try, at least, we may venture to say it never had a prototype; among the Saxon nobility perhaps it might. The character of Adolphus, too, a moralizing pedagogue, is somewhat extravagant; he is so strictly virtuous that, on discovering he is a bastard, he deserts his mother, and declines to close her dying eyes. Perhaps Madame C *** intended that we should extract a moral, too, from the conduct of this virtuous youth; perhaps she meant to shew us that the mother who brings an illegitimate child into the world, must expect that he should pluck by the roots all filial affection from his bosom, and fling it in his parent's face! An exquisite lesson!

Adolphus's letter (vol. iv. to Madame Woldemar, in reply to one where she had desired him to use treachery towards his friend, contains many fine sentiments, powerfully expressed. Several of the conversations between Amelia and Semler are good, and his preparation of Amelia for the disclosure of his real name, his attempt to efface the odious remembrance of one which had already caused her so much persecution, is managed with great art. Indeed if there had not been a display of considerable talent we should have apprehended less mischief, and 1:ss pains than we have now taken would have been sufficient to expose and counteract it.

THIS novel has attained a celebrity much beyond its merit. It is the production of a lady connected with some conspicuous men in France, and its personages have by some been supposed to be the representations of real characters. This, therefore, must have been the cause of that avidity with which it has been generally received here and on the continent; an avidity which has given rise to two English translations, one in six volumes, and one in three. But let not the reader, who dreads wading through six volumes, therefore have recourse to the three, for he will find that these contain as much as the six---it is a mere mechanical compression--alas, our weary jaws declare that none of the yawn-exciting redundancies have been lopped off. Our objections to the novel are two, its dull ness and its immoral tendency. We do not mean to say that it is uniformly fatiguing throughout, but are glad to acknowledge that there are passages which excite a strong interest, that the story it self is not ill imagined, that there is novelty, to an English reader at least, in one or two of the characters, and that if it had formed one volume instead of six it would have been read with interest, and have produced a considerable effect. The story is simply as follows: Delphine, at the moment of its commencement, is supposed to have been married when very young to Mons. d'Albemar, a respectable old man, who leaves her at the age of twenty a widow with a considerable fortune. Madame de Vernon, a cousin of the deceased Mons. d'Albemar, has an only daughter, Matilda de

Vernon, whom she wishes to marry to Leonce de Mondoville, but despairs of getting his mother's consent unless Matilda can bring with her a considerable marriage portion. Delphine, conceiving herself to be in some degree bound to make up for the neglect of her husband to his relations, and having at the same time a passionate regard for Madame de Vernon, though she scarcely feels any kindness for Matilda on account of the want of sympathy in their characters, presents her with the Andelys estate, and in consequence the marriage treaty goes on between the two mothers. The novel commences with the intelligence of the approaching arrival of Leonce from Spain to marry Matilda, and the very first letter, which is from Delphine to Matilda, begins thus: "I shall be extrenely happy, my dear cousin, if I can promote your marriage with M. de Mondoville." Yet after having done all in her power to effectuate this match, she herself, the disinterested, amiable, philosophical Delphine, actually falls in love herself with Leonce, not at first sight but before she has ever seen him at all. She hears a high character of him from his tutor, Mr. Barton, a grave personage (who very foolishly hints to her that she would suit his pupil better than her cou sin) and immediately falls desperately in love with him. Intelligence arrives of his having been assassinated in his passage over the Pyrenees, and of his lying at the point of death at Bayonne: in consequence of this Delphine exclaims,

"Yes! if he dies, I will devote to him the worship of my heart; I will fancy that I

have loved him, that I have lost him; and I will be faithful to the memory which I shall ever retain of him: it will be a pleasing sentiment, the object of a melancholy untainted with bitterness. I will request his picture of M. Barton; and I will ever preserve it, as the portrait of a hero in romance, of which the original no longer exists. I had already for some time begun to lose the hope of meeting a man who should possess all the affections of my heart: the matter is now reduced to certainty; and that certainty is all that is required, to resign myself in peace to advancing old age."

It appears to have been the intention of Madame de Stael, to exhibit in the two characters, of Matilda and Delphine, the effects of Christianity and Deism on the human character. They are both young and handsome women, but while all the graces of character are lavished on Delphine, every effort is made to render Matilda cold, unattractive, and even disgusting. Not so Rousseau-enemy as he at times was to the Christian religion, he yet makes Julie the most amiable of women, and when she dies, what deist does not admire her truly christian end!

Leonce recovers of his wounds, arrives at Paris, and, of course, falls in love with Delphine instead of Matilda. Now comes on the charming play of sentimentality: while she even makes him the first avowal of love, (p. 158.) while, she gives him every encouragement, passing hours and hours of the utmost confidential intimacy with him, she would not, on any account whatever, jilt her cousin, Matilda; her union with Leonce is to be that of kindred minds alone! a mere refined Platonic attachment! It happens, however, that Madame de Vernon (whose character is drawn in a very masterly manner, and is by far the most striking of any in the work) has the sagacity to discover the alienation of Leonce from her daughter, and the address to destroy for the moment his attachment to Delphine, by artfully exposing some of her imprudent conduct to him. This leads us to notice the very blameable conduct of Delphine, in the affair of Theresa d'Ervins, a married woman, who has imbibed a most violent passion for M. de Serbellane. When this adulterous attachment is first made known to Delphine, by Mons. de Serbellane, instead of manifesting the indignation which a virtuous christian woman would not have failed to have

done, she recommends Theresa to the protection of her paramour.

"Yes!' said II shall not be afraid to demand of the man who has seduced her, to tical situation. Theresa is more impassioned act as her guide and her brother, in this crithan you: she loves you more ardently than you love her: it is therefore your duty to direct her: the one of the two parties who cannot live without the other, is the party subject to the other's dominion. Theresa has neither relatives nor friends in Paris: do you watch over her with the care of a generous and affectionate protector: repair the wrongs you have done to her, by those virof kindness.' I felt myself animated as I tues of the heart which are all the offspring spoke these words, and laid my hand on M. de Serbellane's arm: he took hold of it, and approached it to his lips with an expression of feeling, of which Theresa alone was the object."

After some time this intrigue is discovered by the husband, and Delphine is guilty of the astonishing imprudence, to say the least of it, of permitting the lovers to have a parting interview in her house. This is discovered by the husband, who bursts into the room, and demands instant satisfaction of M. de Serbellane. They adjourn to a proper place, and the poor husband receives his satisfaction, that is to say, he is run through the body, and expires on the spot. By an act of generosity, on the part of Delphine, Theresa's reputation is saved, at the expence of her own: Mons. de Serbellane is supposed to have been concealed in her house as her lover; and the duel with M. d'Ervins is attributed to a political dispute: Delphine confides to Madame de Vernon the care of informing Leonce of the real state of the case, which she engages to do, and then wilfully neglects. In consequence, the impetuous Leonce, the victim of jealousy, instantly marries Matilda. In process of time, the treachery of Madame de Vernon is discovered, and then the smothered flame of Leonce's love bursts forth again with double fury. A reconciliation soon takes place between the lovers-they meet daily, pass hours alone together. Del. phine glories in her love for the husband of her cousin, and satisfies her conscience with the hope that Matilda will remain ignorant of the attachment, and with their mutual determination that the connexion shall be purely spiritual. The consequences are sufficiently obvi

ous; the fleshly man soon prevails in the impassioned Leonce, and it is not a little curious to observe how a female author, in a work meant for general reading, treats so delicate a subject. Delphine attempts to save herself in a way, in which, we believe, woman's virtue never was saved; namely, by throwing herself completely on the niercy of her lover. A more effectual method of preserving her chastity is, however, adopted by the penitent Theresa, who desires to expiate her own guilt by dedicating the remainder of her life to the service of God, in a religious community, and who prevails on Leonce and Delphine to be present at her religious profession. She avails herself of this solemn occasion, to make a most impressive appeal to their consciences, and at the moment of her quitting the world for ever, she conjures them to save their souls by renouncing a dangerous and criminal attachment, and prevails on Delphine to consent to fly all future intercourse with her lover. They are left alone in the church, and then ensues a scene which, we dare say, the author imagined to be very fine and impassioned, but to us appears no better than the raving and ranting of mad people.

"Let us remain here,' said I to Leontius: let us rest near the dead. No,' said he, which still vibrates through my frame, no resistance! follow me!--My strength failed me: he clasped me round the waist, and dragging me with him, I found myself precisely in the front of the altar, at which the sacrifice of my fate had been consummated. I looked at Leontius, endeavouring to discover his intentions. His hair was dishevelled; his beauty, more remarkable at this moment than at any other of his life, assumed a supernatural character, and filled my soul at once with terror and love. Give me your hand!' he exclaimed, give it me! if it be true that you love me, you must stand in need, hapless Delphine, you must, like me, stand in need of happiness Swear upon this altar, yes, upon the very altar from which we must for ever banish the frightful phantom of an odious marriage, swear never to acknowledge any other tie, any other duty than love: take an oath that you will be united with your lover; or I will this instant before your eyes dash out my brains against these marble steps, from which my blood will be spouted back upon you."

The consequence of this terrible scene is, that Delphine is seized with an illness which brings her to death's door. At

her recovery, is it not to be supposed that, now at least, all intercourse will cease between them? No such thing, however, takes place: their dangerous intimacy continues; and what is the most extraordinary is, that Mademoiselle d'Albemar, an old maiden sister of Delphine's late husband, a kind of mentor, who, in general, gives her good ad vice, does not now counsel a separation. "I do not well understand the boundaries that divide love and morality; destiny has denied me that experience, but to me it seems that, after the marriage of Leonce, you ought to have seen him no more; and having seen him, you ought not now suddenly to sacrifice him to the tempestuous virtues. I know not whether Leonce may have influenced me by his powers of pleasing, but, I own, if there be aglory to be obtained by the woman who wanders from the path of morality, it must surely be that of gaining the heart of such a man.”

The harmony of the lovers is soon disturbed by the appearance of a M. de Valorbe, who makes pretensions to the hand of Delphine. Actuated, as she says, by a sense of gratitude for his hav ing once saved Mons. d'Albemar's life, she gives him one of those gentle refu sals which do not deter lovers from still with arrest, on account of his aristocrawearing their chains. He is threatened tical opinions. Delphine promises him an asylum in her house, and as he is going to enter it, in the middle of the night, Leonce accidentally discovers him, and, stimulated to madness, by jealousy, he grossly insults him. A challenge ensues; and Delphine endea vours to prevent a duel, by appealing to the feelings of M. de Valorbe. This gentleman, after proving for a long time inexorable, makes a kind of bar. gain with her, namely, that if the affront which he had received from Leonce (which was at present a secret), should ever be made public, and he, in for not having resented it; in that case, consequence, suffers in his reputation as a compensation to him, Delphine should become his wife-to which she gives a tacit consent. Valorbe then quits Paris, to join his regiment, and soon after intelligence arrives, that his bro

ther officers have received information of the affair, and oblige him to quit the regiment in disgrace. In consequence of this, the reputation of Delphire suffers so much at Paris, that she is pub

licly affronted at an assembly, which has a prodigious effect on the irritable mind of Leonce, who is ever keenly alive to public opinion. Soon after this, Matilda, who has miraculously remained ignorant of what had been long known in all the -circles of Paris, the attachment of her husband to Delphine, is at length informed of it; and in an interview with Delphine, demands of her to quit Paris, and abstain from all further intercourse with Leonce. This is acceded to, and

Delphine goes into Switzerland, and be comes a boarder in the Abbaye du Paradis. It happens that Mons. de Valorbe has also taken refuge in this neigh bourhood, and not finding her disposed to marry him, according to the tacit engagement she had entered into, makes use of a manœuvre to compel her. Through his means she is informed, that he is arrested for debt, at Zell, and anxious to make him at least a pecuniary compensation, she visits him in person, and he detains her in his apartment to so late an hour, that he imagines she will marry him to save her reputation, She however prefers to become a nun, and makes her profession in the abbaye du Paradis. Valorbe, in despair, tears open some wounds he had received in two recent duels, and dies miserably at Zell. In the mean while Matilda dies of her lying-in, at Paris, and Leonce, freed from his fetters, hastens to the convent, to claim Delphine, and is thrown into a paroxysm of rage and grief, to find her bound to celibacy by inevitable vows. M. de Lebencey, a protestant friend, advises her to break her vows and fly from the convent, to which, without the smallest difficulty, she consents, When she has escaped from her convent, and gained Leonce, she finds so cool a reception from him, owing to his nice sense of honour, which makes him rather averse to allying himself with a run-away nun, that she refuses to marry him. They remain, however, together, uncertain how to act, till at length the fate of Leonce is determined, as follows:

"At this momeat a regiment passed under my windows, and a band of music playing a beautiful warlike march. Leontius, on hear ing this, raised his head with an expression of dignity and enthusiasm so imposing and sublime, that for a moment, forgetting my sorrows, I looked at him with ecstacy, and drank once more the intoxicating draught of love. He divined my thoughts, and lent,

his head fall on my hands, I felt his tears pour down upon them in abundance. The music ceased, and Leontius, having apparently recovered his composure, said, my soul that watches over thee has inspired a salutary is more tranquil, the celestial intelligence counsel. Adieu, my friend, I have need of repose, adieu till to-morrow!- Till to-mor row,' repeated I.-- Oh, yes,' he replied: adieu!-and he left me without uttering another word."

Leonce therefore, set agog by the martial drum and spirit-moving fife, abandons Delphine, and hastens to join the combined armies, who are marching into France. Delphine, who very luckily meets with M. de Serbellane, determines to follow him, and chances to arrive at Verdun the very day that he is brought in a prisoner. He is condemned to be shot: she passes the night in prison with him; urges him to take poison, which he refuses; accompanies him the next morning to the place of execution; and having herself taken poison, which happens to operate precisely at the critical moment, they both expire nearly at the same time,

About two years are occupied by the events of this story; and during this short period our readers will observe, that the amiable Delphine promotes a criminal intercourse between Theresa and De Serbellane, which causes the murder of Mons. de Ervins; attempts to deprive her cousin Matilda of her betrothed lover; afterwards carries on a secret culpable intercourse with her cousin's husband; breaks an engagement with poor Valorbe; binds herself by a solemn religious vow, though at the same time she contemns the principle of that religion; breaks without the smallest scruple, vows thus solemnly contracted; urges Leonce to commit suicide; and, at length, dies herself a miserable self-murderer!

Besides the general dulness of this novel, there are passages bordering on the ridiculous. Of this kind are, " Hark you, Leontius,' said I, with enthusiasm, I love you. 66 Marriage a ceremony of death." "Delphine, I will see you this evening; you shall teach me your religion." Which put us in mind of Lady Bab, in High Life Below Stairs. "Shakspeare, Shakspeare! I don't know him, but I will read him one afternoon!" "You know not how expressive is the countenance of M. de Mondoville, and with what energy and beauty he can ex

hibit grief: he had passed the night motionless in the same attitude; his hair was in disorder, and he really looked remarkably handsome."

Even the last pathetic scene in the prison is disgraced by littleness. We shall, however, present our readers with a scene with which we were much pleased.

"Yesterday, Madame de Mondoville being absent, I was able to spend the whole day at Bellerive; Madame d'Albémar proposed to me a walk after dinner, telling me that a family from Languedoc, whose name she believed she knew, had come to live in her neighbourhood, and that she wished to go and enquire about them. We set off, and Madame d'Albémar appointed her carriage to meet us about a mile from Bellerive.

ous.

"When we came near the place she had pointed out, we saw at a distance a small but neat cottage, and heard voices and instruments, which appeared singularly harmoniWe drew near; a child, who was at the door making snow balls, asked us to walk in; his mother, hearing him, came out and met us; Madame d'Albémar immediately knew her to be Mademoiselle de Senanges, whom she had formerly met in company with M. d'Albémar, but whom she had not seen these ten years. Mademoiselle de Senanges, now Madame de Belmont, received Delphine in the most amiable and friendly manner. We followed her into the little apartment of which she made a drawing-room, and we there saw a man about thirty, sitting at a piano-forte, while a girl of eight was singing: he arose at our approach, when his wife went up to him, and gave him her arm to lead him towards us. We then perceived he was blind, but his countenance was pleasing and dignified, notwithstanding his loss of sight: an expression of tranquillity reigned in all his features, which silenced even pity.

Delphine, whose heart is so accessible to kind emotions, was visibly affected, notwithstanding her endeavours to conceal it. She asked Madame de Belmont her motives for leaving Languedoc.-A law-suit, which was carried against us, she answered, ruined us entirely; I had before lost half my fortune, as an aunt disinherited me on account of my marriage. To support ourselves and two children we had only eight pounds a year left, and we chose rather to live in a country where we were unknown, than be obliged to keep up our former way of life without a fortune. This climate too agrees better with my husband's health than the heats of the south, and during the fortnight we have been here we have been perfectly well.

"M. de Belmont then congratulated him self on knowing such a person as Madame d'Albémar; he expressed himself with much propriety and elegance, and his wife recalling to mind with pleasure, that she had seen

Madame d'Albémar when but a child at her father's, spoke to her of their common connections with perfect serenity and simplicity. I considered her attentively, and in her whole manner I perceived not the least trace of any uneasiness; she appeared not to suspect that there was any thing in her situation to excite any extraordinary concern, and was long be fore she perceived that which we felt on her

account.

"Her husband was desirous of showing us his garden, and he offered his wife his arm to lead him thither: she appeared to be so much in the habit of leading him, that when she left him to Delphine for a few moments to give some directions, she walked with anxiety, and appeared-not uneasy, for she has too little affectation to be disturbed without any motive-but altogether unaccustomed to move a step without serving as a guide to her husband.

"M. de Belmont interested us every instant still more by his wit and understanding; we led him several times to talk of his occupations, and of his own concerns; he always answered us with pleasure, appearing completely to forget that he was ruined and blind, and giving us the idea of a happy and tranquil man, who has never in his life had the least occasion to exercise courage or even resignation, only when he pronounced the name of his wife, or called her his dear friend, his voice had a tone I cannot define, but which echoed all the remembrances of his life, and pointed them out to us without expressing them.

"We returned to the house, the pianoforte was still open, and Delphine expressed to M. and Madame de Belmont a wish to hear, while present, the music that had charmed our ears at a distance. To this they assented, observing, that as they almost always sung trios with their daughter, their performance would be very simple. The father began a prelude on the instrument with superior talents and profound feeling. I know nothing so affecting as a blind man who gives himself up to the inspiration of music; it seemed as if the variety of sounds, and of the impressions thence arising, restored to him all nature, of which he had been deprived. The timidity naturally inseparable from such a disastrous infirmity prevents a man from conversing with others on the pain he feels, and he almost always avoids speaking of it; but when a blind man plays a inelancholy tune he seems disclosing the secret of his sorrows; he rejoices at having at length found a language which permits him to touch the heart without fear of tiring it.

The fine eyes of Delphine swam in tears, and I saw by the agitation of her bosom how much her heart was moved! But when M. de Belmont and his wife sang together, and their daughter, eight years of age, joined her clear aud infantine voice with those of her parents, it was irresistible They gave us a