired to that soli-
tude, to weep for the death of Chore-
phontes, her husband, who had been
slain by Androgeus, in the beginning
of the late war. Carite, her daughter,
although no more than five years old,
already took a share in her mother's
grief; often folding her in her little
arms, and kissing away her tears, while
she cried, "Ah! mother, do not die
and leave me! live for my sake, for
my
( 77 )
my poor father's sake!"-" My child!"
Sterope would answer, may the gods
spare you, to preserve the image of my
husband; and to increase, if it be pos-
sible, the tenderness of my remem-
brance of him."
The neighbourhood of their habita-
tions, and the resemblance of their
sorrows, soon brought Sterope and Pi-
sistratus acquainted; nor were the pity
that springs from the sight of misfor-
tune, nor the interest inspired in honest.
minds by the presence of virtue, the
only motives that united them in friend-
ship; for each of them had known by
experience, that the unfortunate have
no suitable companions but the unfor-
tunate:
Their friendship became an intimate
and sacred union, whose foundation
was mutual esteem, and whose cement
was ever increasing sympathy. Pisis-
tratus had not passed the age when men
E 3
are
( 78 )
are still prone to the passion of love;
and Sterope was so young, she had but
just entered it; yet both would sooner
have renounced the pleasure of seeing
each other, than again have entertained
the thought of love. They were not
called upon for the sacrifice; for the
images of the departed wife and de-
parted husband still existed respectively
in their hearts, to the utter exclusion
of other lovers.
It was not to be wondered at, that a
lively affection grew up between Poly-
dorus and Carite, for the two families
were now no more than one: and the
children were not only of the same age,
but there was also the strongest con-
formity both in their tempers and pur-
suits. Pisistratus already loved the
daughter of Sterope as if she had been
his own; and Carite was not dearer to
her mother than was the boy of her
friend. Sterope divided her time be-
tween
( 79 )
tween them in such cares as became a
mother, while Pisistratus equally culti-
vated the talents of both.
No day passed in which Pisistratus
did not habituate them to the duty of
rendering the praises due to the gods,
by reciting to them some of the hymns
of Orpheus, and afterwards pointing
out the wonderful order of things in
the beautiful system of nature. Often
he joined in their sports; and now and
then he amused them with songs that
he composed and sang to his lyre, or
invited them to dance to the sound of
his pipe-Exquisite delights, and en-
viable moments! Carite and Polydorus
were happy, unconscious of the deeply
hidden source of their felicity; all they
knew was, that they lived together, and
that they had no other occupation than
to please those they both loved, and to
improve by instructions flowing from
the lips of one whom they both called
E 4
father.
( 80 )
father. For a while, their parents
thought it might be necessary to excite
them by emulation; but they soon per-
ceived the spirit of rivals could not live
in their bosoms; they only knew how
to assist each other in acquirements,
and each to attribute, with perfect sim-
plicity, the greater progress to the
other.
The pleasure of Pisistratus and Ste-
rope was great when they viewed the
infant loves of their son and daughter.
The children innocently used the name
of brother and sister in their sports and
studies; but the parents, meanwhile,
resolved to bestow upon them dearer
and more sacred names, and waited only
for their attainment of that age when
the law should no longer prohibit their
union. "My dearest friend!" said Pi-
sistratus, one day to Sterope, "this
happy event will communicate, new
tenderness to our intercourse; and
when
( 81 )
when death shall deprive you of a sym-
pathising heart in the father, you will
find one in the son."-"Ah!" cried
Sterope, interrupting him, "am I to hear
of losing you also? And is friendship
to be as fatal to me as love? Oh! no;
if there are bounds to wretchedness, as
there are to happiness, I have nothing
more to fear. Fortune has proceeded
to the extreme against me !"
It was thus the unfortunate Sterope
fed incessantly on her sorrows; she
sought no happiness so eagerly as that
of shedding tears. The night often
surprised her weeping at the foot of a
tree; and when morning returned, her
place and occupation were the same.
The contemplation of past scenes
appeared to be her greatest compensa-
tion for the affliction of the present
hour she had beguiled much time in
composing the story of her love for her
deceased husband; and sometimes she
with-
E 5
( 82 )
withdrew to the recesses of the woods,
to read at liberty this precious morsel;
and then it was, with loud and vehe-
ment cries, except when passion sup-
pressed her trembling voice, she called
upon the shade of her unhappy hus-
band.
One day the burning rays of the sun.
drove the children to seek a shelter in
the woods, and chance led them towards
the foot of a solitary fountain, near the
spot that Sterope most frequently made
the place of her secret visits: her cus-
tom was unknown to them. As they
approached, they suddenly heard her
voice; they sprang forward to meet
her, but, as she seemed to be uncon-
scious that any one was within hear-
ing, they hesitated; and respect for
her, and surprise at her lamentations,
in the end, wholly arrested them.
Every word that fell from Sterope
was followed by tears from Polydorus
and
( 83 )
and Carite; they turned their eyes to
each other in silence: the passion that
animated their mother stole into their
veins, but instead of being attended
with the melancholy thoughts occa-
sioned by regret, it was accompanied
with none but those sweet emotions
they never fail to feel who, for the first
time, discover that they love,
Sterope had come to that part of her
story that spoke of her lover conduc-
ting her to the altar, where Hymen
rewarded his constancy. The sweet
picture of the pleasure she herself felt
in that happy moment; the transports
of her lover; the vows that both of
them so often repeated, and which Ste-
rope, as she read, again solemnly offered
up to her departed husband, the de-
lightful image of past pleasures bor-
rowing new charms from her present
grief, astonished and overpowered the
children. The hand of Carite was in
E 6
that
(84)
that of Polydorus; he pressed it from
time to time to his bosom. An affec-
tionate look, a tender smile had, tilk
then, been the only interpreters of
their passion. In this instant, they mu-
tually lost all recollection of themselves.
Polydorus caught Carite in his arms;
his mouth was pressed to hers; and
more than once he endeavoured to speak,
and his words expired on his lips.
The sensations they had just tasted
augmented their attention. Sterope
continued to read, ignorant of their
being so near; and they were taught,.
by her story, that there were enjoy-
ments of which, till then, they had
been strangers. Carite blushed; the
eyes of Polydorus were inflamed with
new desires; but what was his surprise
when Carite tore herself from his em-
braces! Still greater was the surprise of
Carite for the first time in her life,
she had resisted the wishes of Polydo-
}
rus;
;
A
(85)
rus; and she could not forbear, in the
simplicity of her heart, to question her--
self on the cause of this change !·
A
The night approached, and Sterope:
had already retired. It was time to
return home, and they were compelled
to leave a spot where love and chance:
had suddenly torn a veil from their
eyes, without fully informing their
minds. Polydorus departed first in si-
lence; Carite slowly followed, with her
eyes bent on the ground; and from
that time she frequently revisited the
fountain, but peremptorily forbade Poly-
dorus to meet her there, and Polydorus
faithfully obeyed her injunctions.
While these things were passing in
this retreat, Attica again became the
seat of war. Athens was besieged by a
formidable. army, under the command
of Androgeus, the same who had for-
merly slain the. husband of Sterope;
and, in a short time. after, that unfor-
tunate
( 86 )
tunate city was compelled to accept of
a disgraceful peace: a peace that proved
more cruel to the inhabitants than even
the war itself.
Removed at a distance from the
storm, Pisistratus, with his little family,
still continued to remain in security.
The education of his children was at
once his employment and happiness.
The period that Pisistratus and Ste-
rope had fixed on for the nuptials of
the young people was now at hand;
the appointed day was that which fol-
lowed the approaching festival of Nep-
tune. Every one of this happy family
looked for the day with impatience.
The marriage was regarded by the fa-
ther as the support and consolation of
his old age; and the mother felt reviv-
ing in her bosom those involuntary
emotions that are the offspring of sym-
pathy, and are so interesting to affec-
tionate hearts. An unknown joy ani-
mated
*
( 87 )
mated Polydorus and Carite. Asto-
nished themselves at the nature of their
hopes, they said to each other with
mutual wonder-" Is it then possible
to strengthen the friendship that unites
us? No! no! our vows have no need
to have the gods for witnesses, to make
them inviolable !"
At length, they expected the very
instant of the ceremony. No unfinished
preparations kept them longer in sus-
pense; they had no friends to invite;
the unfortunate seldom have any. No
new acquaintance could be found to
interest them, nor other sentiments but
those that united each of this little
family to the rest.
They were ready to depart for the
temple, when the sound of groans and
lamentations reached their ears. Deso-
lation was overrunning the peaceful
fields; cries were heard in every part
of the vallies of Attica. The threaten-
ing
( 88 )
ing sound of the trumpet was echoed
on every side, and spread terror even to
the abode of Pisistratus. The old man.
shed torrents of tears, and exclaimed,
"Alas! my son, I should have been
too happy, could you always have re-
mained with me; the blessings of my
latter years would then have erased
from my memory the conflicts of my
youth but even that consolation I
must forego; this dreadful sound of
war but too sadly tells me that my
country wants the arm of my son. Go
then it may be, that she will repay
your love of her with ingratitude, and t
the number of her injuries to you will
be reckoned up by the multitude of your
services; it is no less your first duty
to serve her, although afterwards it may
be your duty to forget that you were
her protector."
Polydorus was motionless with sor-
row, while his eyes were cast alternately
upon those of his father and his lover.
The
་
( 89 )
The hapless Carite endeavoured to be-
tray herself into the hope that what
she heard was not true; and Sterope,
drowned in tears, suffered the name of
Chorephontes to escape her lips as she
recalled to memory the moment when
he parted from her to go to the field of
battle, never to return. While they
were thus sorrowfully occupied, soldiers
entered their apartment, dragging along
with them a great multitude of young
men and maidens, whose countenances
were pale as death, and whose eyes
were fixed with terror: and, as the
brutal soldiery compelled this band to
follow, they menaced them with still
greater evils. The chief of this rude
horde, at length spoke-"Whosoever
you are," said he, addressing himself to
Pisistratus, " you must deliver into our
hands these young people that cling to
your knees. Can you pretend to be
ignorant of the terms on which Minos
granted
( 90 )
granted peace to your country? Do
you forget that the manes of Andro-
geus, who perished by treachery, call
aloud upon us to avenge his death?
Have you not heard, that to appease
them, a treaty obliges you to give seven
young men and seven maidens born in
Attica, to be a yearly sacrifice to the
Minotaur? Of the band we take with
us, lots will decide who shall be the
victims" - (6
Androgeus!" wildly ex-
claims Sterope, "obdurate monster!
Twice he selects the object I love for
destruction! But rather shall you take
my life, execrable ministers of ven-
geance! Away, and shun a widow's
fury! a mother's rage !"
Despair dictated these words, at the
end of which Sterope threw herself
before the soldiers, and arrested their
progress; Carite sprang into her mo-
ther's arms; Sterope fell senseless, and
her
( 91 )
her child lay stretched beside her, de-
prived of motion.
Unmoved by this scene of distress,
the savage chief seized Carite, and,
dragging her by her beautiful locks of
hair, delivered her into the hands of
his soldiers. What a sight for the un-
happy Polydorus! He beheld this cruel
spectacle as he was himself carried
away by part of the troop; scarcely
had he strength enough to raise his
eyes, bathed with tears, to the gods to
implore their justice; his hands he
could not lift to Heaven, for already
had his oppressors loaded them with
irons.
The reluctant pity of the soldiery
restored Carite to her senses, and deli-.
vered her anew to the violence of her
grief. The first object she sought on
opening her eyes was Polydorus, whom
she saw rudely dragged away. Her
heart sunk within her; faintly she
called
( 92 )
called upon him, uttered a feeble shriek,
and fell senseless a second time.
Pisistratus had not moved from the
side of Sterope, whose life he was exert-
ing himself to save as if life was not
become the greatest of misfortunes to
that unhappy mother.
The commander of the troop sur-
rounded the victims with his soldiers,
and conducted them to a rock on the
sea-shore, upon which he offered a sa-
crifice to the Cretan Jupiter, and to
the other gods, the protectors of Crete.
While this was doing, the fatal urn,
containing the names of his prisoners,
was produced; and the despair of these
unhappy people was renewed, while
their cries, and lamentations rent the
air.
Aimable and worthy Melanthis, the
sole hope of a noble family, fortune
decides against you; nor does she spare
you,
( 93 )
you, Anaxamene, although more beau-
tiful than the Venus of Gnidus!
1
Polydorus approached the urn, trem-
bling for Carite. Carite offered up
prayers to the god of love for him, and
the god saved Polydorus, Carite was
freed from agonies worse than death,
and a single glance gave her lover to
understand what passed in her bosom.
And now she herself advances. Oh
destiny! once more forget thy cruelty!
But in vain I invoke thy justice; the
lovely Carite is consigned to the most
frightful of deaths!
Polydorus stood speechless; a deadly
coldness crept through all his frame;
extreme agitation succeeded to this
mute sorrow; and the excess of his
misfortune and despair was then ex-
pressed by criés, tears, words without
connection, and inarticulate sounds.
At length, he was overcome by the
conflict, and he fell apparently into the
sleep
( 94 )
sleep of death. But almost instantly
he revived. Oh horrible moment! Oh
thou earth, open and bury him for ever!
Left to himself, stretched upon the
sands, he looks eagerly around, and
sees nothing but a wide extent of sea.
The captives and the soldiery had dis-
appeared; Carite was among them. He
forgot the weight of his chains; he
sprang up, and cast his eyes around
him every where. Nothing was to be
seen but a frightful solitude; his eyes
accidentally encountered the rock, that
had been the witness of his sad fate;
he resolved to put an end to his misfor-
tune, and hastened to precipitate him-
self into the ocean. At that moment,
it occured to him that Carite might
not yet have been conveyed from the
shores of Attica. Fortune, cruel as
she had been, might yet conduct him
to her; he turned back, and resolved,
at
量
​( 95 )
|
at least, if it were possible, to behold
her once more.
Full of the image of Carite, and his
heart throbbing with impatience, he hur-
ried along the shore, not knowing whither
he bent his steps. Nothing arrested his at-
tention; he climbed over the sharpest and
steepest rocks, unconscious of danger. A
species of madness lent him force; and,
sometimes proceeding in mournful si-
lence, the wanderings of his eyes alone
expressed the state of his soul; while
at others, the agony of his heart vented
itself in bitter shrieks and incoherent
sounds.
It happened that the troop that car-
ried away Carite had not yet sailed, the
Cretan vessels being detained by a calm
in the roads, where they were found
by Polydorus. When he recognized
the colours flying at the head of their
masts, his heart delivered itself up, for
a moment, to hope. As he approached
nearer
( 96 )
nearer to the harbour, he met some of
those who had been captives with him,
and whose fortune resembled his own,
in having escaped in the drawing of
the lots, but in seeing, at the same time,
torn from them the objects of their
love.
:
Polydorus at first attempted, by every
possible means, to procure a boat, to
convey him to the Cretan ships; but,
not succeeding, he endeavoured, and
as fruitlessly, to move, by his entreaties,
the hearts of those that guarded his
mistress they, more ferocious than
the monster to whom she was to be
delivered up a prey, mocked the sor-
rows of this unfortunate man. He
threw himself on the sands, and there
awaited the conclusion of all his mise-
ries; but again he wished to live, to
watch the vessel that held Carite till
she should depart, when he resolved to
throw himself into the waves.
The
1
( 97 )
The calm still continuing, the com-
mander sent one of his boats on shore
to procure provisions, lest, by the un-
expected delay, he should be reduced.
to want on his voyage. A young Cre-
tan, to whom the boat was entrusted,
seeing Polydorus stretched upon the
beach abandoned to the deepest despair,
was moved with pity; he requested of
Polydorus to be made acquainted with
the subject of his distress; but he no
sooner heard the cause, than he looked
sorrowfully upon the ground, and de-
clared, that it was impossible for him to
aid Polydorus in regaining Carite.
The boat had occasion to return se-
veral times to the shore, and the young
Cretan, being greatly touched by the
misfortunes of Polydorus, at each time
entered into conversation with him.
"Ah!" said Polydorus at last, "may
Minerva, who is the protectress of
our Athens, be propitious to you! You
F
are
( 98 )
are not of the same nature as those
who sent you hither. Grant me the only
blessing I have to expect; let me see
Carite again; for one moment let me
see her, and I shall die less misera-
ble!"
The Cretan, whose name was Strato,
would willingly have rendered this ser-
vice to Polydorus, but he feared to in-
cur the anger of his captain. Poly-
dorus, who had half raised himself to
embrace the knees of Strato, threw
himself with redoubled violence on the
ground, and made the rocks ring with
his despair; while his
while his young friend
vainly endeavoured to assuage his grief
by protestations of his regard, and pro-
mises of assistance.
The vessels of Crete continued still to
be detained in the harbour by the calm,
and the crews vainly offered repeated sa-
crifices to Jupiter for a favourable wind.
Although that god, who passed his in-
fancy
( 99 )
fancy among the Cretans, favoured that
nation with a peculiar protection, he was,
in the present instance, deaf to their
prayers. Neptune, the tutelary god of
Attica, was incensed to find a country
under his protection reduced by the
Cretans to the necessity of delivering
up the victims then on board their
vessels; wherefore, he detained them
in the roads, and delayed their return
to their country.
The Cretans now resolved to disem-
bark once more, that they might offer
a solemn sacrifice to the god of the
seas. Strato was to remain on board,
and take the command of the vessels
during the sacrifice; and he acquainted
Polydorus with this circumstance.
"Listen to me," said he, "most un-
fortunate of lovers; I will avail myself
of this unforeseen accident, and you
shall see Carite."
F 2
Poly-
( 100 )
Polydorus again breathed with expec-
tation. "The only wish I have left,"
he cried, "will be accomplished. Oh
ye gods! to you it is known that I
have not consented to live, but with
the faint hope of seeing Carite once
more !”—“ Ah ! too generous enemy,"
he added, "you would put an end to
my misfortunes, if fate had not resolved
to make them continue with my life."
These expressions of gratitude were
interrupted by Strato, who pointed out
the necessity of contriving means to
elude the vigilance of the Cretan sol-
diers that would be left on board the
vessels. Polydorus was extremely young,
and the delicacy of his appearance might
well enable him to pass for a girl; his
fair complexion and finely turned fea-
tures excited this idea in the mind of
Strato. The young lover embraced the
idea with transport, and again and again
threw himself into the arms of Strato,
calling
}
( 101 )
calling him his friend, his benefactor,
his father.
The next day, as soon as light ap-
peared, Polydorus was on the shore;
he waited impatiently for the com-
mencement of the ceremony; his wishes
outran the moment. He said often to
himself, "I shall see Carite; every
instant brings her nearer to me; and
that minute is almost arrived when I
shall be at her feet."
Polydorus, in this phrenzy, talked to
Carite; he heard her speak to him;
he folded her in his arms. He was lost
in the reverie; and, thus enjoying as
a reality her conversation and his own
happiness, his future destiny was no
longer in his thoughts.
The hour of the sacrifice arrived.
The command of the vessels, as Strato
had foreseen, was delivered up to him,
and he instantly set forth to accomplish
his promise to Polydorus.
F 3
Scarcely
could
( 102 )
could the young lover contain his joy
when he first saw Strato's boat on the
sea.
,,
His friend leaped on shore, and took
his hand-"Too unfortunate stranger,"
said Strato, " go with me, and enjoy
the only blessing that envious fate will
accord you; yet stay, and swear to me,
that before the sacrifice shall be con-
cluded, you will return in silence in
this boat to the shore."
Polydorus, who heard not a word
that he uttered, promised to obey him
in all things.
The seven female victims were con-
fined in one vessel together, while the
seven young men were put on board
another vessel. Polydorus, favoured by
his disguise, was conducted by Strato,
undiscovered, through the guards to
the prison of his mistress.
The door being opened, exposed to
view whatever is most terrible in the
effects
( 103 )
were
effects of despair. The young captives
resembled the Menades when they are
driven to fury by Bacchus; their locks
dishevelled; their eyes wildly
wandering round their prison; and
their faces and bosoms torn and disfi-
gured with their own hands. In this
condition, they expected every instant
to be led out to death.
In the midst of them was Carite,
stretched on the floor, with her suppli-
cating and innocent hands lifted up to
heaven.
Polydorus advanced, but the dim
light of the prison did not permit him
clearly to distinguish the objects around
him; he uttered the name of Carite,
and Carite raised her head, still doubt-
ing of her good fortune. He repeated
the name, and she vainly endeavoured
to answer him. Her tongue sought for
words that were familiar to it, but
which now it could not find.
F4
Poly-
1
( 104 )
Polydorus, still advancing, perceives
where Carite is lying; he flies and
catches her in his arms. Both forget
their former sorrows; they see each
other, and do not recollect that they
have any thing more to wish for. Sighs,
and shouts, and silence, and extacy, and
grief express, by turns, the tumult of
their souls.
Orpheus formerly, with the power of
music, suspended the tortures of hell;
and here the scene between these lovers,
for a while dried up the tears and silenced
the groans of the other captives. They
felt an alleviation of their misery. But
this happiness was of too short dura-
tion. Strato, who had quitted the pri-
son, soon returned, to announce that
the sacrifice was on the point of being
finished. He called on Polydorus to
regain the boat, and make the shore.
However vain the wish, Polydorus at
first sought to prolong the moments
of
( 105
105 )
of his delirium. He then bade his mis-
tress farewell; but in that very instant,
Strato was informed that the Cretan.
chiefs were again on board the vessels,
and he saw it was too late to convey
Polydorus to the boat. A favourable
gale sprang up; the mariners spread
their sails to the wind, and, with shouts
of joy, celebrated the happy effect of
their sacrifice.
Strato, having embraced Polydorus,
left him in the prison with the female
captives, looking to fortune for a happy
issue to this adventure.
السلام
5
CHAP.
( 106 )
CHA P. II.
}
THE shades of night were retiring,
the sun began already to whiten the
skies, and the victims of the vengeance
of Minos saw the return of day to ag-
gravate their wretchedness by a thou-
sand recollections, when the comman-
der of the squadron assembled the
other chiefs, and with them descended
into the prison of the female victims.
At the sight of them, these unhappy
creatures concluded the moment of
their death was arrived. Not knowing
what they did, they fled on all sides,
uttering shrieks of horror, as if flight
could have saved them from their fate.
Carite and Polydorus alone remained
where they were when the officers entered
the prison. Carite stood leaning against
a beam
( 107 )
*
a beam for support; and Polydorus,
who was at her knees, only quitted that
posture least he should be discovered,
and, stretching himself on the floor, he
did not dare even to raise his eyes to
his mistress, least they should betray
him.
•
The Cretans perceived, to their great
surprise, that there was one victim more
than had been exacted by the conditions
of peace imposed upon Attica; and Phi-
locles, to whom had been entrusted the
care of seeing them put on board, endea-
voured in vain to develope the mystery
involved in this accident. Meantime,
the god of love, or some beneficent
deity, in pity to Carite, touched the
heart of the Cretan chief. That rude
soldier, who had spread mourning and
sorrow through Attica, who had him-
self dragged Carite from the presence
of her expiring mother, opened his
heart, for the first time in his life, to
F 6
com.
( 108 )
>
compassion, and gave way to the
thought of sparing one of the unhappy
victims.
"Ministers of a severe law," he said
to his fellow soldiers as they quitted the
prison," we are not called upon to in-
crease the rigour of this treaty. There
must be one of these unfortunate stran-
gers who is not designed by fate to
suffer with the rest. Let us put an end
to the cruel mistake that has delivered
her into our hands. Fortune, that de-
cided which should be the seven vic-
tims among our female captives, shall
be appealed to for her determination
which of these shall escape; leave to
me the care of consulting her."
When he had concluded, he went
on board the vessel in which the se-
ven young men were confined, and in
irons; and, having given some orders
there, returned to his own vessel.
گم
The
( 109 )
The sea which separates the island of
Crete from Attica, was rendered famous
by the despair of Egeus, and has since
borne the name of that prince; it is
crowded with islands, distinguished by
a variety of memorable events. In one
of them, the unfortunate Latona, cast
out by all the world beside, found an
asylum against the wrath of Juno. The
island of Delos, one of the Cyclades,
was the only spot on the earth that
ventured to receive her; and, as we
are informed by history, this island,
which till then had floated in the sea,
was on that account attached by the hands
of Jupiter himself to the islands Gyarus
and Mycone. In this sea also is the island
of Scyros, which became famous from
the retreat of Achilles; and nearer the
shores of Crete is to be seen the little
island of Seriphe, whose inhabitants had
formerly been changed into rocks by
the sight of the head of Medusa.
The
( 110 )
The Cyclades are so great in number,
that mariners, in proceeding up these
seas, plainly discover several of them
from the time when the sun rises behind
the mountains of Phonecia, till it sets
in the seas of Epirus. The Cretan chief
gave orders for the ships to cast anchor
near the first of these islands they should
encounter, and for a boat to be pre-
pared to convey to the shore the captive
that was to be freed. Having given
these orders, he withdrew, and presently
returned with the lovely Carite, declar-
ing that fortune had decided in her
favour.
Solely occupied with the thoughts
of her lover, and overwhelmed with
affliction, Carite heard not the words.
that announced so sudden a change in
her destiny. Absorbed in grief, nothing
could withdraw her from it. The Cre-
tans that came for her were unseen by
her; they spoke and were unheard by
her;
( in )
her; and she would even have remained
ignorant that she had removed from one
place to another, had it been possible to
have done so without quitting Polydorus.
At this moment the sun was descend-
ing from the horizon to sleep in the lap
of Thetis. A gentle breeze purified
the air; the evening had not, as yet,
invited nature to repose, but already
the motion of the seas seemed to sub-
side with the departure of light. It
might be said that nature was ready to
rest, after the agitation of the day;
but no rest was allowed to Carite. Se-
rene as was the moment in which she
was carried into the boat, her departure
from the vessel was marked only by
loud sighs and incessant tears. She knew
nothing but that she was compelled to
quit the prison, which was the only
place in the earth dear to her; her eyes
followed the vessel till the winds bore
her out of sight.
Sur-
1
( 112 )
Surrounded by Cretan soldiers, she
demanded of them, whither they con-
ducted her, but they maintained an
obstinate silence. Having gained the
shore, two of the soldiers compelled
her to land; and, conducting her a few
paces, left her, and returned to the boat.
The unfortunate Carite was now left
exposed on an unknown coast; the boat
departed, and in a little time, she could
scarely hear the sound of the oars as
they dipped into the sea. The winds
murmuring on the waters, the dashing
of the waves, and the approaching dark-
ness of the night, helped to increase
the solemnity of her situation. She
besought pity of the gods-" Oh Nep-
tune!" she cried, "Oh Minerva! and
oh thou Father of the Universe! you
just gods, who are the protectors of
innocence, and who are acquainted with
the innocence of my wishes, why do
you refuse to comply with them? Why
have
( 113 )
1
have you forsaken me? When have I
profaned your altars? When have I
entertained desires, in opposition to
your will? Ah! while I was obedient
to you, and dutiful to my mother, I
prepared to form a sacred union dear
to my heart! Oh! why, with such
cruelty, have you broken its ties? I
was torn from my unfortunate husband;
and, although I was permitted again to
see him, again to embrace him, with
how many torrents of tears am I not
now compelled to pay for that mercy?"
"Ah, unfortunate Polydorus !" conti-
nued she, "what is thy fate? Why am
I not permitted to share it? Oh gods!
oh gods! have pity on my sufferings !
If I must suffer, make known to me.
the crimes I have committed; or if
you would prove my virtue, why also
do you strike my husband?"
She now repeated a thousand times
the name of Polydorus.-Oh you, ye
nymphs
&
( 114 )
nymphs and fauns, demi-gods, the in-
habitants of those shores, you heard
her from the depth of your caves! and
you, ye divinities of the sea, dwelling
beneath its foundations, you shed tears
over the fate of those unhappy lovers!
She
Carite passed the night in tears; the
agitation of her mind having banished.
sleep from her eyes. No sooner was it
break of day than she descended from
an eminence to which she had wandered
the preceding night, and which equally
overlooked the sea and the country;
her design being to gain a neighbouring
forest, to seek for a retreat there.
was walking with a slow pace, when she
perceived some peasants, who were
conducting their flocks to the sea-side,
coming out of the forest. The terri-
fied Carite fled at the sight of them;
and, hoping she might conceal herself,
rushed amongst the rocks with which.
the shore abounded. But the peasants
having
( 115 )
(.
1
having seen her flight, followed her
footsteps, and easily overtook her.
Observing, by her dress, that she was
not of that country, and being suspi-
cious of the motives that induced her
to conceal herself in this wild place,
they laid hold upon her, and carry-
ing her off, shut her up in a desolate
cavern.
The country to which fortune had
banished Carite was the island of
Naxos, that was celebrated shortly af
terwards for the adventures of the un-
happy Ariadne and the love of Bac-
chus. The king of the country,
whose name was Enarus, had never
been married; and as it was necessary
that he should name a successor to the
throne, he had proposed to form an
alliance between Cydippe, his sister,
and Agenor, the sole heir of an illus-
trious family, descended from the an-
cient kings of Naxos. Agenor was
therefore
( 116 )
therefore looked upon as the presump-
tive heir of the crown, and received
the honours of that station. The day of
his marriage with Cydippe was not in-
deed fixed, for the young prince, by
various pretexts, kept it at a distance.
He did not overlook the advantages of
the sovereignty; but yet, as he was
many years younger than Cydippe, he
feared a union that offered nothing pro-
mising but to his ambition.
Cydippe was not ignorant of the in-
difference of Agenor respecting her; and
if she had made it known to the king, her
brother, he would have been far from
imposing this marriage upon her; but
she was passionately in love with the
young prince, and therefore concealed
the slights she received from him.
The court of Naxos was in this si-
tuation when the lovely Carite was put
on shore in that country, where too
soon the rights of hospitality were vio-
lated
( 117 )
lated in her person. Having obtained
permission to be heard, she informed
the barbarians who had thrown her
into prison, and had even loaded her
with chains, that she was an Athenian
by birth, and that certain Cretans who
had carried her by force from her coun-
try had afterwards exposed her with-
out her consent on that coast. Her
auditors were won by the simplicity of
her story, and the graces of her reci-
tal. They did not only restore her to
liberty, but even promised her sup-
port, on the condition of her sharing
their labours with them. The next
day, they gave her a small flock to at-
tend. She complied with the necessity
of her condition: and, with a crook in
her hand, went every day into the re-
cesses of the woods, to give a free
course to her tears.
One day, worn out with grief and
labour, she laid herself down at the
foot
1
()
118 118
foot of a tree and fell asleep. The young
prince of Naxos, Agenor, having lost his
way during the chace, arrived at the
spot. He stood surprised, and would
have taken her for Diana had not the
crook in her hand spoken her condition.
He looked at her, and could not forbear
to continue gazing on such a multitude
of charms united in one person. Her
sleeping posture, and the heat of the
day, enabled him to dwell on them
with greater freedom. His inebriated
senses greedily drank more and more of
the flattering poison, 'till his passions
wholly mastered him, and he ap-
proached her with the most licentious
desires. Ah, Carite! unfortunate Carite!
-But in the instant she awakens, and
utters a loud shriek. Agenor throws
himself at her feet, and endeavours to
sooth her. Carite, swifter than the
arrow in its course through the air, es-
capes and disappears. A new Atalanta,
she
( 119 )
she leaves the prince of Naxos co-
vered with confusion and shame.
Agenor recovered from this agitation
only to be more sensible of his unhappy
state. A secret power conducted him
frequently to the same spot; but in
vain he sought for Carite there; she
never returned to the forest.
Absence and a variety of obstacles in-
creased the passions of the young prince:
and he resolved to hasard every thing
to possess the object of his love.
Carite, before this adventure, had
seemed to have found in a wild country
the only tranquillity her circumstances
allowed. She had gained the confi-
dence of the savage inhabitants, who,
after treating her as a slave, at length
respected her as the tutelary divinity of
the place. She partook of their coarsest
labours. She seemed even to partake
of them with pleasure. But fate en-
wied her this poor repose, for which
she
( 120 )
she paid so dearly. The remembrance
of her adventure banished her from
her favourite retreat. She now never
went any distance from the shore;
and looked almost incessantly upon the
waves which separated her from her
lover, and which had witnessed the bit-
terness of her anguish in being parted
from him. Day after day she passed
in these sorrowful reveries; and when
the evening warned the cottager to
close his daily labour, she counted her
flock, and mournfully conducted them
back to their place of shelter for the
night.
She was thus fulfilling the duties ne-
cessity imposed upon her, when one
day she saw running towards her a
young female slave, who seemed to im-
plore her aid. Carite was compassionate
-the unhappy are ever so she ran to
meet the slave, who, throwing herself
at her feet, besought her to point out
a place
1
( 121 )
a place of safety in which she might
conceal herself from the anger of her
master, whom she declared to be in pur-
suit of her. Carite, moved with pity,
raised and embraced her.
She pro-
mised to conceal her in her cottage for
that night; and the next day to beg
the advice and assistance of her em-
ployers.
She had no sooner spoken in this
manner to the slave, than she was sur-
rounded by a troop of soldiers, who
loaded her with chains. She requested
to know what crime she had committed;
but, without giving her any answer,
the soldiers dragged her along with
violence, and at some distance from
the place shut her up in a dark and
narrow dungeon.
Oh, destiny!" she cried, with bit-
terness of heart, "when wilt thou be
tired with heaping injuries upon me?
G
Is
( 122 )
Is this the reward of the love that I
have for my fellow creatures?"
For three days and nights she was
left in solitude to the misery of her re-
flections; and passed those three entire
days and nights without nourishment.
Her eyes were closed only by short in-
tervals, and that not 'till their lids were
heavy with weeping.
Even in this dreadful condition, the
image of Polydorus had power to soften
her sufferings. She had continued to
wear a yellow veil, such as the Athe-
nian brides are accustomed to wear
during the celebration of marriage, and
which her lover had given her on the
very day that had first seen them un-
fortunate. She took off the beloved
ornament, and endeavoured to divert
her sorrow by writing upon it with a
small piece of crayon the name of Po-
lydorus, and afterwards erasing it to
substitute
( 123 )
substitute her own, and then again
writing both names together,
On the fourth day, her persecutors
took her from prison and dragged her
before a judge. Cleonidas, the head
agent of Agenor, declared himself her
accuser, and charged her with having
favoured the flight of one of his slaves,
and demanded that she herself should
be condemned to slavery. A murmur
of applause was heard in the assembly;
and the judge, being corrupted with
the presents of Cleonidas, and protected
by the prince, condemned the beautiful
Carite, without permitting her to speak
in her own defence, to be the slave of
Cleonidas, who compelled her to fol-
low him.
Cleonidas did no more than act by
the order of Agenor; for that young
prince, more enamoured than ever of
Carite, had employed that barbarous
G 2
stratagem
( 124 )
stratagem to draw her from a retreat he
had with infinite difficulty discovered.
It was not long after this that it was
rumoured that the prince of Naxos
was in love with one of the slaves of
his favourite. The report reached the
ears of the king's sister, who in a rage
sent for Cleonidas, and ordered him to
deliver up the stranger, under the pre-
tence of placing her among her own
women.
}
Cleonidas at first thought to elude
this order. Cydippe menaced him
with her vengeance; and he was com-
pelled to obey.
Carite had been only two days in the
house of Cleonidas, during which
time she had been persecuted with pro-
testations of Agenor's passion. Her
liberty was the least of the benefits he
offered to Carite, to engage her to
listen to his professions of love. But
Carite, united as she was to Polydorus
by
( 125 )
by ties which she thought sacred and
inviolable, had no need to recall the
remembrance of those ties to her aid in
rejecting the offers of the prince, since
she easily recognised in him the author
of the cruel plot to which she was
now a victim.
Cydippe blushed the moment she
saw her new slave. Carite's beauty in-
flamed her jealousy; and she swore in
the recesses of her heart an implacable
hatred of that unfortunate creature,
and thenceforth she delivered up her
soul to the cruel task of tormenting her.
Whatever disappointed love could in-
vent in its rage was soon employed
against Carite. Neither insult, con-
tempt, excess of labour, nor the hard-
est treatment were spared; the haughty
Cydippe imagined there was no pu-
nishment too severe to be inflicted on
her rival.
G 3
Carite,
( 126 )
Carite, subject as she was to oppro-
brium and the deepest humiliation, still
preferred this condition to the danger
of being in the house of Cleonidas.
The name of the princess she thought
at least a protection against the machi-
nations of Agenor, which she had too
many reasons to dread, and against
which she could not be secure in any
other place than under the roof of Cy
dippe.
The palace of that princess was not,
however, sacred from the attempts of
Agenor, who found means secretly to
introduce himself into it; and Carite
would at length have fallen a sacrifice
to his violence, if Cydippe, discover-
ing his practices, had not defeated
them.
The day after this last attempt of
the prince, Cydippe, to deprive him
of all hope of possessing Carite,
privately sent her to an obscure place
at
( 127 )
at the extremity of the island, and sur-
rounded her with guards, at once to
protect her from Agenor, and to extort
from her the utmost exertions in the
most painful kind of labour.
Carite passed more than two months
in this solitude. Her fetters were never
taken off, except when she was led
out to labour in the fields; and when
the hour allotted to her rest came, the
fetters were replaced on her limbs. If
the heat of the day, or excess of fa-
tigue, compelled her for a moment to
suspend her toil, she was unmercifully
beaten 'till she could resume her work.
In like manner as the nymph Io, per-
secuted by the execrable zeal of Argus,
at the instance of Juno, was rendered at
prey to the most cruel of tortures.
After much search, Agenor disco-
vered the retreat of Carite; and im-
mediately, either excited by his former
passion, or moved to pity, he resolved.
G 4
to
( 128 )
to rescue her. He assembled a great
number both of his friends and slaves;
and taking with him Cleonidas, he pro-
ceeded at the head of the party to the
place where the wretched Carite ran
her course of labour and sorrow.
When they arrived there it was
night. The house occupied by Carite
and the wretches who guarded her was
at a great distance from all other habi-
tations. The door was broken open by
Agenor's orders; and the young prince
was about to enter, when the guards,
having seized their arms, opposed his
passage, Agenor fought with great
fury; and the combat became obstinate.
In the midst of the tumult, favoured by
the darkness of the night, Carite con-
trived to release herself from her fetters,
and escaped from the house. Trem-
bling with fear, she fled, not daring to
look behind her, and venturing only to
call
( 129 )
for aid to the gods whom she had so
often invoked and in vain.
Day began to appear when this beau-
tiful and unfortunate Athenian reached
a forest which she had indistinctly per-
ceived through the preceding obscurity.
She proposed to conceal herself there;
but scarcely had she made her way a
little through the underwood when she
discovered that this forest was the same
in which the prince of Naxos had first
seen her. "Till that moment, she had
suppressed her tears; but now her cou-
rage failed her, and they fell in abun-
dance.
"Ah! too unfortunate that I am!"
she cried, "to whom shall I turn for
protection? Shall I go to the cottagers,
whom I faithfully served, and who be-
trayed me? Shall I put myself again
into the hands of Cydippe, who re-
gards me with a mortal hatred; or re-
turn to the prince of Naxos, whose love.
G 5
threatens
1
(( 130 )'
mè with a thousand times greater evils?
Ah, no! never
After some moments of silence, she
continued to lament her fate-" Under
what baleful star," said she," was I
born? since, having lost my lover,
destiny could still persecute me to that
degree as to make me shed tears that
were not for him !"
✓
گے
Having said these words, she hurried
to the shore. Her mind was now
disordered with excess of anguish; her
design was to plunge into the sea; but
her strength was so exhausted, that she
could not reach its waves. She fainted
and fell. Nature refused strength for
this desperate effort, which would
have terminated her miseries with her
life.
She passed the rest of the day.
in a condition bordering on madness.
Frightful and rambling were her ideas.
She did not sleep; yet her thoughts
were
>
( 131 )
were like so many dreams whose hor-
rors drove her to despair. For a long
time, Polydorus was the subject of her
ravings. She saw him thrown to the
Minotaur! she saw the monster feasting
on his mangled and bloody limbs !-
and then she believed the prince of
Naxos to be with her, availing himself
of her inability to resist; and, un-
moved by her most piercing shrieks!
Ah, horrible!——This idea partially
restored her to her senses. She trem-
bled, and endeavoured to rise. Oh,
gods! she was in the arms of a man
who tenderly embraced her.
"Bar-
barian!" she cried.-But fortune re-
lents. She feels the tears of him who
embraced her falling on her face. It is
Polydorus! Her voice fails her-her
senses are fled; and Polydorus accused
the gods of cruelty in restoring his
mistress only to snatch her from him in
the same instant.
G 6
Polydorus
( 132 )
Polydorus folded his unfortunate
mistress in his arms, and endeavoured
to revive her with his kisses. Love
was propitious, and recalled Carite from
the gates of death. She opens her eyes,
and beholds the light she was about to
lose, and the lover she thought she had
lost for ever! She eagerly demands of
Polydorus a recital of his adventures;
and scarcely can he begin, when she
interrupts him with her own tale.
Polydorus listens in mute silence!
Every word, every circumstance, every
adventure, sinks into his heart!
The story of Polydorus was short.
He was landed in Crete soon after his
separation from Carite. Forty days were
consumed in purifying the victims for
the sacrifice; and, when they were
thrown to the Minotaur, Theseus, son
of the king of Athens, who was of the
number, slew him, and escaped from
the labyrinth by a clue. which Ariadne
had
( 133 )
had given him. Ariadne, who was the
daughter of Minos, not daring to ex-
pose herself to the vengeance of her
father, whom she had betrayed, accom-
panied Theseus in his flight; and this
ungrateful prince landed in the island
of Naxos, with the intention of desert-
ing his generous mistress there.
Polydorus had attached himself to
the fortunes of Theseus; and, landing
on this coast, the first object he saw
was Carite, whom, as he approached
her, he believed to be utterly insane.
The lovers mingled their tears at the
conclusion of this story. Fortune, hav-
ing long and cruelly persecuted them,
now seemed willing to unite them. The
gods, in delivering them up to such
weighty afflictions, appeared to have
done so to develope to them all the
happiness of loving each other, and
being with each other. Folded in each
other's arms, they would have remained
longer
( 134 )
longer in this delicious dream, if Poly-
dorus had not recollected the danger of
Carite's situation. He proposed, for
the present, to conceal her in the neigh-
bouring cottage. Carite, having no
doubt that its inhabitants had formerly
betrayed her, communicated her fears
to Polydorus, and they were perplexed
with fluctuating thoughts, when two
vessels appeared in sight, approaching
the shore.
•
"Let us seize on this happy oppor-
tunity," said Carite, "and request a
passage in one of these vessels. It is
not impossible their destination may be
to Attica. At all events, let us hasten,
as soon as possible, to
possible, to restore to our
parents the peace and happiness of
which our absence has robbed them.
They bewail our deaths; and I, who
know what it is to weep for yours, can
well judge what their sufferings are.-
Oh, let us put an end to them! Let us
not
( 135 )
not be content to enjoy happiness, if it
were possible, without their partaking
of it!"
They drew close to the sea as Carite
was speaking. The ships had, by this
time, cast anchor, several of the seamen
had landed, and a party of the soldiers
were following. Polydorus went up
to their principal officer-" We are
Athenians," said he; "do us the favour
to take us on board, and land us in our
native country."
The officer, with a bitter sneer, an-
swered, that his request would soon be
complied with.
You shall go on
board," said he, "in a few minutes."
The vessels were Phoenician pirates,
that were sailing along this coast to
seize upon such of the inhabitants as
fell in their way to sell them for slaves.
Polydorus too soon saw his error. There
was no remedy. He was forced on board
one of the vessels; he besought the
soldiers
( 136 )
soldiers to permit him to be in the same
vessel with his bride. They seized upon
Carite, and dragged her on board the
other.
Without delay, the mariners weighed
anchor, and the wind being favourable,
in a short time they were out of sight
of the coast of Naxos.
CHAP.
( 137 )
CHA P. III.
WHEN the vessels had been about
two hours under sail, a violent storm
arose, and the deep abyss threatened to
swallow them.
"Oh Venus," cried Carite," com-
mand these waves that were present at
your birth, to spare the life of my hus-
band! And oh love, master of entire
nature, snatch from destruction the
most complete of thy works !"
Her prayers were interrupted by the
confused cries of the sailors; the loud
thunders seemed to multiply; the vio-
lence of the winds increased every mo-
ment. Each face was pale with terror;
even the pilot had not any longer any
hopes in his art. Night overtook the
vessels in the midst of this danger; the
gene-
( 138 )
general terror was redoubled, and the
image of death presented itself to the
boldest.
T
The tempest continued till the morn-
ing's dawn; but no sooner had the
hours prepared the chariot of the sun
for his course, than Eolus recalled the
mutinous winds, and chained them:
in their profound caverns; but, al-
though thus confined, they were still
heard to murmur in these secret places,:
as they trembled with impatience to find
their fury disappointed.
As soon as the light appeared, Poly-
dorus looked for the vessel of Carite,.
but she was no where to be seen on the
surface of the waters; the winds had
once more borne Carite from him.
The pirates on board the vessel that
held Polydorus steered towards Cestos,
as the festival of Adonis was at that.
time celebrating there; and the con-
course of strangers assembled in that
•
city
( 139 )
city offered a favourable opportunity of
disposing of their slaves.
The city of Cestos is situated in the
Chersonesus, at the extremity of a pro-
montory, bearing the same name.
The
sea which bathes the foot of its walls
is called the Hellespont, from Helle,
the sister of Phryxus, who was formerly
drowned there, in crossing on the cele-
brated ram, whose fleece was of gold.
It is a very ancient and religious
custom to celebrate in this place, every
year, the festival of Adonis and Venus ;
and it is said, that during one of these
festivals it was that Leander, for the
first time, saw the beautiful Hero.
The same festival is celebrated also
in all the neighbouring countries; and
the people resort to it in crowds from
Asia, as well as Greece. The people of
Abydos, Colophon, Ephesus, and even
those who dwell in Libanus, come to
Cestos to offer up their vows to Venus.
The
1
( 140 )
The inhabitants of Lemnos and Tempe,
and indeed' all the people who dwell
between the sea and Mount Cytheron,
resort also to the same temple to
adore the goddess, and pour forth la-
mentations for the death of her unfor-
tunate lover.
During this festival, they are wont
also to celebrate that of love; and a
day is set apart for that particular
ceremony. It was on this day that the
pirates landed at Cestos. Polydorus was
exposed in the market with the other
slaves. At the sight of him the cere-
mony was suspended; the crowd pressed
round him, and strewed flowers before
his feet: they imagined they beheld
love, who, moved with their devotion,
came to be present himself at their sports.
Polydorus, with his eyes cast down, did
not remark them, but was employed in
addressing his own secret vows to the son
of Venus. When he first beheld the na-
ture
( 141 )
ture of the festival that was celebrating,
those scenes which were meant to ex-
press the most lively joy brought to his
remembrance only the most sorrowful
events.
In the mean time the chorus began
to appear. It was composed of a mul-
titude of young lads and young mai-
dens, cloathed in white, marching with
solemn steps, and reciting the sacred
hymn. At first they all raised their
voices together and cried
"Receive our homage, oh thou
God that reignest over the universe!
Thou who didst give the heavenly fire
to Prometheus! Thou who didst com-
mand the elements, and brought order
out of Chaos! Soul of nature, come
and reign amongst us! Quit the abode
of Cytherea, and make this land thy
dwelling!"
After that, the females were silent,
and the youths alone sang the following
words:
"Far
( 142 )
"Far from us be for ever banished
that malignant goddess who is preceded
by unchaste desires, and on whose foot-
steps closely treads repentance! Hap-
piness never is the companion of her
course. Jealousy, hatred, and despair,
sprang with her from the box of Pan-
dora.—Oh you, who now listen to us,
shun her path! She is no more than a
deceitful phantom; and the pleasures
that seem to surround her are ap-
pearances as deceitful as herself.”
The young men ceased, and the mai-
dens replied-
"Love is a benignant deity, who in-
habited the earth during the reign of
Cybele, and who since has sometimes
been induced to descend from the skies
by the sincere vows of mortals. Inno-
cence and virtue reared him in their
temple, for the happiness of men. Au-
thor of all that is desirable beneath the
heavens, he sheds blessings on all that
are
(143)
are his faithful followers; 'tis he alone
who sends hope to aid us in the midst
of despair, and who recalls perseverance
in the extreme of dejection. Oh you
who listen to us, own his power, and
acknowledge that he alone is worthy of
your admiration !"
"Ah, Carite!" suddenly exclaimed
Polydorus, "this is the god whom I
adore, and whose protection I now im-
plore for you!"
These words caused the assembly
again to crowd round Polydorus; and
they were looking at him with ex-
treme surprise and compassion, when an
old man made his way through the
multitude, and, running up to him,
threw his arms round his neck.
"Friends and neighbours," he cried,
"this is my son returned to me, whom
I thought dead-But what do I say?
What a mockery of my hopes is this!
Citizens of Cestos, pardon my extrava-
gance!
( 144 )
gance! In this young slave, I thought
I beheld my son, so much does he re-
semble him; but I see that I am mis-
taken, the resemblance is but an acci-
dent that only brings my misfortune
with redoubled sorrow to my mind."
The old man, whose name was Nau-
sicrates, having concluded, again em-
braced Polydorus; and that unfortu-
nate youth, moved with the extreme
agitation of the poor old man, for a
while forgot his own sorrows.
The captain of the pirates now in-
terfered, and insisted upon separating
the old man and Polydorus, but Nau-
sicrates would not be torn from his
arms; he paid down a price for his
ransom, and instantly led him away
from the market-place. This scene in-
creased the interest the assembly had
taken in the concerns of Polydorus,
and, applauding the old man's genero-
sity
( 145 )
sity, they recommended him to his fu
ture protection.
Nausicrates conducted Polydorus to
the harbour, where he had a vessel ly-
ing; and they immediately went on
board, and set sail for Abydos, where
Nausicrates dwelt.
The city of Abydos, which was the
birth place of Leander, is situated on
the Hellespont, exactly opposite to
Cestos. As they crossed the sea, Nau-
sicrates kept his eyes almost continually
fixed on Polydorus, and saw with con-
cern that the sight of him could not
fail to renew the affliction of his wife
for the loss of their child.
The wife of Nausicrates, whose namë
was Themisto, was already on the beach,
waiting for his return, and even accus
ing him of unnecessary delay, when the
vessel arrived at Abydos. The old man
proceeds on shore, and his virtuous wife
runs to embrace him. Polydorus fol-
H
lows:
( 146 )
lows: Themisto starts with astonish-
ment, as she casts her eyes upon him,
and scarcely can she support the excess.
of her agitation.
"Ah!" she exclaimed," what can
this mean?""Dearest Themisto," said
the old man," be composed; and since
you have lost your son, let this young
man be in his place, and be a comfort
to you."-" How could I deceive my-
self," she replied with a trembling voice,
since this very morning I poured li-
bations of milk over my son's ashes?
His manes have crossed the Styx, and
no longer hear my cries."
As soon as Themisto was sufficiently
recovered to listen to the story that her
husband had to relate concerning the
stranger, Polydorus became as dear to
her as he already was to her husband.
These unhappy parents were never
weary of looking at him; and fre-
quently, both one and the other folded
him
( 147 )
him in their arms.
Sometimes they
could scarcely forbear to imagine that
he was a benignant deity, who had as-
sumed that form to alleviate their mis-
fortune.
Polydorus was extremely moved with
these circumstances; he sympathised-
in their feelings. Sometimes, he wiped
away their tears, and at others, shed
tears with them; and he began to
think himself less to be pitied than he
had formerly imagined, since even his
misfortunes procured him the happiness
of softening the sorrows of others.
They now proceeded to the dwelling
of Nausicrates, which was situated near
the gates of the city. As Polydorus en-
tered the house, his mind was filled
with veneration for its inhabitants; the
neatness and propriety which prevailed
in it recalling to his mind the story that
was related of the old people who for-
merly
A
OH 2
1
( 148 )
merly entertained gods in their happy
abode.
The wealth of these people con-
sisted in a small piece of land which
they cultivated with their own hands,
and a few sheep, some of which they
sold annually at Cestos during the festi-
val. The whole was committed to the
care of Polydorus the next morning,
not as to a slave from whom they
exacted labour, but as to a son whom
they meant to honour with their confi-
dence.
The industry of Polydorus, and his
great attention to his charge, considerably
increased the revenue of the old people;
he passed the whole day in such work
as was wanting: before day-break he
was in the fields, and when the sun set,
he conducted his flocks to the fold;
he then carried their milk to his bene-
factors, and the sight of him always
restored
(149)
restored that tender pleasure to this
worthy couple, of which his absence
never failed to deprive them.
Polydorus thus found that innocent
and pure life whose value his educa-
tion and habit had taught him to un-
derstand; his regard for his benefactors
was as tender as theirs for him; he was
the source of their happiness, and he
would have been happy himself, had
it been possible for him to forget Cas
rite.
44
In the neighbourhood of the city of
Abydos was a temple dedicated to love,
well known through all Greece; it
stood on the top of a mountain, to
which, it is said, the god retired, when
he formerly withdrew himself from per-
fidious wretches that had profaned his
rites. Every evening, as soon as Poly-
dorus had closed his labours, he betook
himself to this temple, and implored
the compassion of the gods who had
H 3
hither-
1
( 150 )
hitherto appeared adverse to all his
wishes.
+
Behind the cottage of Nausicrates
was a garden, which the old man had
laid out in the same simple style that
characterized his dwelling. At the bot-
tom he had reared an arbour of myr-
tle, and in the midst of it placed the
statue of Hymen. Nausicrates paid
frequent visits to this spot, to return
thanks to Hymen for the happiness he
enjoyed under his protection; but there
was one day in the year that was set
apart as the festival of the deity; it
was the day of his marriage with The-
misto. On that day all his friends were
invited; they crowned themselves with
flowers; they offered libations of wine
to Hymen, and sometimes sacrificed a
kid or a heifer.
|:་ ༈,
}
The day of this festival arrived ; and
-after the ceremonies had been. per-
formed, and the old people and their
visi-
151)
visitors had retired, Polydorus remained
at the foot of the statue. Night came on,
and sleep surprised him there. In a little
time his senses were agitated by a horri-
ble dream; he thought he saw the statue
suddenly assume life, and, with a torch
in his hand, point out to him the lovely
Carite in the arms of a rival; he trem
bled-he awakened with the violence of
his horror and rage.
66
Unjust and cruel fate!" he cried,
you pursue me to the arms of sleep;
and rest, which nature gives to the
meanest reptile, is denied to me!-Ah,
no, dearest Carite, I know your purity;
and, if you live, your chaste heart is
mine !"
こ
​7-
After a moment's pause, he suddenly
exclaimed, “May not this dream be
a warning from the gods !-Ah, Carite!
thou hast betrayed me! Some other
lover is more favoured Where does
he dwell? I will run through the
II 4
earth,
•
( 152 )
earth, to satiate my vengeance on him!
I will depart from this place this
instant!-But ah, Nausicrates! Ah,
Themisto! Is it in my nature to aban¬
dọn you !-Oh! how unfortunate am
L when honour and gratitude retain
me here, while love and Hymen com-
mand me to depart!"
Almost immediately, a secret power
again overcame his senses with sleep;
and the fatal dream again presented its
frightful image.
"Now then," he cried, springing on
his feet, "my doubts are done away,
and Carite is faithless! Hymen himself
has condescended to disclose the secret
to me. I will go! I will go and re-
proach her with her perfidy, even
though I find her in the arms of her
betrayer! I cannot remain here. Love
commands me to depart. Love is mas-
ter of my soul !-Oh, ye gods, that see
the conflict of my mind, I call you to
witness
( 153 )
witness my innocence, my honour
And oh lavish your blessings on the
unfortunate, but virtuous people, whom
I leave here!"
Polydorus, as soon as it was day-
break, went down to the shore, to look
for a vessel going to Greece, which he
found at once; for the city of Abydos
sent considerable presents every year
to the god of Epidaurus, and the vessel
that was to bear them was on the point
of sailing. He embraced this oppor-
tunity, and began to indulge in the
hope that he should find Carite at home
with her mother; but, in the case of his
being deceived in his hopes, he resolved,
as soon as he should have received the
blessings of his father, to commit himself
again to the waves, and run through the
Cyclades, in search of Carite.
As he departed from Abydos, with
this design, he felt extreme concern,
while he thought of Nausicrates and
H 5
The-
( 154 )
Themisto. He besought the gods to be
propitious to them, and to administer
some consolation for this their second
loss.
As he approached the coast of Greece,
these sentiments were forgotten in others.
No sooner had the vessel cast anchor,
without waiting for the time appointed
for carrying the presents to the temple,
he leaped on shore, and immediately
began to make the best of his way
across the Peloponnesus to Corinth.
t
He was within half a mile of Epi-
daurus, when he met an old man who
was leading his flocks, and who ad-
dressed him thus :-"Young stranger,
if you are going to that city, I would
recommend you to proceed no further
till to-morrow morning. You must cross
the forest before you, which, though it
is not very long, is full of paths running
into one another. Let me prevail an
you to defer your journey till to-morrow
morning; the darkness of night already
hangs
1
( 155 )
$
hangs over the mountains, and the
smoke of the evening fires is ascending
from the neighbouring cottages. Go
home with me: I have milk for your
repast, and fresh leaves for you to rest
upon.
"I accept your offer," replied Poly-
dorus," and may Jupiter, the patron
of hospitality, reward you !”
•
They advanced towards the peasant's
cottage, and saw a large family coming
out to meet the old man. Polydorus
was received by them with a hearty
welcome. After they had finished their
repast, the shepherd said to him-" It
is not long since this place was very
different from what you see it, and we
are indebted to the valour of a single
man for the quiet and security in which
we now live. A ferocious giant, whose
name was Scinis,. infested the country,
and put to death; in a most cruel mas-
ner, all who chanced to pass this way.
H 6.. :.
( 156 )
His strength was so great, that he could
bend to the ground the loftiest pines;
and, taking the tops of two of these,
it was his custom to fasten his victim
to them by different parts of his body;
after which, letting go the trees, in
their motion to gain their natural pos-
ture, they tore the members of the un-
happy wretch asunder. I myself was a
witness of the last of these his cruel
murders; and, at the same time, saw
him receive the chastisement due to his
crimes.
"I still shudder when I think of the
dreadful scene. A little business called
me to the town; and I was proceeding
across the forest, as quickly as my years
and infirmity would permit, when I met
a young man and a young woman, who
appeared to be nearly of the same age.
They made some enquiries of me re-
specting their way; and while they were
talking, they told me they were Cretans.
Having
( 157 )
+
Having instructed them, as to their
way, and bade them farewell, I pro-
ceeded on my journey. Scarcely had
I gone a few steps, when I heard these
poor people uttering the most dreadful
cries. I turned back, and saw the giant
dragging the young man by the hair
of the head. The unhappy wife fol-
lowed, imploring the mercy of the
monster; but, far from touching his
heart with pity, her tears and lamenta-
tions served only to increase his fury.
"The Cretan had scarcely breathed
his last, when fortune brought Theseus
here. You must," said the old man,
"have heard of that hero, who is the
admiration of Greece, and who follows
the noble example of Alcides. Since
he destroyed the Minotaur, he has
cleared Achaia of several banditti, by
whom it was laid waste; and, although
Egeus, his father, has been dead more
than
( 158 )
than a year, he prefers glorious deeds,
and the renown of arms, to the plea-
sures of a throne.
"Theseus arriving as the Cretan ex-
pired, attacked the inhuman murderer,
and, having disarmed him, put him to
death by the means his own cruelty
had invented. Having destroyed the
giant, Theseus, with his own hand,
plucked up the trees that had been the
instruments of his cruelty, to efface
even those traces of the barbarous in-
vention.
"I had withdrawn to a little distance,
overwhelmed with grief and terror,
when I saw the young woman gather-
ing together, while tears fell from her
eyes, the remains of her husband. I
went to her immediately, and assisted
her in this melancholy office. Not long
after, she raised a tomb on the spot
where the unfortunate Cretan perished;
.
and
( 159 )
and near it, erected another monument
to the memory of one of her brothers,
who, she said, had recently died.
"When these monuments were fi-
nished, we built a small cottage for her
on the saine spot, where ever since she
passes her time between the wandering
shades of her brother and husband.
"We shall pass the place of which
I have been speaking, as we go to the
city to-morrow, for I will conduct you
on your road; and we will stop a while
at these tombs. Such scenes may be
made useful objects of your contem-
plation; for if you love virtue and
piety, your heart cannot but be touched
at the sight.
"At present, I would recommend you
to retire to rest; and I. will take care
to come to you in the morning, when
it is time to depart."
*
"Ah!" said Polydorus to the old
shepherd, "how greatly is that unfor-
tunate
( 160 )
}
tunate woman to pitied; and how af-
flicting is it to lose those we love!"
Polydorus, without saying another
word, mournfully withdrew to the cham-
ber prepared for him. The shepherd's
recital agitated his mind with violent
emotions. "Is it then certain," said
he, in the midst of sighs, "that love
offers nothing but wretchedness to his
votaries? When he seems to unite
two hearts, is it but to separate them?
or to deliver one of them over to the
torments of infidelity? Ah, then a
feeling heart is the greatest of curses!"
As soon as the morning began to ap-
pear, Menthes, for that was the name
of the old shepherd, called Polydorus
to depart for the city. "I do not
think," said Menthes, "we shall find
the unfortunate woman in her cottage;
for she goes every morning to the
town for the little provisions she has
need
(161)
need of; but we shall see the two mo-
numents of which I told you.
They had not proceeded far when in
one of the recesses of the wood, where
some cypress trees accidentally grew,
they perceived two low pyramids. On
the top of each was an urn; and each
bore an inscription. Polydorus drew
near to one, and found these words-
To the unfortunate Chorebus. He then
turned to the other, and read-To the
unfortunate Polydorus.
He stood speechless. His knees
knocked together. Menthes ran to
support him. Polydorus rushed upon
the tomb of Chorebus, as if his feeble
hands were sufficient to overthrow it;
but his strength forsaking him, he
staggered and fell at the foot of the
monument which bore his name.
K
At this moment the young woman
returned from the city; and seeing the
old shepherd, she advanced to meet
him,
( 162 )
him, but her attention was too soon
turned aside by seeing a young man
lying on the ground at the tomb of
Polydorus. As she was about to en-
quire what this could mean, Polydorus
rose up, and Carite saw his visage.
B
"Dearest husband," she cried, "does
thy disconsolate shade arise from thy
tomb?"
Polydorus replied not a word; but
seizing her hand he dragged her to the
tomb of Chorebus, and would have
stabbed her at its foot, if Menthes had
not arrested his arm. The unhappy
Carite, surprised and shocked at his
fury, fell down before him; and no
doubt her extreme grief would have
put an end to her life, had it not been
for the presence and cares of the old
shepherd.
Carite recovered by slow degrees,
and mean while all the tenderness and
affection of Polydorus revived. Jea-
lousy
(
163 )
lousy had blinded his soul; but the
danger of Carite recalled him to him-
self, to Carite, and to love. He was
surprised at his extravagance
and
when Carite opened her eyes she found
herself enfolded in the arms of the
most tender of lovers.
#
"Leave me to myself," she cried,
"and let me die! Do you call me
back to life only to be convinced that
he whom I loved has ceased to know
me? Oh, Polydorus! you could
think me faithless, and that was the
only calamity the gods had to lay upon
me !"
"Be not thus afflicted," replied her
penitent lover. "It was the daugh-
ters of Erebus that caused my mistake;
they poured the poison of jealousy into
my blood; but in one of your looks is
all that is heavenly, and the Eume-
nides no longer have any power over
I love, I adore you, fairest and
me.
best
( 164 )
best of women!-But, ah! what right.
have I to make this declaration, I no
longer deserve to behold the light of
day! I who could suspect you.-Yet
do not believe me; I rave; my heart
had no share in my cruel error !"
" and per-
66
Forbear," said Carite,
.૬
mit your mistress, your wife to vindi-
cate herself."
"To vindicate yourself!" exclaimed
Polydorus. Oh, I would not hear a
word. I see you; and to see you is to
know that you are virtuous. Oh, you
are most faithful! My love, my re-
morse, my heart, all assure me of the
truth!"
66
Nay," said Carite, smiling, " you
now think me innocent, and a few mo-
ments since you thought me guilty.
But I am so far from complaining of
your injustice that I am pleased to find
this proof of the strength of your
love."
"This
( 165 )
"This is too much!" exclaimed
Polydorus, "in pity avenge yourself!"
"Of what?" cried Carite.
They were silent, and a moment af-
ter rushed into each other's arms. They
mingled their tears; and their caresses
were interrupted only by their mutual
sighs.
Menthes, whose worthy nature was
moved by the spectacle, offered up
thanks to the gods for that wisdom and
goodness which finally prevail in all
human events.
When the agitation of Carite, and
Polydorus had a little subsided, Carite
said: "If you will not permit me to
justify myself, at least listen to the
story of my misfortunes. This tomb
erected by my hands to your memory
will but too well inform you that I
thought I had lost you for ever. Alas,
the only consolation I had was to con-
verse with your wandering shade !"
❝ You
( 166 )
1
"You will call to mind the moment
when we were torn asunder by the pi-
rates. I saw you dragged on board
another vessel. One moment had
united us after long sufferings, and the
next condemned us again to the horrors
of absence. Hideous separation! my
agonized heart followed you.
"At length I found some relief in
the expectation that the vessels would
proceed in the same course, and that
we should be carried to the same place.
Then almost satisfied with viewing the
ship that contained you, I scarcely
complained of the rigour of my destiny;
when suddenly the waves threatened to
bury you for ever in their abyss. I called
aloud to Venus, and implored the
aid of that goddess in whose presence
we mutually pledged our hearts; but
in vain I exhausted my voice and tears.
Your vessel disappeared. The waves
seemed to me to have closed upon her
for
( 167 )
for ever, and the lamentations of the
pirates that surrounded me convinced
me that she could not have escaped.
<<
Why should I endeavour to paint
my situation? I cannot even tell you
what passed around me.
insensible to the whole.
I was utterly
I called upon
death, but he did not listen to my
cries. I endeavoured to plunge my-
self into the sea; but the tyrants, who
had an interest in my life, snatched me
from its bosom. I was compelled to
live in spight of myself; and thence-
forth I vowed to preserve my life to
erect a monument to your memory, and
to pour upon it my never ceasing tears.
}
"In a few days we landed in Crete ;
and I was bought, in the city of Gnos-
sus, by an old man, named Phorbas.
He was good humoured and humane;
but his wife, Xantippe, was of a tem-
per the reverse, and I was extremely
glad when she ordered me to work in
the
( 168 )
the gardens at a distance from her sight.
The first essay I made of my strength
was to raise a little monument of sods,
in a retired grove; and no sooner was
this work compleated than three times
I called aloud upon the ghost of Poly-
dorus, and besought the gods of the
river Styx to accept of these poor du
ties offered to your memory.
"When I had concluded, I thought
I heard a rustling near me. I turned
hastily round, but perceiving nothing,
I betook myself to the labours to
which I was destined.
66
Every morning the sun, when he
rose, beheld me at the foot of this
humble monument, where I freely con-
versed with my Polydorus, and gave a
vent to my tears, On coming to the
spot one morning, I saw the traces of a
sacrifice. It was plain that libations
had been poured forth; and a black
ewe, the victim usually offered to He-
1
cate,
( 169 )
cate, was still bleeding on the tomb.
Whosoever you are," I said, as I
drew close to the tomb, " to whom I
owe this service, be assured of my eter-
nal gratitude."
"As I spoke, Chorebus, the son of
Phorbas, came up to me. It was he
whose generous hands had done me
this kindness. "Ah! Sir," I said, cast-
ing myself at his feet, “
may the gods
be ever mindful of your piety!"
"Chorebus compelled me to rise. I
saw that his eyes were swoln with tears.
For some time he could not speak, but
stood trembling exceedingly. He then
fell on his knees before me. I endea-
voured to retire from him.
"Ah, do not go," he said, “'till
you know that the homage I would of-
fer to you, is not unworthy either of
you or me!. Be acquainted with my
sentiments; and you will know that I
am to be pitied, and, perhaps you
I
may
( 170 )
may say, Chorebus deserved a milder
lot."
"I listened to his entreaties, and re-
mained where I was. Chorebus having
risen, and suppressed his tears, spoke
to me in the following manner:
"The delights that spring from
friendship or love were blessings un-
known to my heart. Care had been
taken from my earliest years to keep me
at a distance from every thing that
could give me an idea of them.
I was without a knowledge of what
sympathy meant. I neither knew what
the world was, nor what I was myself
-'till at length I saw you, too lovely
Carite; and thenceforth the universe
no longer offered the same dreary
scenes to my eyes.
I became ac-
quainted, in one and the same moment,
with the necessity there is to love in
order to be happy, and felt the sweet-
ness of love poured forth in my soul.-
Yes,
( 171 )
Yes, I love you, most beautiful of
women! Ah! this discourse offends
you. Yet hear me. I will never wound
your delicacy by endeavouring to be-
tray your constancy!
f
"Your story has been communi-
cated to me. I was with my father
when he purchased you. Struck with
your beauty, I made enquiries of the
persons who offered you to sale, while
my father was bargaining with them,
what was your country and condition.
They answered that you had been car-
ried off from the island of Naxos, and
that when you were seized upon, you
were accompanied by a young man,
who was also seized and put on board a
vessel belonging to their companions,
in which he perished; and that you
had incessantly bewailed his loss.
"Extremely affected with this tale,
and perhaps hurried away by an invin-
cible passion, I followed you home,
I 2
and
( 172 )
and set myself to watch all your ac-
tions. You have dwelt in this habita-
tion two months; and during all that
time, I have not failed to be the wit-
ness of your tears, and to partake in
your sorrows. My love has been daily
enflamed with them; but I respect
your feelings, and my passion should
have been buried in eternal silence,
could I have commanded my own
emotions. Forgive my involuntary
crime. Do not hate an unfortunate
being, who, at least, does not deserve
the curse of your hatred."
"My hatred!" I eagerly rejoined,
r you ought not to fear it. How can
I hate him who honours the ashes of my
husband? The duties you have of
fered to his shade demand and have all
my gratitude. I have nothing more to
give you in return. My heart is his
whose loss I must ever deplore, and
whose memory you have seen me
honour
( 173 )
honour in this spot.
Listen to me in
your turn. Your heart is pure, and
you are the friend of virtue; hear me
then, and you will learn what my obli-
gations are and what it becomes me
to do."
"de-
"I then," continued Carite,
tailed to him the story of our loves and
misfortunes. I flattered myself that if
I gave a faithful picture of them, it
was only with a view to root out all his
hopes; but I must own, I deceived
myself. Ah! Polydorus, you were
the theme of my discourse! and I
was speaking of times dear to my heart!
Did I want other motives to speak?
Alas! from the time of our separation,
if the name of Polydorus was uttered
by my lips, inanimate objects only
were the witnesses; now a human being
was listening to me, and was ready to
shed tears over the tomb of my hus-
band!
I 3
"I had
( 174 )
"I had no sooner concluded my nar-
ration than I heard my fellow slaves
calling me to work; and I left Chore-
bus in the utmost agitation.
"The following day I returned as
usual to the foot of the monument,
upon which I scattered newly gathered
flowers; and addressed my prayers to
the gods without any person interrupting
me.
This continued for several days;
and I could not but be secretly satis-
fied with Chorebus when I found he
no longer followed me to the tomb;
and I began to hope my story had
extinguished his love.
"It was not long after that my occu-
pation was changed. Another slave
took my place in the garden, and I had
employment allotted me in the house,
I quitted the monument with regret,
and feared that the sacred retreat
might be violated. Fortune, unwea-
ried
(175)
ried with persecuting me, prepared still
greater misfortunes for me.
"Phorbas gave a great feast to several
of his friends. While I was engaged
with other slaves in the necessary pre-
parations, one of the guests, perceiving
by my voice that I was a stranger,
came and desired to know the place of
my birth.
"I informed him that I was a native
of Athens, born free, and reduced to
slavery by misfortunes. As I spoke
these words I observed that his eyes be-
gan to glow with rage, and I stood
trembling, when, suddenly turning to
Phorbas, he said: " Base and pre-
sumptuous man! how have you dared
to give an asylum to a slave born in
that impious country? Have you for-
gotten the reasons that Crete has to
shudder at the name of an Athenian?
Is it already out of your remembrance,
that Athens basely slew the brave An-
I 4
drogeus;
1
(176)
drogeus; that Theseus destroyed the
Minotaur; and that Minos, expecting
his subjects to share in his just resent-
ment, orders them to put to death
without distinction every Athenian that
falls into their hands.-Let this slave
be instantly delivered up to me, or I
will myself inform the king of your
audacity and guilt."
66
Worthy Lycophron," replied
Phorbas," Jupiter is witness of my
innocence. I was ignorant of what
this slave has just informed you. I
imagined her to be a native of the isle
of Naxos, being so informed by those
of whom I bought her; but since she
first drew her breath in a country odious
to us and the gods, I do not oppose
your just vengeance, but am ready to
put her into your hands. The prince
of Crete was justly dear to you. To
you was intrusted the care of his edu-
cation,
( 177 )
cation, and your resentment is such
as becomes you.
"Goddess of vengeance!" cried
Lycophron," hear my vow. I will
only wait the time necessary to purify
this victim, and then I swear I will sa-
crifice her with my own hands on the
tomb of my beloved Androgeus !"
"I was seized by my fellow slaves,
who, become my guards, dragged me
to the houseof the cruel Lycophron. Ah,
dearest Polydorus! what was my impa-
tience while I waited for the moment
in which I was to join you! I consi-
dered death as a friend that was to put
an end to all my misfortunes, and who
was only too slow in fulfilling my
wishes.
"Preparations were made for the
sacrifice; for the Cretans, you know,
add insult to their cruelty. Not satis-
fied with immolating Athenians to the
shade of Androgeus, they regard us as
I 5
impure
(178)
impure victims, whose stains they must
first wash away with the lustral waters.
"When the ceremonies for this
purpose were performed I was dragged
from my prison, and conducted to the
tomb of Androgeus. Gnossus poured
forth all its inhabitants to view the sa-
crifice. I was led to the altar; the
sacred knife was already in the hands of
the priest; Lycophron was armed with
a dagger. Suddenly the sacrifice was
interrupted by loud shouts and a violent
commotion. Lycophron left the place
to enquire into the cause of this tu-
mult; and instantly a number of young
men in arms dispersed the priests, the
guards and the multitude. I was seized,
hurried away, and carried in the arms
of two of my deliverers to the sea
shore. 1 was put on board a vessel,
which lay at anchor by their orders.
The cables were cut, and in a little
time I was at a distance from the shore,
and
( 179 )
and could only hear the execrations of
the multitude, who had been disap-
pointed of their vengeance.
}
"I was ignorant who had interested
themselves in my behalf, when I per-
ceived Chorebus advancing towards me.
"Lovely Carite!" he said, "fortune
never looked upon me with favour till
now! Be mistress of your own fate,
and tell me whither you would be con-
ducted. I have no other recompense to
desire than to be your protector, till
you are safe in the arins of your friends.
You have nothing to apprehend from
my respectful love; it is for ever con-
demned to silence."
"Too generous Chorebus! my heart
gives you all it can-its gratitude: but
what, most worthy of men, is to become.
of you? How dare you again appear
in Crete, after this fatal action ?"
"Fear nothing for me; my brave
companions will never abandon me.
1 6
But
( 180 )
But you pity me, and is not that
enough to render any fate I shall expe-
rience happy? I have saved your life,
and have nothing to fear from the fury
of the gods!
"I requested Chorebus to convey me
to the shores of Attica; and we were
proceeding to my native country, where
I hoped to pass the remainder of my
unhappy life, in the arms of my mother,
when a tempest, still more violent than
that which separated me from you some
months before, wrecked our vessel on
the coast of Epidaurus. The intrepi-
dity of Chorebus saved my life a second
time, while the whole crew perished:
he caught hold of my garments, and
carried me safe on shore.
"I must confess, my dear Polydorus,
that I now began to view Chorebus with
a species of regret: I could not bear
to receive such important obligations
from any hand but yours. His attempts
to
( 181 )
to serve me became a burthen to me.
I envied him, on your account, his for-
tune in having snatched me from death.
But the more the generous Chorebus
heaped services on me, the less did he
think I was indebted to him.
"There was a little cabin on the
shore, belonging to fishermen. Into
that we entered, and its poor inhabitants
gave us all the assistance in their power.
Meanwhile, Chorebus perceived the
constraint which his presence put upon
me. "I see that you do not yet entirely
confide in me," he said one day; "I see
too well the cause of your embarrass-
ment, and would have freed you entirely
from it, if I did not think my pre-
sence necessary to you in this strange
country. Let me see you safe in the
arms of your mother, and then I promise
to quit you for ever!-Ah! do not at-
tempt to deter me from this resolution!
I think
(182)
I think it my duty.-Pardon me, if at
present I quit you, to prevent all an-
swer; and if you are sensible of the
purity of my love, you will forbear to
speak of this subject when we meet
again."
"He went out abruptly; and thence-
forth avoided being alone with me.
Shortly after we departed for Epidau-
rus, and intended to proceed by Corinth
to Attica.
"As we entered this forest we en-
countered Menthes, of whom we en-
quired our way; but in a little time
the generous Chorebus was murdered
in a cruel manner. I had the sad mis-
fortune to see him perish, but could give
him no aid but my tears. He was dead,
and I had lost my Polydorus; and my
feeble hands raised monuments to the
}
memory of my husband, and the wan-
dering shade of Chorebus.
"This
( 183 )
"This place became too dear to me
to allow me to leave it; and on this
spot it was my determination to die.”
Carite here ended a narrative which
the tears of Polydorus had often in-
terrupted. Ah, illusion too powerful
for a feeling heart! He thought he saw
Carite about to expire, although he held
her within his arms; his rage was in-
flamed to madness against the savage
Lycophron he saw the wretch ready
to strike the lovely victim. And then
recollecting his own still greater cruelty
and injustice, in his suspicions of Carite,
he thought himself a thousand times
more culpable. He pitied, unfeignedly,
the fall of Chorebus, over which he
wept plentifully; and Carite dried up
the tears Polydorus shed for a rival.
CHAP.
( 184 )
CHA P. IV.
WHEN the lovely Carite had
finished her story, Polydorus began to
recount his adventures. His mistress
listened to him with eager attention;
and sometimes she openly heaped her
praises on the virtuous Nausicrates, and
at others, with a smile, reproached Po-
lydorus with the suspicions he had so
unjustly conceived.
So perfect was their attention to each
other, they did not perceive that the
old man had fallen senseless beside
them. Feeble with old age, and pos-
sessing a sensible heart, the late scene
had been too much for him. Carite was
the first to observe his condition--
"Ah!" she cried, "What do I see!
And is this moment, that seemed to be
inca-
( 185 )
1
incapable of misfortune, to be embit-
tered with new disasters? Ah! now I
am convinced the hands of the gods
are raised against me! The gods have
been ever adverse to me! and every
moment of happiness is only the fore-
runner to me of their wrath.-Ah,
Menthes! Ah, my father! Will you
never again hear the voice of your
daughter?"
While Carite thus bewailed this new
misfortune, Polydorus hastened to give
some assistance to the old man. In a
little time he was brought to himself;
but still he could not have gained his
house, if Polydorus and Carite had not
supported him.
The wife and children of Menthes
were alarmed at an absence they did
not expect, and were in search of him.
As they saw him advance, their uneasi-
ness was greatly increased; and, seeing
his present weak condition, they threw
them-
( 186 )
themselves at his. feet, kissed his trem-
bling hands, and shed tears over their
unhappy fate. Then raising their hands
to heaven, they accused the gods of
extreme rigour. Menthes interrupted
lamentations unworthy of the justice
and dignity of the gods; and, addres-
sing himself to his family, he endea-
voured to reconcile them to events,
while he tenderly embraced each of
them.
Menthes was now every instant draw-
ing nearer to his end, and all assistance
seemed entirely fruitless; when Carite.
said to Polydorus, "Esculapius is the
god worshipped in this country; he is
the son of Apollo and Coronis. The
venerable Chiron taught him the virtue
of plants, and he is adored throughout
Greece as the god of medecine. Let
us offer our vows to him for the reco-
very of Menthes. Let us go to his tem-
ple, and embrace his statue. We will
offer
(187)
offer him the homage of uncorrupted
hearts; the offering most acceptable to
the gods."
<<
May the god of Epidaurus listen
to our vows!" answered Polydorus.
"Let us hasten to give to Menthes the
tribute due to his virtues." Having said
this, they proceeded to the temple of
Esculapius. This temple is one of the
most celebrated of Greece, and is no less
crowded with votaries than the temple of
Apollo at Delphi, and that of Jupiter at
Olympia. A chorus of men and women,
alternately recite, without ceasing,
hymns in praise of the god. A vast
multitude of priests and priestesses
dwell within the temple, whose extent
is so great, that it is an asylum
for all who seek refuge in it; for
the temples of the gods throughout
Greece are sacred and inviolable places,
to which those repair who are com-
pelled,
( 188 )
J
pelled, by their own crimes, or the in-
justice of others, to seek a safe retreat,
and that tranquillity which is by all
the world denied them.
When the lovers entered the temple,
they were conducted to the high priest,
to whom they communicated the in-
tention of their visit. "It is not,"
said Carite, "for an enemy of the gods
that we would implore their mercy.
Ah, no! the gods have no one among
their adorers who is more pious. We
come to entreat the god of this country
to restore to us the venerable Menthes,
whose worthy life is well known through-
out Epidaurus."
While Carite spoke, the high priest
gazed on her beauty; and too swiftly
the poison of love spread through his
veins.
The high priest of Esculapius is the
most powerful person in Epidaurus;
he commands with absolute authority,
within
( 189 )
within the precincts of the temple, and
the multitude that inhabit the temple
form a strong party in the state entirely
at his disposal.
The high priest, to whom Carite and
Polydorus now applied, was a man of a
haughty temper, and fierce and turbu-
lent passions. The presence of the god
had no influence on his proud mind;
for in the very temple he indulged in
all the violence of his disposition.
Love, that usually softens an obdu-
rate heart, increased his ferocity. In
seeing Carite, he envied the happiness
of Polydorus; and he resolved to sa-
crifice it to his licentious desires.
But his dissimulation equalled his
cruelty; and he was able, with the
deepest refinement, to conceal his sen-
timents.
The sacrifice begins. The lovers,
with tears pouring down their cheeks,
prostrate themselves at the foot of the
statue,
( 190 )
statue, beseeching the god to have
compassion on them, and restore
Menthes. The statue shakes; an enor-
•
mous serpent issues from the altar; ap-
proaches the libations for a moment;
stops before Polydorus and Carite, and
returns to his retreat.
The people cry aloud with joy, that
it is the god himself, who in this form
promises his aid; and they crowd round
to offer thanks for his protection.
Again the statue shakes; the ground
at its foot opens; and an awful voice
pronounces these words-
"At a distance from this consecrated
spot let every profane mortal who stands.
within the walls of this temple retire.
It is the god who inhabits here who is:
about to speak. You, people of Epi-
daurus, whom Æsculapius protects, lend
an attentive car; and you, most gene-
rous of friends, whom gratitude and
hope have conducted to this spot, re-
ceive
( 191 )
ceive the reward of your piety. Menthes
recovers. The gods prolong his life.
But the destinies demand a sacrifice;
they require that Carite dedicates her-
self to the service of these altars. Escu-
lapius has made choice of her for one
of his priestesses. Polydorus, you must
return alone to the aged Menthes.
Carite must be for ever separated from
you. The gods themselves dissolve the
ties by which you are united."
"Inhuman and perfidious priests!"
exclaimed Polydorus, who, in his
rage,
lost all respect for the temple-" Can
you imagine, by this vile artifice, to
deprive me of her I love? No! though
all the gods were assembled on this
spot, to enforce this accursed order, I
would die the most horrible of deaths,
rather than obey !"
Polydorus was not suffered to pro-
ceed. The people, shocked at his pro-
fanation of the temple, thrust him out
of
(192)
-
+
of doors, with execrations of his guilt.
Carite was seized as she attempted to
follow him; and the, high priest.. or-
dered the doors of the temple to be
closed...
*
3
The rage of Polydorus, in this dread-
ful moment, is not to be expressed;
he no longer retained his senses; he
fled furiously round and round the tem-
ple; he shrieked with inefficacious
fury, cursing the high priest and his
ministers. For a while he laid himself
on the ground, and rolled in the dust;
and then he placed himself on the steps
of the temple, and called to the gods
to avenge him!
Having a little recovered from this
transport of rage, he ran through the
streets of Epidaurus, relating his un-
happy story to all who came in his way.
The high priest had many secret enemies,
who readily promised assistance to Po-
lydorus; and at length, whether it pro-
ceeded, in some degree, from compas-
sion,
( 193 )
sion, or wholly from political motives,
he was assured of a powerful party in
an approaching assembly of the people.
The time for holding the assembly
had not yet been appointed; and Poly-
dorus, abandoned by the gods and men,
and a prey to injustice and cruelty,
did not now look for relief. He not
only lost all hope, but all desire of re-
dress; he desired nothing but death.-
Alas! death never comes to the aid of
the unfortunate when they call for
him!
Polydorus had passed several days in
this condition, when an unforeseen
event gave him a ray of hope. The
streets were suddenly filled with con-
fused noises; the whole city was in the
utmost confusion. He endeavoured to
learn the cause, but all that he met
seemed to be absorbed in some impor-
tant affair. Women, children, and old
men, were running out of their houses,
K
hurry-
(194)
hurrying to and fro.. Polydorus ima-
gined the people were about to assem-
ble, and began to expect that he
should be able to make himself heard.
But when he reached the public place,
his voice was drowned in that of the
multitude. An enemy was marching
towards the city, and never had Epi-
daurus been in such danger. The Athe-
nians, continuing to be harrassed by
Minos, had this year failed in their
intention of presenting their usual of-
fering to Esculapius. The king of
Crete had compelled Epidaurus to shut
the port against them; and Athens was
so incensed at this outrage, that she
assembled a large fleet to chastise the
insolence of Epidaurus.
Polydorus could now no longer ex-
pect any thing from the compassion of
the people of Epidaurus; they were
too much occupied with their own fate.
But heaven pointed out to him a re-
source
( 195 )
source in the army of his own country;
he saw that it was possible for him, at
the head of some of them, to force the
temple, and was eager to take ample ven-
geance on this treacherous city: but, at
all events, he determined that the glory
of his arms should render him worthy of
Carite, and he departed. In quitting
the town, he bound himself, by the
most solemn oaths, not to return but
in a hostile manner.
1
He went immediately to the habita-
tion of Menthes. The old man saw
him approaching, and ran to embrace
him; his children threw themselves at
his feet, as at those of the greatest of be-
nefactors. But when Menthes enquired
after Carite, the unhappy lover, for a
while, could answer only by his tears;
he at length, however, informed Menthes
of his late misfortunes; of the perfidy
of the high priest; his intention to
take vengeance, and the means he in-
K 2
tended
{
( 196 )
tended to employ. The old man con-
curred in his sentiments, and promised
immediately to procure a boat to con-
duct him to the Athenian fleet.
They both proceeded along the shore
for a considerable time, without being
able to procure a boat, the fishermen
of the country having retired into ob
scure creeks, to escape from the Athe-
nians. But, at length, Menthes, who
was extremely respected by the poor
inhabitants of the country, prevailed on
one of them to convey Polydorus to
the fleet of the enemy.
As Polydorus approached the nearest
of the Athenian vessels, he felt a secret.
joy at finding himself once more in the
midst of his countrymen; yet he could
not but question himself, on giving
way to a happiness of which Carite was
no partaker. The hope, however, that
it would not be long before she would
share in his pleasures, allayed his anxiety,
and
( 197 )
and satisfied him respecting the nature
of his own feelings.
When he was near enough to be
heard on board the Athenian ship, hë
called aloud, that he was born in Attica,
and that he had been conducted to
Epidaurus by a series of misfortunes.
He said he was come to join the Athe-
nian army, to which his knowledge of
the enemy's country might be useful;
he had no sooner spoken, than the
Athenians sent a boat to take him on
board, and the fisherman returned to
his own shore.
The strangeness of this adventure
surprised the Athenians so much, that'
they suspected Polydorús; they con-
cluded that he was a spy of the enemy,
and resolved to carry him before their
general; and the unfortunate Polydorus
was loaded with irons, finding among
his countrymen no better treatment'
1
than
} } }
( 198 )
than formerly among the Phoenician
pirates.
The Athenian general was surrounded
by his officers when Polydorus was
brought before him. The unhappy
youth, wholly overcome by this last
stroke of adversity, covered his face
with his scarf, and remained silent.-
"Tell me," said the Athenian chief,
"if my country gave you birth, what
is the name of your father?"
"What voice do I hear ?" cried Po-
lydorus. "It is Ah! it is
You
are my father, at whose feet I fall.”
•
<<
My son!" exclaimed Pisistratus.-
Ah, my Polydorus ! -- The Cretan
monsterAh! you have escaped!
Yes! Yes! I see it is my son! Athe-
nians, come and partake of my happi-
ness; he is my son, and the gods have
restored him to ine."
"Now," replied Polydorus, "the se-
cret presages of my heart, as I ap-
proached
(199)
proached the fleet, are justified; and
having so unexpectedly found my fa
ther in a foreign country, all my mis-
fortunes will soon be at an end."
Their expressions of joy were inter-
rupted by the acclamations of those
who surrounded them. This extraor-
dinary event was soon known to the
whole fleet; and the officers, the sea-
men, and the troops, all came, by turns,
to express their happiness to their chief,
for he was greatly beloved by them.
When these passions had subsided
a little, Pisistratus retired, with his son,"
to hear the story of his misfortunes;
and when Polydorus had concluded, he
said-"Oh, my son! however heavy the
hands of the gods have been upon you,
beware how you doubt of their good-
ness !-The ills that fall upon men the
gods permit with regret; but their
clemency and love are inexhaustible.
K 4
They
( 200 )
3
They are moved with repentance, and
the unhappiness of men disarms them;
but despair is offensive to them.-
My life has been the sport of fortune;
she elevated me to the highest honours,
but I was not dazzled with her benefits
I afterwards experienced her frowns,
and supported them with an equal mind.
The good opinion of my fellow citizens
has now placed me at their head.-
Egeus is dead; and Theseus, his son,
panting for the glory of the most re-
nowned of heroes, quits the sceptre, to
follow the footsteps of Hercules. War
being rekindled, the people called me
from my retreat, and I have sacrificed
the tranquillity of my life to their ser-
vice. This, in a few words, is the his-,
tory of my life; it draws near to a con-
clusion, and destiny has marked it with
extraordinary vicissitudes. In the midst.
of storms I have been ever unshaken,
because
**
1
*
- 1
(201)
because, on my side, I have always had
the consciousness of virtue, and the
protection of the gods, who never fail
to protect virtue.”
"Ah, my father!" answered Poly-
dorus-" You do not name Sterope,
my mother, to me !-Ah! how many
tears must your absence cost her!"
66
"Alas! my son," replied Pisistra-
tus, you have brought the most sor-
rowful remembrance to my heart! Ste-
rope is no
is no more !"
more!"
66
My mother is no more!" cried
Polydorus, while he wept.
}
"Do not suppose, my son," conti-
nued Pisistratus, "that she was able
to survive the loss of her daughter.
The day on which Carite was torn from
her arms she expired; and her happy,
shade went to join that of Chorephontes.
Their ashes repose in the same tomb.
Let us no longer weep for her loss.
Death was the greatest of benefactors
}
K 5
to
( 202 )
to her. When we have lost all that we
love, life is then the only evil."
Oh!" cried Polydorus, "you then
can judge of the grief which tears my
heart. I have lost Carite, and perhaps
some barbarian has put an end to her
life."
"I feel for your affliction," said Pi-
sistratus; and I will do what I can to
remove it. In serving my country, I
will aid you. I have deferred the land-
ing of the troops, to assemble some of
our vessels that were separated from us
in a storm; they are now with us, and
to-morrow, at the break of day, I will
give a signal for the attack. You shall
take the command of the troops, and
besiege the city on the side of the
land; while, with my ships, I endeavour
to make myself master of the port.
Night had not yet withdrawn her
veil when Polydorus, overcome with his
impatience, went to his father, and be-
sought
( 203 )
sought him to give orders for the disem-
barking of the soldiery. Pisistratus,
applauding his courage, yielded to his
entreaties; but, at the same time, he
gave him two old and experienced offi-
cers, to aid him with their advice.
These were Cleobulus and Democedes,
in whom the army placed great confi-
dence. The troops were landed with-
out opposition; and at day-break pre-
sented themselves in good order before
the town.
At the sight of them the affrighted
citizens of Epidaurus flew to the ram-
parts. A long peace had corrupted them
with its luxury and indolence; and,
unaccustomed to the hardships of war,
they dreaded beforehand its dangers and
fatigues. Polydorus, availing himself of
their consternation, in that instant aş-
sailed the town; but scarcely was the
attack commenced, when the cowardly
K 6
inha-
( 204 )
*
inhabitants came and laid down their
arms before him. They threw open their
gates to him, and implored his clemency;
and Polydorus entered, with the honours
of a conqueror, that city which, a little
before, had heaped the most cruel in-
sults upon him.
The high priest, however, shut up in
the interior of the temple, refused to
open its doors, and prepared for a vigo-
rous defence. He had been the instru-
ment of Minos, in persuading the peo-
ple of Epidaurus to commit the offence
against the Athenians; and he now just-
ly dreaded the consequence to himself,
and resolved to make an effort to escape..
from their vengeance.
ދ
יד
Polydorus proceeded with a party to
the temple, taking with him Cleobulus ;:
whilst Democędes took possession of
the rest of the city, and opened the
port to the fleet of Pisistratus.avi 19.
} }
The
( 205 )
L
-The incensed lover arrived at the
doors of the temple; and in vain the
high priest endeavoured to repel his
forces. With incredible prowess, Poly-
dorus overthrew all that stood in his
way, Cleobulus, with the other Athe-
nians, sympathizing in his vengeance,
put to the sword all who continued to
resist. The high priest was obliged to
give way; and, being made prisoner by
Cleobulus, was, by his orders, loaded
with chains.
L
While Cleobulus, and the Athenians
under his command, were thus engaged;
Polydorus had disappeared. The sol-
diery sought in vain for him in every
part of the temple, and Cleobulus be-¨
gan to fear that he had fallen into an
ambuscade; when he suddenly appeared,"
full of rage, and, rushing upon the high
priest with his drawn sword-" Restore
her to me!" he cried, "restore Carite,
or
( 206 )
or this moment shalt thou pay for all
thy crimes!"
"Hold!" said the high priest. "F
swear to you, by the god of this place,
that I know not where she is. She was
carried away from the temple on the
very day on which you were separated
from her; and from that moment I
have been ignorant of her fortunes. I
call upon Esculapius to punish me,
if what I speak be not true!"
"Perfidious wretch !" answered Po-
lydorus, "wilt thou for ever abuse the
venerable name of the gods? Die, un-
worthy as thou art!”
At these words, he raised his sword a
second time, and was ready to strike,
when one of those whom the Athenians
had taken in the temple, and loaded
with irons, raised his voice and said,
"Oh, my friend! Oh, my Polydorus!
do I behold you again.?"
Poly-
1
(207)
Polydorus started back, and recol-
lected Strato, the generous Cretan, who
had enabled him again to see Carite,
when he thought he had lost her for
ever. He flew upon the neck of his
friend, embraced him, and freed him
from his fetters.
"Fear nothing for Carite," said
Strato: "I have conveyed her to a
place of safety. I contrived her escape
from the snares of the high priest."
"Ah, most valuable of friends !"
exclaimed Polydorus, "what benefits
do I receive from you! and how shall
I repay them ?--But Carite! Where is
she? Let us hasten to her !-A second
time you restore her to me!"
Having said these words, they with-
drew together. Strato had given the
charge of Carite to a poor woman, who
conducted her to a remote apartment
of the temple, unknown even to the
high priest; and there Carite had re-
mained
( 208 )
mained since the day she was separated
from Polydorus.
4;
+
J
In a few minutes' she hears 'the voice
of her lover-" It is he !" she cries.
"It is my husband !" But already Po-
lydorus is in her arms." The gods,'
he cried, are weary of persecuting
us! and now fatè unites us for ever!"
Polydorus related to his mistress what
had passed since their separation. The
death of Sterope plunged Carite in the
deepest sorrow; but Polydorus dried
up her tears; and the presence of this
ténderest of lovers greatly assuaged her
sorrows.—And now they all quitted the
temple, to join Pisistratus.
On the road, Polydorus enquired of
Strato, what chance or what misfortune
had driven him 'from his country?
"The pity felt for you," replied Strato,
"iwas the sole cause of my exile. My
countrymen leaffed what I had done
for you; and, having accused me, I
$
fed
( 209 )
A
fled to this temple, to take refuge
against their resentment. It is now two
years that I have dwelt here. During the
tumult that happened in the temple the
other day, occasioned by the artifices
of the high priest, and your just wrath,
I recognized Carite: I saw her dragged.
away, and was happy that I could. save
her."
}
When he had finished these words,
the two lovers expressed the warmest
gratitude for the services. of this gene-
rous, friend.
{
+
Meanwhile Pisistratus had entered
the city, and was advancing amidst the
accclamations of the people, and his
own soldiers. Carite, ran to meet him,
and threw herself at his feet. He:
raised her, and pressed her to his bo-
som, calling her his daughter. He
then said to Polydorus, who embraced
his knees, Too long have the destinies
retarded
}
&
( 210 )
retarded your happiness! Let us no
longer delay an union, to which, it is
plain, the gods themselves are propi-
tious!"
{
The acclamations of the people re-
doubled. Every one applauded the ap-
proaching union of the two lovers:
Pisistratus then went to the temple;
and, having deposed the high priest,
named one of the most respectable ci-
tizens of Epidaurus as his successor.
The lovers approached the altar; the
sacred fire was burning; sacrifices were
offered up; and the high priest, whom
Pisistratus had just appointed, received,
in the name of the gods, the vows of
Carite and Polydorus.
The Athenians remained no longer
in Epidaurus than was necessary for the
celebration of the marriage. Pisistra-
tus having exacted from that city a
satisfaction for the injury Athens had
received,
( 211 )
received, prepared for his departure for
his own country.
Carite and Polydorus, before they
departed for their native country, vi-
sited the family of Menthes, which
they filled with presents; and, on the
same day, they proceeded, with a large
train of followers, to offer a sacrifice
upon the tomb of the unfortunate Cho-
rebus. These duties fulfilled, they took
with them the faithful Strato, and went
on board the Athenian general's ship.
Immediately the fleet set sail.
$
3
Pisistratus was received in Athens as
the avenger of his country; but that
noble minded citizen retired again to
his retreat, preferring the pleasures of a
private life to the splendour of a high
station. His children retired with him.
Carite, immediately on her arrival, vi-
sited the tomb that held the remains of
Sterope and Chorephontes: she shed
tears over the ashes of her father and
mother ;
( 212 )
mother; and paid to their memory all
the honours that affection and piety
suggest.
*
{
Some little time after this, Strato,
at the instance of Polydorus, went in
search of Nausicrates and Themisto,
to invite them to settle in Attica. He
returned, bringing with him the two
old people, who abandoned their coun-
try to live near Polydorus. Themisto
brought with her only the urn that
contained the ashes of her son.
Polydorus received them with the
strongest marks of his gratitude and
affection. From that moment, all these
people made but one family, and were
not separated but by death.
Carite and Polydorus lived to a very
old age; the gods heaped blessings on
their union; they had many children;
and all of them were distinguished by
their virtues. And when, after the
heroic death of Codrus, the Athenians
changed
( 213 )
3
changed. their form of government, and
placed the executive authority, in the
hands of the Archons, the first of these
magistrates was chosen among the de-
scendants of Carite and Polydorus.
2
7
J
*
}
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2 1.
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FINIS.
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