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to repay us for the trouble of perusing what night have been written in England, as well as in France. The general contents are a string of trite reflexions on the past events of the revolution: but it must be allowed there are some singularities of opinion which may amuse the reader, and some attempts at picturesque description, which would have suited another metropolis rather better than Paris.

We are told that

"The palace of the Tuilleries, the long and last residence of the Bourbons, preserves its beauty. The cannon shot that made it shake to its foundations, and the blood that inundated the pavements, have left no traces of the rude scene of the tenth of August; the walls have been repaired, and the apartments re-adorned.' P. 11.

It would appear by this that the cannon-shot and the blood either made no impression, or afterwards wiped away the little they had made: but this is not the author's meaning, if we refer to p. 100, where he tells us that every stone of the palace is indented with the cannon-shot of the 10th of August.'

that

So much for edifices!-As to manners, we are told

'After so much devastation, the demolition of convents and cathedrals, the murder of so many inhabitants, the extirpation of clergy and nobility, we expect to see an alteration in every town and village, every house would exhibit marks of the ravage, and every countenance traits of sadness; but' (says Mr. King) it is not so; there is as much gayness and hilarity as if there had been no revolutionary tribunals, no executions, no permanent guillotine.' P. 1.

On reading this, we felt an inclination to compliment the French on their wonderful good humour and forgiving spirit: but, alas! in p. 41, the inclination is completely destroyed.

Every wound' (says our traveler) is yet fresh, the terrors of the guillotine are not yet worn out; relations still deplore their murdered kindred, and indigent gentlemen sigh after their confiscated estates.'

P.41.

Whether these accounts would have been reconciled, if our author had been at leisure to correct his letters, we know not; but at present he must allow there is some small inconsistency.

We have hinted that Mr. King has certain singularities of opinion: we do not allude to his frequent censures of the process of arrests in England, and his oblique reflexions on the late lord Kenyon: these are singular, only as being dated from Paris; nor is he, perhaps, singular in thinking madame Tallien a desirable woman:' but we refer more particularly to his opinion of Robespierre, of whom he says, that, if

he had lived longer, perhaps, however problematical it may seem, the republic had been secured. Tallien destroyed Robespierre, and destroyed all the people's fears.' After this kind conjecture on Robespierre's recipe for securing a republic, the reader will not be surprised at the following apology for Santerre's conduct at the execution of the king.

• General Santerre has been blamed for commanding the drums to beat, when the king was haranguing the people on the scaffold; the king had in the tumult of Versailles, in the carnage of the Tuilleries, and in his long confinement and sufferings at the Temple, shewn a calmness that savored of apathy; now for the first moment of his life he felt emotion and was ruffled; he has been censured too, for mentioning his death with exultation. I wished to question Santerre on these two points, I touched on them and paused, he saw my drift and with out hesitation entered on the subject; he said it was expected there would be a cry of mercy, and he had received peremptory orders to fire on those who called for mercy; he saw several well-known aristocrats surrounding the scaffold and preparing to cry out; an immense body of Marseillois watched them and meant to answer it with a contrary exclamation. If this contest had ensued, thousands would have perished in it; he perceived what was passing, and from the most humane motives, (and not to drown the king's voice, and distress him in his last few moments,) he ordered the drums to beat; and, though the duty of seeing the king's sentence executed, devolved on him, it was impossible he could rejoice at an event, that however necessary was distressing and lamentable; he deplored it as much as any man in France, and tryed all he could to prevent it by repeated visits to the Temple, to instruct the king by what measures he might still save himself; he said several expedients were proposed to the king, but his rejection of them evinced that he had no confidence in the nation and would retort upon it if ever he possessed power. Once he thought the king would accede to his overtures, but he required some hours to ponder on them; he saw the queen in the interim and declined further treaty. In the last extremity he made another effort, he went once more to the king, and told him his life was in danger if he temporized any more, but if he would listen to his overtures the king would be saved and liberated, he would forfeit his existence if he failed; again the queen interposed, and Santerre was set at defiance. 'Soon after his doom was fixed, and negociation was unavailable. He complains that the king had no character, that he spoke like a parrot, and his actions seldom accorded with his words; his diction was pure, he was sententious, he delivered virtuous sentiments, and spoke with dignity, yet in action he was inconsistent and frivolous, his language was from books or instruction, no originality in it; he repeated what was suggested to him, but his deeds could not be controled; they were sudden and untutored; they betrayed his speeches and shewed that the king was no better than an automaton. Wild visionary hopes had deluded the imperious queen to her destruction; she still trusted to the idle professions of gallantry that the Quixot courtiers had for. merly made her; she forgot that the pusillanimous nobility had aban

doned their monarch and their country; she was vain and presumptuous; she fancied her relations would risk their own lives to save hers; and that all Europe would wage war, till she had again remounted the throne.

A little before the king's trial, the queen, who did not want discernment, said, "Santerre, I believe you are an honest man, I wish I had taken your advice, I am a victim to my obstinacy, but do not presume on it, I know this fickle ungrateful people better than you do, they are constant to no point, and you in your turn, will be a victim to their perfidy;" he says he often recollects her prophetic words; the wrongs he has received are almost an accomplishment of her prediction; they have been true to no principles, sincere to no party; on whatever side or of whatever opinions, whoever has been prominent has been sacrificed; an undistinguishing fate has involved all orders of men; their talents could not screen them; their integrity afford no protection.

• Santerre bears some resemblance in countenance and person, to Lewis the Sixteenth, but is infinitely more handsome, when he converses the features of his face indicate great benevolence, but when he is serious and composed, there is a cast of austerity in it. The pathetic manner in which he spoke on these subjects, the pain he felt at unmerited obloquy, which he is about refuting in a publication to which thousands bear testimony, have made him extremely unhappy; his general character is a confutation of the calumny, for he is an affable, friendly man, of soft manners and unshaken rectitude, he has refused employment under the present government, and maintains the principles he professed, when the revolution was at its summit.' P. 68.

Not less ingenious is the apology for Manuel in Letter XVII;, and in Letter XVIII we have even a story in favour of the duke of Orléans. From these specimens, it may be gathered, that a defence of revolutionary France is a principal object with this desultory writer, to whom, however, we would recommend to have his letters corrected, for a future edition, by some person whose notions of political government are reconcilable to historical fact and experience, and who might offer an apology for the atrocities of the revolution rather more consistent than the following:

If there have been murders in Lewis the Sixteenth's time, so were there murders in Charles the First's time; if the French had a Carrier, we had a Kirke; their Robespierre, hardly exceeded our Jeffrey's [Jefferies]; and the sacrifice of Bailly and the twenty-two, had a precedent in the deaths of Russel and Algernon Sydney.' P. 104.

A small degree of acquaintance with history may probably instruct our author that Kirke and Jefferies, Russel and Sydney, are not usually classed under the reign of Charles the First.

ART. VII.-Delphine: a Novel. Translated from the French of Madame de Staël Holstein. 3 Vols. 12mo. 15s. Boards. Robinsons. 1803.

THIS is one of the most fascinating novels we have lately met with; and we are sorry, on this very account, that it has been translated into our own language-for we abominate both its religion and its morals. The translation, however, has been made; and it now becomes us, as impartial reporters of general literature, circumstantially to investigate its merits.

The object of madame de Staël, consistently with the motto in her title-page, is to prove, that, while a man ought to be capable of braving the opinion of the world, a woman must submit to it.'-The opinions of the world, like purity of taste, are generally founded upon the excellence of that which produces them; and we see no reason, therefore, why man should resist what woman is compelled to admit: but, without logically discussing this doctrine, or offering any extract from the preface by which the volumes before us are introduced-and which, if the readers of novels on the continent resemble the majority of those of our own country, might well have been reserved for some other occasion-we will abruptly hasten to the narrative itself, premising only that it is communicated to us, after the example of Richardson and Rousseau, in the form of a series of letters from the different characters of which it consists.

Delphine d'Albemar, the interesting heroine of the piece, is introduced to us at the age of about twenty-one, having just lost her husband, a most worthy man, but not less than forty years older than herself, to whom she had been married at the age of sixteen, and who now, in consideration of the virtues of which she is possessed-and, indeed, at the solicitation of his own sister, an elderly but most amiable woman, who had retired from the world for the purpose of religious exercises-had bequeathed to her the whole of his ample fortunc. Delphine, at the moment we become acquainted with her, is in one of the most enviable situations towards which a young woman can possibly aspire. Her youth is in its full bloom, her beauty unrivaled, her understanding highly cultivated, her wit brilliant, her income affluent, her heart the kindest and most generous in the world, seeking for oppor tunities of doing all the good in her power, and equally beloved and admired by all who know her. Her first act of generosity is to make a present of a considerable estate to Matilda de Vernon, a cousin of her late husband, to whom overtures of matrimony had been proposed from the mother of Leontius de Mondoville, a Spanish lady of high

rank and dignity, in favour of her son. Matilda is also beautiful in no small degree: but, having been rigidly educated by her mother, madame de Vernon, in all the obser vances of the catholic religion, there is in her manner a perpetual reserve and inacquaintance with the world, which more qualifies her for a convent than for a court. Her heart is nevertheless good and gentle; and she is resolute in the performance of whatever she believes to be her duty. Madame de Vernon, notwithstanding the education she had thus assigned her daughter, is of a very different character herself. She is completely the woman of fashion, with manners the most fascinating, and a heart solely occupied with self-interest, regardless of the steps she pursues to accomplish whatever end she may meditate, and sure to acquire it by the seductive talents with which nature has endowed her. Finding that, without the property offered her by mademoiselle d'Albémar, she cannot put her daughter into a situation to meet the wishes of madame de Mondoville, she gratefully accepts it; and resolves, as Delphine may hereafter be of additional service to her, to gain the entire possession of her confidence and affections.-The terms of the proposed marriage being agreed upon, Leontius de Mondoville parts from Spain, to behold, for the first time, his intended bride; and, at the moment he is introduced to her, he is introduced also to Delphine, who is cordially invited by her aunt, madame de Vernon, to be present on the occasion. Leontius is the counter-part of Delphine d'Albémar, in every quality of person and mind. The only difference between them proceeding from this source-that, while the latter never consults more than the dictates of her own conscience on the performance of any action which she thinks the comfort or convenience of others requires of her, the latter, from the high-spirited education he has received, is completely the instrument of honour, and is regulated by the dictates of the world, rather than by those of his own judge ment, or even personal inclination.

It cannot be difficult to perceive that Leontius de Mondoville should, from the first interview, be sensible of a far greater partiality for Delphine than for his intended bride, nor that this partiality should be mutual. Delphine, as the reader may well suppose, soon becomes sensible of the injustice of indulging such an inclination, and resolves to stifle the unwarrantable flame in its birth. But what are the resolutions of lovers? her heart is formed for the most ardent affection: each soon perceives that neither can survive, if they be not united to each other; and they swear an eternal attachment. This, as may naturally be supposed, is soon perceived also by madame de Vernon; and, determined not CRIT. REV. Vol. 38. May, 1803.

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