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stranger to any part of a business so interesting to a member of his own family, whom he had an opportunity of seeing every day.

But notwithstanding all this, and though the elder Delmont in every preceding letter had mentioned the father of Blanche as a man of whose character and concerns he had an intimate knowledge, Adolphe very gravely tells him, in the beginning of his narrative, that Blanche is the only daughter of Bertant, a merchant of Lyons, who was honoured with the rank of sheriff. To this same brother -he also communicates, evidently for the first time, and details at full length, the history of Madame Vansieden and her brother Bonnard, who had been the cause of all his troubles. This, we now

must subsist between a mean and an elevated soul, between virtue and vice:" and asserts, that "if mankind would listen to those silent aversions denomi nated prepossession, they would form fewer unhappy connections" One beautiful, and, as far as we know, original stroke of nature, we have observed, and transcribe with pleasure

"I make the coffee or chocolate," writes

Blanche to her aunt," which is a very 2-
greeable employment; for the intercourse
over the breakfast-table is to me highly gra
tifying. I am caterer at least one portion of
the day, so that no domestic is required in
this capacity; and Adolphe is pleased with
my execution of this part of family duty.
At nine o'clock he joins me at breakfast; it
is the interval of confidence, of friendship,
frequently adjusted.
and when the little projects of the day are
But this interchange
of thought and affection would never cease,
if I did not interrupt it.

"We have chattered enough; let us reci Metastasio or Tasso.

"I begin to understand those authors, grazie all maestro, all suo zelo, alla sua patienza. The lesson continues for an hour;

kisses my hand, and sometimes, when

the weather is serene, I let him salute my cheek. Why when the weather is serene? Because in fine weather I am more alert, and more disposed to give him indul gence."

find, he had learnt, before he left Lyons, from an actor then in that city, who had known Philippina an actress at Dresden, and was well acquainted with her real character. But though, in consequence of this information, he had sufficient evidence, that the one was an abandoned strumpet, and the other a needy despeaker which I take leave of my master, who rate gamester, he keeps it a profound secret from his own brother, from Madame de St. Omer, from Blanche, and from Bertant himself, who was a doating dupe to the hypocritical artifices of the sister, whom he evidently designed to marry, and to oblige whom he had promised his daughter to the brother. A man of common sense would have instantly divulged the whole, brought the actor into court as a witness, and removed at once every obstacle to the completion of his happiness. The sense of Adolphe was not of the common kind, he quietly left things to take their own course, or, according to his own system, as they had been predetermined from all eternity. "Such," says he, "is the concatenation of human events, or what is called predestination, that it was necessary this precious pair should be expelled from Paris, and take refuge at Lyons, to bring misfortune on the amiable Blanche, on me, and a whole family."

So much for Mr. Lantier's skill in the construction of a fable. The sentiments he attributes to his lovers are generally in the strain of high romance, and far removed from the experience of actual life. Adolphe talks of "that secret repugnance which proceeds from instinct, and is nothing more than a dissimilarity of minds, or rather that antipathy which

The descriptions of the romantic scenes in Switzerland, &c. are in general authentic and entertaining, but they are copied almost literally from the ac counts of Saussure, Bourrit, and other travellers, and are sometimes not very happily introduced. The following is a sufficient instance:

"Vevay belongs to the Pays de Vaud The ancient Roman, spoken in the time Charlemagne, prevails at this day in the ar gon of the country, which has yet preserved the name of the Pays Roman. Some ves tiges of this language may be traced among the people who inhabit all the vallics of th Alps and the Pyrenees. The adjacent inla bitants of Turin, who dwell in the cavern of the Pays de Vaud, not only preserve the language, but almost all the customs of the age of Charlemagne. These provincial be ing unpractised in the worship of image, were disgraced to the rank of heretics. "In the year 1487, pope lunoccut VIII. sent 10 Piedmont his nuncio, to excite the people to a crusade against them. By a bull be re commended to the inquisitors, ecclesiastic, and monks to combine against them, and to hunt them down as the wild beasts. The same bull granted to every crusader the right

of seizing on the estates and chattels of these eretics without any form of law, and delares, that all magistrates who should not sist in the enterprise, should be deprived their dignity."

We know not from whom this passage borrowed, but Mr. Lantier evidently ncied that there is some connection tween the Piedmontese vallies of the andois or Valdenses, more frequently ritten Waldenses, on the confines of uphiné, and the Pays de Vaud in the nton of Berne; or he would not have nexed the history of the persecutions fered by the inhabitants of the forEr, to his description of Vevay, which far removed from the scene of those cious cruelties. We have no idea t any remains of the Romansh lange are now preserved among the santry of the Swiss Pays de Vaud. e nonsense in the sentence concernthe inhabitants of Turin is, we doubt to be imputed to the translator, by no means stands at the head of profession. We ourselves have had pportunity of consulting the origiMr. Lantier seems to consider the of Chamouni as part of Switzer and attributes to its inhabitants Endependent spirit, the ardent love berty, and enthusiastic veneration e memory of William Tell, which g to the once free citizens of Uri, eitz, and Underwald; we say once, as! Troja, Troja, fuit. When he s of two kinds of chamois, one of is handsomer and stronger, and on the loftiest of the Alps, he bly refers to the ibex, which is endistinct from the chamois. It is, prehend, the translator, and not thor, who has made the marmot e racoon the same animal.

anecdotes of literary characters our estimation, the best written the work; but unfortunately they the grand essential requisite, crediConversations said to have passed n the ideal characters of a novel, iderot, Rousseau, Voltaire, &c. be received as authentic facts: are at a loss to discover on what le such liberties, taken with names nent, can be justified. It is to ad all our ideas of historical We believe, however, that the cast of their sentiments and s is tolerably well preserved. trait of the abbé Raynal is ceraken from the life. It produced

in our minds a lively recollection of two or three days which we ourselves spent in company with him when he was in England, near thirty years ago.

As a favourable specimen of Mr. Lantier's talents for this kind of composition, we have selected the following relation of a supposed conversation between Madame de St. Omer and the celebrated Thomas, author of the Eulogies, an Essay on Women, &c.

"After dinner, the company walked out into the beautiful alleys in the park. Tho

mas and I contrived to be left in the rear
by ourselves.
health, impaired by study. I asked him,
He spoke concerning his
how many hours in the day he worked. All
day, when I am so fortunate as not to be
disturbed in the morning I read, or think,
in bed, till seven or eight o'clock: I rise and
walk about, continuing my employment, till
nine. After a very frugal breakfast, I sit
with the windows shut and curtains drawn,
down, cross-legged, upon my bed, where,
I compose till the hour of dinner, a disturb
ance which I frequently curse: I think no-
thing so vexatious: always dining! always
going to bed! We pass half our lives in the
continual repetition of the same thing.' I
see, sir, that you live and breathe only to
study and write; that is, to obtain glory;
every hour of your life must lead you to in-
mortality.

phy and the muses."
"Yes, I devote my existence to philoso-

This eagerness of knowledge is a pas sion with you."

Doubtless: we never accomplish any thing without a violent appetite, as some philosophers term it, or rather without enthusiasm."

losophy teaches us to govern, to moderate "Yet, I conceive the first precept of phiour passions."

"At these words, Thomas looked stedfastly at me, seeking an answer, for which he was at a loss. To relieve him from his embarrassment, I said-" I will take you to see an inmate of the house, a modern So crates; who, I think, possesses more just ideas than the greatest part of the philosoIs he a very intelligent phers of Paris." man ?" "What he knows, he knows tho

roughly: that is more than can be said of many of the wits of the age."

"C • We shall

"I should be happy to form an acquaintance with him: where is he?" probably find him in the garden."

"While we were looking for him, we observed Nicholas, the head gardener, seated on the green turf, with a bottle of wine beside him. We accosted him.

a

"What are you doing there?" said I.
"I am resting myself, madam, and taking
glass. To your health."

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I am much obliged to you."

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"Are you never sick?"

No; God be thanked: I drink no more wine than is sufficient; and do no more work than I can get through without difficulty. And why should. I hurry myself to do more? I have enough to live satisfied upo..."

and I laugh at all the rest. That is my philosophy: if it be not the right, I cannot help it; but I will have no other. To your health, madam; to yours, sir," said he, drinking off another glass of wine, and we took leave of him.

Thomas had listened with pleasure to this man: he confessed that he had both sense and judgment. • But,' added he, let us go to the philosopher you were speaking of.' What said I, did not you find it How! is out! You have just left him.'

"But you ought to endeavour to distinguish yourself, to establish your fame as the it ablest gardener."

“Pooh! I am not such a fool as to kill myself for reputation: that would be silly enough. No madam, if I had tormented myself all my life, and had died twenty years sooner, people would have said of me," "It is a pity; he was a good gardener;' but even then there would have been some of a contrary opinion, for men can never agree, When I give a melon to the governor, one says, It is a good one; another, it is not bad; and a third, it is too ripe: it would have been better yesterday.' Then go and plague yourself, to please every body."

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Do you know, Mr. Nicholas, that you are a philosopher?"

"How so, madam? I can scarcely read. But to be a philosopher, a person should know how much the moon weighs, how many fathoms it is from hence to the sun, how the earth was made, and what has been done in it these ten thousand years: he must have as many books as there are caterpillars in my garden. For my part, I give myself no trouble about all that: it is enough for me to Jearn who first planted cabbages and turaips: I wish to know my own business, and that is all I pride myself upon. I wish to be an honest man, to support myself, to do my work, to enjoy myself, to have my health,

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Nicholas, the gardener? The same. I chat almost every day with him, and he astonishes me by the justness of his reasoning, and his understanding. He has shewn you the inanity of glory. The history of his melon, which is found fault with, be it ever so good, is the same as that of the works of authors, which have cost so much trouble, anxiety, and watching."

Upon the whole, Mr. Lantier, though possessed of some genius, and of considerable learning, which, on all occa sions, he is fond of displaying, has not made a judicious use of either in the present publication. He has been mere solicitous to give a large than a good His garnish is inelegant and supper. unnatural; his sauces are generally ra ther mawkish than poignant; his solid articles are either hashed meats, which have already been served up in a better form at other tables, or made dishes, which no sound taste will ever prefer to the genuine flavour of unsophisticated beef or mutton, chicken or pheasant, er any other kind of food, prepared by a skilful cook, with a just reverence for the sacred rights of truth and nature.

ART. IV. Heliodora; or, the Grecian Minstrel. Translated from the German of Barm GÖTHE. 12mo. 3 vols. pp. abt. 600.

A NOVEL, by the author of the Sorrows of Werter, cannot fail to excite the public curiosity of Europe: but Heliodora, which from any other hand would have been admired, will hardly appear worthy of the pathetic powers and the classical taste occasionally displayed by GöтHE.

The scene of event lies in the Nea politan territory. Many descriptions of the region are executed with a vividness and a fidelity only possible to an attentive traveller. The persons and incidents are not always worthy of the scene-painter. All the heroines are beautiful and susceptible; all the heroes brave and amorous. There is as little variety in the occurrences. Discoveries, as they

are technically called, form the perpetual resource to elevate and surprize: every new character is found to be brother, sister, father, mother, nephew, cr aur to some of the previous personage The reader is constantly exclaiming with Hamlet,

"O my prophetic soul! my uncle."

The story is as marvellous as the cas tle of Udolfo, but is less terrific: it la many analogous features, but there a not business and bustle enough to cover the improbability.

One of the earlier incidents is we adapted to awaken expectation.

"Heliodora felt much interested, but fes ful of being discovered, she slapped throat

door, and came into an illuminated walk,
which conducted her to the hall where the
ompany had assembled The servants were
ished at the beautiful form and foreign
hit of the maiden, and suffered her to
ter. The banquet was nearly over, and
usic had begun to invite the sprightly
ner. Heliodora drew near, and respeci-
lly bowed to the company. The loud
versation became hushed, and every eye
directed towards her: like a celestial ap-
ition, she stood in the spacious hall,
at the surrounding splendour formed a
re of glory that seemed to give her a ma-
illusion. With peculiar grace she
ed the late upon her arm, and sung a
ly air, suitable to the occasion. Ap-
ses were showered upon the lovely min-
1. In a manner the inost unreserved she
wered the questions relative to her native
; and told her misfortunes in such art-
language, that all who heard, shared her
ow. The old prince viewed her with at-
jon: her fate appeared to him a mystery
did not coincide with the simple tale
ad uttered; for we are naturally apt to
ose something extraordinary, when we
xalted manners combined with an infe
situation; but especially so, when we
them, as was here the case, united in a

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demanded the prince. Of Sicily,' answered the minstrel; but now she is yonder, casting her eyes to heaven-the gushing tear once more flowed. Heliodora began the song in the Italian language, but, as she was concluding the second line, a hollow voice in the castle interrupted her. The prince affrighted, turned pale, and tottered on his chair. ‹ ( heaven!' cried he, springing up, hold, hold !" At that moment a young lady burst into the hall, exclaiming, Lights, fights! banditti! robbers!' Two shots were fired under the windows-every one fled in confusion, and the hall became dark.

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Heliodora immediately sprang over the corridor, and was soon in the garden. Dreading to fall into the hands of the robbers, she secreted herself amongst some bushes, where she lay a short time listening, till she ima gined the danger past. The noise in the mansion soon seemed to have subsided. Her dear father now burst upon her mind, and she was eager to know the state of his health, for she had left him in a hopeless and pitying condition: with that intention, she struck into a path that apparently conducted to a back door, but had scarcely proceeded a few steps, when she heard a whispering; again she hid herself, and all again was silent. Her fears being somewhat removed, she was advancing on her way towards the cottage of Lorenzo, when two men, muffled up in dark coloured mantles, rushed upon her, and, seizing her beyond all possibility of escape, ate you come,' cried one of them, grasping her hand, and hurrying her along.

After a short pause, she played a softly ing symphony, and began to sing some lul stanzas, which she had learned in afancy-they were taught her by hier er-she stopped to wipe a tear from her eve, and, recovering herself, sweetly d the whole with the most sympathe-Let's away, let's away!" Heliodora swoon

ect.

The reflections, which were awakened -mind as she was playing, made the wholly her own, and, such were the of truth, and the native melody of her that she melted her hearers into enstic raptures. Not a breath interrupt, and when she finished, every bosom lieved. The old prince, as he listened, e particularly interested in her feelings, strain appeared familiar to him. As as Heliodora had concluded, he earinoked at her, and enquired, if she had composed the music or the words Both are my mother's,' replied if you please, I will also sing it in the language in which she wrote it. theu of Italy, and where is she now?'

ed with the suddenness of the alarm, and in that state they conveyed her to a carriage, which was posted near the shore: one of then forced her into it, shut the door, and it rolled away with the rapidity of lightning."

The first volume, as is usual in novels, interests more than the second; the second than the third. The author gradually grows tired, and dismisses at length his readers with their own consent. His work has been rendered into English with an entire knowledge of the original language, and with a degree of clegance, which, from the foregoing specimen, may sufficiently be appreciated.

V. The Duchess of La Valliere. An historical Romance. By Madame D. GENLIS. 2 vols. 12mo.

STORICAL romance is a species position which has risen to much favour and importance among allic neighbours than among oura circumstance which might pere traced to that superior regard eracity which affords a point of

comparison so favourable to our national character. We love to keep truth and falsehood as distinct as possible; hence the line of separation between our plain narratives of fact and sentimental works of fiction is bread and conspicuous; whereas between the romantic histories

and historical romances of the French, the boundary is narrow, and almost indistinguishable. Far be from us any attempt to weaken the salutary disgust with which these ambiguous productions naturally inspire an ingenuous mind!

on her young mind are represented to have been those of blind loyalty, filial reverence, and submission worthy of a Chinese; enthusiastic faith in the religiou of her country, and boundless respect for its ministers.

"She had, for her mother, that senti ment inspired by nature, and perfected by religion, which can be compared to no other; that profound veneration and blind confi dence, which resembles religious faith. Medemoiselle de la Valliere did not require to examine her mother's opinions, in order to prehend them, that she might fix them the adopt them, but she endeavoured to commore strongly in her mind."

We shall however remark, that there is a considerable difference between that kind of fiction which perverts and falsifies history, and that which, preserving the grand outline of facts inviolate, contents itself with adding those smaller touches and more delicate shades, which, though they had really existed in na ture, would have sunk undistinguished in the broad colouring of the historical canvass. Yet it is so difficult to keep these minuter parts in due subordination to the great and important whole, that even this species of embellishment is lia-imbibed; the holy scriptures unceasing y ble to many and weighty objections; and if the historian has a good right to complain of the bolder fabulist, the biographer may with equal justice arraign

the more timid one.

Madame Genlis asserts, that "bistory is very faithfully followed," in the work before us, for, says she," though we have added much, we have omitted nothing." This may very probably be true; but nothing is here said of circumstances glossed over, and characters misrepresented. That of Lewis, indeed, we find from the preface, that she would have painted in colours equally flattering, had she called her book a history instead of a romance, for it belongs exclusively neither to professed fictions, nor to any one French writer, to extol the paternal benignity of a bloody persecutor-the piety of a priest-led bigot-the decorous manners of an open adulterer-the sen sibility of the most selfish, and simplicity and magnanimity of the most arrogant and vain-glorious of mortals. With regard to La Valliere, the gentle and reluctant slave of an illicit passion; the victim of keen remorse and unavailing grief-and finally the votary of super stitious austerities and fanciful devotion, her character needed few fictitious embellishments to become the heroine of a French woman and a catholic. Little more was necessary than to give a touching picture of the piety and innocence from which she was seduced, and to make her retreat from the court," after a lapse of four years, during which she only experienced disgust, humiliation, and misfortune," "a sacrifice, and not an exile." The sentiments impressed

66 Mademoiselle de la Valliere was educat

ed with equal simplicity and care. She was taught only to think justly, and to form her conduct according to the principles she had

History of France, several odes of Malherbe, and the tragedies of the great Corneille, completed her instruction. She read few works, but those which engaged her attention she always re-perused. Hier books did not contradict each other; they presented an uciform system of morality, and their salutary maxims were unalterably engraven in her memory and her heart."

meditated; some books of devotion, the

It was unfortunate that notwithstand ing" the wisdom of her education," in M. Genlis's opinion, doubtless, the best possible, the first step of this interesting young lady should be a false step. But the pious and infallible mother was now dead, and with her, it should seem, died the conscience of her daughter.

The internal struggles of La Valliere, during the period of her connection with the king-her tenderness-her remo her humility, and secret acts of benef cence, are described with that touching eloquence of sentiment which diste guishes the works of this accomplished writer; and the intrigues of a court are pourtrayed with that lively accuracy, which personal knowledge alone can give. At length a rival appears on the scene, and the intriguing and ambitions Montespan too soon obtains in the heart of Lewis a decisive victory over the t der and artless La Valliere. She fry to the cloister; the ever-open asylum disappointed love and silica fanie; but the mandate of the haughty despot quickly recalls her to a court round which heart still lingered. The aid of fiction and sentiment are invoked to copetal the meanness, and palliate the weak of their ill-advised return. The trend ship of the king is supposed to have con

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