by the temptations of poverty, find that consolation in an innocence of manners, which Hamilton so well invoked, and, it is to be hoped, not altogether in vain : Fille du ciel, pure Innocence ! Whatever were Hamilton's errors, his general character was respectable. He has been represented as grave, and even dull, in society; the very reverse, in short, of what he appears in his Memoirs but this is probably exaggerated. Unquestionably he had not the unequalled vivacity of the Count de Grammont in conversation; as Grammont was, on the other hand, inferior, in all respects, to Hamilton, when the pen was in his hand; the latter was, however, though reserved in a large society, particularly agreeable in a more select one. Some of his letters remain, in which he alludes to his want of that facility at impromptu which gave such brilliancy to the conversation of some of his brother wits and contemporaries. But, while we admit the truth of this, let it be remembered at the same time, that when he wrote this, he was by no means young; that he criticized his own defects with severity; that he was poor, and living in a court which itself subsisted on the alms of another. Amidst such circumstances, extemporary gaiety cannot always be found. I can suppose, that the Duchess of Maine, who laid claim to the character of a patroness of wit, and, like many who assert such claims, was very troublesome, very self-sufficient, and very exigeante, might not always have found that general superiority, or even transient lustre, which c she expected in Hamilton's society: yet, considering the great difference of their age and situation, this circumstance will not greatly impeach his talents for conversation. But the work of real genius must for ever remain; and of Hamilton's genius, the Grammont Memoirs will always continue a beauteous and graceful monument. To that monument may also be added, the candour, integrity, and unassuming virtues of the amiable author. EPISTLE TO THE COUNT DE GRAMMONT, BY ANTHONY HAMILTON, In his own and his Brother's Name.* O! THOU, the glory of the shore, The blessed abode of Menodore; Thou, whom the fates have doom'd to stray On which the sun, at parting, smiles, In love, in frolic, and in war! To you, Sir, this invocation must needs be addressed; for whom else could it suit? But you may be puzzled even to guess who invokes you, since you have heard nothing of us for an age, and since so long an absence may have utterly banished us from your recollection. Yet we venture to flatter ourselves * It is dated from Grammont's villa of Semeac, upon the banks of the Garonne, where it would seem Philibert and Anthony Hamilton were then residing. † Corisande and Menadaure were both ancestresses of the Count de Grammont, and celebrated for beauty. EPISTLE TO THE COUNT DE GRAMMONT. For who was e'er forgot by thee? And we your friends of fair Garonne. 19 Even in these distant and peaceful regions, we hear, by daily report, that you are more agreeable, more unequalled, and more marvellous than ever. Our country neighbours, great news-mongers, apprized by their correspondents of the lively sallies with which you surprise the court, often ask us if you are not the grandson of that famous Chevalier de Grammont, of whom such wonders are recorded in the History of the Civil Wars? Indignant that your identity should be disputed in a country where your name is so well known, we had formed a plan of giving some faint sketch of your merits and history. But who were we, that we should attempt the task? With talents naturally but indifferent, and now rusted by long interruption of all intercourse with the court, how were it possible for us to display taste and politeness, excelling all that is to be found elsewhere, and which yet must be attributes of those fit to make you their theme? Can mediocrity avail, To follow forth such high emprize? In vain our zeal to please you tries, Where noblest talents well might fail: Where loftiest bards might yield the pen, And own 'twere rash to dare, 'Tis meet that country gentlemen Be silent in despair. * Don Brice is celebrated in the Memoirs, but Donna Ragueza does not appear there. We therefore limited our task to registering all the remarkable particulars of your life which our memory could supply, in order to communicate those materials to the most skilful writers of the metropolis. But the choice embarrassed us. Sometimes we thought of addressing our Memoirs to the Academy, persuaded that as you had formerly sustained a logical thesis,* you must know enough of the art to qualify you for being received a member of that illustrious body, and praised from head to foot upon the day of admission. Sometimes, again, we thought, that, as, to all appearance, no one will survive to pronounce your eulogium when you are no more, it ought to be delivered in the way of anticipation, by the reverend Father Massillon or De la Rue. But we considered that the first of these expedients did not suit your rank, and that, as to the second, it would be against all form to swathe you up while alive in the tropes of a funeral sermon. The celebrated Boileau next occurred to us, and we believed at first he was the very person we wanted; but a moment's reflection satisfied us that he would not answer our purpose. Sovereign of wit, he sits alone, And joys him in his glory won; The first of monarchs' feats he give, Attentive Phoebus guides his hand, And Memory's daughters round him stand; He might consign, and only hc, Thy fame to immortality. Yet, vixen still, his muse would mix Her playful but malicious tricks, Which friendship scarce might smother. So gambols the ambiguous cat, Deals with one paw a velvet pat, And scratches you with t'other. * I presume, when he was educated for the church. |