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succession of bad princes. What monsters were the first fucceffors of Augustus! a Tiberius, a Caligula, a Claudius, a Nero! But, as birth or adoption gave them a right recognised by the people, the empire, under these odious princes, was not torn by civil wars; and, when we reflect on the fhocking disorders which attended the elections of Galba, Otho, Vitellius, and Vespasian, we are tempted to consider the death of Nero as a public calamity. Under this head our author instances the change of succession made in England, in 1688; and he observes, that, although the Englith excluded the posterity of the Stuarts, they were convinced of the necessity of preserving hereditary right. He thus proceeds: Under Charles VII. and Henry IV. France was faved by hereditary right, and still Providence has preferved, and points out to France, a faviour in the person of Louis XVIII, who, to the right of birth, unites all that can give splendor and virtue to an elective crown. Let us not doubt that the force of events, the ascendency of reason, the voice of intereft, will bring back the French to the government of their fathers. What do I say? The directors themselves inform all Europe, that already the national with is 'extended to the lawful king.'
These brief extracts will afford an idea of the author's node of reasoning upon topics connected with the revolution of his country. That he fometimes argues sensibly cannot be denied; but his prejudices in favour of the aneien régime are too strong to allow him to be impartial, and they sometimes occasion a blindness to facts, which we regret in a writer who has certainly some claims to praise. In his extreme fondness for the monarchy, he afferts, that,
in France, Calvinisin enjoyed all the toleration which the
rights of conscience required, and the good of the state • permitted. The rigorous edicts of Louis XIV. were mol
lified by the jurisprudence of parliaments; and the members of that reftless
' sect were not persecuted.' Has our author forgotten the revocation of the edict of Nantes, and the numerous perfecutions of protestants in different periods of the French history?
Les Voeux Téméraires, ou L'Enthousiasme, par Madame de
Genlis, Auteur de Theatre d'Education, d' Adele et Theo
dore, &c. Hambourg, 1798. Rash Vows, or Enthusiasm. By Madame de Genlis, Authoress
of the Theatre of Education, Adela and Theodore, &c.
2 Vols.. 8vo. Imported by L'Homme. In the dedication, the writer does not fcruple to call this work the most moral novel in the language, and perhaps the
enly one which all young persons might be permitted to read. It has been her aim'to enforce the opinion,' that, without wisdom and moderation, sensibility is only a fatal gift ; and that, without reason, virtue itself, lofing its noble character; and rejecting the invariable principles which ought to direct it, acts with the imprudence and impetuosity of the blindest passions, and, entangling itself in devious and perilous ways, becomes, sooner or later, the victim of its own rashness. A sketch of the novel may thus be given.
The world envied Sainville: he was of illuftrious birth, poffefsed ample riches, and was universally admired and loved for his talents and disposition, but he was not happy: his heart wanted an object : even Paris became infipid to him, and be retired, with the baron de Verceil, to his paternal seat in Languedoc.
Curiosity first roused him from the listlessness of ennui. An English lady had for some months resided on his estate; but she avoided society; and, in her walks, a veil concealed her face. The baron's romantic imagination immediately conceived her to be beautiful; but Sainville had become cynical, and unwillingly suffered himself to be interested by the incognita. He met her at church, and presented the holy water to her ; as fhe dipped her finger in it, fhe difplayed a hand and arm, delicately beautiful; and Sainville was convinced that she was young. The malicious furmises of the women who did not know her, the interesting account given of her by her physician, and, above all, her attention to the wants of the poor, at length excited his curiosity. He went to see her; but the servant who announced monsieur le marquis, was informed that she faw no company; and Sainville thought that, though she might be interesting, the certainly was not well-bred.
This mysterious lady had a little girl with her, the subject of scandalous fufpicions. Sainville met both in his walks, and found the child to be the daughter of his nurse. Thus introduced, by accident, he heard the voice of the Lady; but the veil was still down, and his curiosity was increased, not satisfied. As the was accustomed to walk by moon-light in the garden, the baron and Sainville secreted themselves where they might see her : she appeared unveiled, and nothing could be more beautiful than Constance. She sang, and Sainville lamented his ignorance of the English language.
In the mean time, Constance furnished conversation for the country. The intendant of the province requested to speak with Sainville in private. When they were alone, the intendant said, " I wish to ask you for some account of this foreign lady who lives in your neighbourhood."
" What has been mentioned of her ?” said the marquis. A
Accident foon procured the marquis a more intimate acquaintance with Constance. He rescued her from robbers, from one of whom he received a wound. She affifted the baron in removing him; and it was to ber boule that he was conveyed. From this time he saw her frequently; and every circumftance tended to strengthen his affection for her. To repress his love, the communicated to him her history.
The history of Constance, now known as lady Clarenr
don, is long and melancholy. We will not injure fo interesting a tale by attempting to abridge it. The slave of her feelings, and the victim of treachery, the had been exposed to the suspicions of her husband, and was at last feparated from him. Circumstances put it in her power to vindicate herself completely to his fatisfaction: but lord Clarendon did not long furvive the reconciliation; and the lady resolved to abandon a country where her character was traduced, and all her actions and motives were studioully mifreprefented. She distributed among his relatives the property which he had left to her, and departed from London.
The ashes of lord Clarendon (faid his widow), tranf. ported to the burying-place of his ancestors, reposed at a little distance from the walls of London, in a tomb which I had ordered to be erected; I went to see this monument, and arrived before the break of day. I had previously informed the sexton of the church: he opened the door to me, and I entered alone into the gloomy and inournful place. The melancholy light of a lainp guided me; I perceived the monument which inclosed all that was dear to me !--I threw myself proftrate upon the marble-it was then that I wished to consult my heart.-" thou for whom I cherished a love which I thought unequaled, am I (I cried) ftill worthy of that perfect elteem which was thy Jast feeling towards me?' All the sacrifices which I have made to thy memory ought, I think, to folace this unfor tunate heart. I may still live in the world, and appear with fplendour ; but can empty praise or frivolous incenfe make me forget what I have lost, and render supportable à slavery, a constraint, which harassed me formerly even in the days of my happiness?"_Here I paused, and, in filence, interrogated my heart, penetrating into its deepest recesses. As I developed my secret fentiments, the terror which had feised me dispersed like a dream: I recovered at once reafon and courage; and, delivered from the vile humiliation of an injurious fear, I bluthed only that I could have fo mistaken myfelf. I no longer employed myself with any thing but the fatal object before my eyes. My imagination was heated, was exalted: it offered me the idea of a new facrifice which I made with transport before I tore myself away from the fatal place! With the point of a knife I traced upon the tomb these words, which, by lord Selden's care, were afterwards engraven there in letters of gold.
« I have been able to contemplate this tomb without dy. ing; but here I deposit, here I leave all that remains to me, an odious and fatal liberty !Yes, in this temple, conseerated by piéty, do I engage myself by every thing that religion and tenderness can render inviolable, never to form
a new tie. All things change, or pass away-If time can triumph over my grief, at least this marble must survive me, and I engrave upon it a sacred vow, never to be effaced.”
At this part of the history, Sainville let the manuscript fall upon the table, and remained motionless for fome minutes : then rising impetuously, and rapidly pacing the room, he exclaimed, “ No hope remains for memnone !" threw himself into a chair, and was for some time over powered with grief. At length returning to the table and casting his eyes upon the manuscript, he saw the marks of the tears that he had shed abundantly in reading it. “Ah! Traie he) how sweet were those tears---for then I still could
But hope does not easily abandon the heart of man;
and Sainville had not the resolution to banish himself from the society of lady Clarendon. His daily and even hourly attentions, the delicacy with which he anticipated her wishes, and his endeavours to gain her esteem, gradually won her affection; and the repented of the vow by which the had bound herself. To Sainville, however, her conduct was still the fame: the manifested a cordial friendship for him; and, though she sometimes involuntarily discovered her own affection, she always repressed his. He wrote to her, abandoning himself to an ungoverned passion : The knew not how to reply: suddenly the rose, saying, “ Let me seek a falutary advice.
. By the side of her bed-chamber was a closet, of which the alone had the key. It was confecrated to prayer and medication. It contained a chair, a bureau, and some shelves filled with books of piety. In this oratory was also a large picture, covered with black crape. This mysterious painting, executed by an able artist, represented the tomb of lord Clarendon : thé fatal vow was traced in large characters. Constance, having received this picture on the eve of her departure from London, covered it the same day with crape which had never fince been removed. It was to this cabinet that she went to seek a refuge against her own weaką ness. She approached the picture, and was for a short time motionless, then, seizing the veil, the uncovered the pieture. At the light of a painting which retraced to her
eyes, for the first time during four years, the monument that inclosed the ashes of lord Clarendon, she fell on her knees and shed a torrent of tears. The remembrance of her lord alone made her tears Aow. She forgot her weaknefs, her remorfe, and Sainville himself; an imagination ardent, Itrong, and powerfully impressed, restored to her for some moments all the energy of an old grief and of an