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chronicles of the times. It is written in a declamatory style, and with great disregard to dates, no uncommon fault, by the way, in French memoirs; and, on the whole, though parts of it are interesting, it is rather tiresome to read through, and leaves a confused impression on the mind. Our limits will not permit any thing like a full analysis of this work, and we shall content ourselves with the following extracts.

This is rather a ludicrous account of the consequence of the English freedom of the press:

The English cabinet, on its guard, and placing little reliance on the sincerity of the first consul, delayed, under certain pretexts, to give up its possession of the Cape of Good Hope, Malta, and Alexandria in Egypt. But this only referred to political relations; Bonaparte was in that respect less assiduous than with reference to the maintenance of his personal authority, which, in the English papers, continued to be attacked with a virulence to which he could not become accustomed. His police was then so feeble, that it was soon seen to struggle without dignity, and without success, against the press and the intrigues of the English. To every memorial presented against the invectives of the London journalists, the ministers of Great Britain replied, that it was one consequence of the liberty of the press; that they were themselves exposed to it; and that there was no recourse against such an abuse, but the law. Blinded by his anger, and ill-advised, the first consul fell into the snare; he committed himself with the pamphleteer Peltier; who was only sentenced to a fine, in order to triumph with more effect over his adversary. A rich subscription, instantly set on foot by the most influential classes in England, put him in a condition to carry on a paper war against Bonaparte, before which the Moniteur and the Argus turned pale.

Thence the resentment which Bonaparte felt against England. "Every wind which blows," said he, "from that direction, brings nothing but contempt and hatred against my person." From that time he concluded that the peace could not benefit him; that it would not leave him sufficient facility to aggrandize his dominion externally, and would impede the extension of his internal power; that, moreover, our daily relations with England modified our political ideas and revived our thoughts of liberty. From that moment he resolved to deprive us of all connexion with a free people. The grossest invectives against the government and institutions of England soiled our public journals, which assumed a surly and wrathful character. Possessing neither a superior police, nor public spirit, the first consul had recourse to the artifices of his minister of foreign affairs, in order to give a false colour to French opinion.

Though the circumstances attending the murder of the Duke d'Enghien are now pretty well known to the public, they will probably be willing to hear Fouché's edition of the story.

I was one of the first to obtain a knowledge of the mission of Caulaincourt and Ordener to the banks of the Rhine; but when I was informed that the telegraph had just announced the arrest of the prince, and that the order to transfer him from Strasbourg to Paris was given, I foresaw the catastrophe, and I trembled for the life of the noble victim. I hurried to Malmaison, where the first consul then was; it was the 29th Ventose, (20th March, 1804.) I arrived there at nine o'clock in the morning, and I found him in a state of agitation, walking by himself in the park. 1 entreated permission to say a word to him about the great event of the day. "I see," said he "what brings you; I am about this day to strike a great and necessary blow." I represented to him that France and Europe would be roused against him, if he did not supply undeniable proof that the duke had conspired against his person at Etteinheim. "What necessity is there for proof?" he exclaimed; "Is he not a Bourbon, and the most dangerous of all of them." I persisted in offering arguments of policy calculated to silence the reasons of state. But all in vain; he concluded by impatiently telling me, "Have not you and your friends told me a thousand times that I should conclude by becoming the General Monk of France, and by restoring the Bourbons? Very well! there will no longer be any way of retreating. What stronger guarantee can I give to the revolution, which you have cemented by the blood of a king? It is, besides, indispensable to bring things to a conclusion; I am surrounded by plots; I must imprint terror or perish." In saying these last words, which left nothing more to hope, he had approached the castle; I saw M. de Talleyrand arrive, and a moment after the two consuls, Cambacérès and Lebrun. I regained my carriage, and re-entered my own house in a state of consternation.

The next day I learned, that after my departure a council had been held, and that Savary had proceeded at night to the execution of the unfortunate victim; atrocious circumstances were quoted. Savary had revenged himself, it was reported, of having missed his prey in Normandy, where he had flattered himself with having ensnared, by means of the net-work of the conspiracy of Georges, the Duke de Berri and the Count d'Artois, whom he would have more willingly sacrificed than the Duke d'Enghien. Réal assured me, that he was so little prepared for the nocturnal execution, that he had departed in the morning to go to the prince at Vincennes, expecting to conduct him to Malmaison, and conceiving that the first cousul would finish the affair in a

magnanimous manner. But a coup d'état appeared indispensable to impress Europe with terror, and eradicate all the germs of conspiracy against his person.

Indignation, which I had foreseen, broke out in the most sanguinary manner. I was not the person who hesitated to express himself with the least restraint respecting this violence against the rights of nations and humanity. "It is more than a crime," I said, "it is a political fault;" words which I record, because they have been repeated and attributed to others.

We may observe, in conclusion, that the character of Fouché is not likely to gain much by the establishment of the authenticity of these Memoirs. They would prove him a more atrocious and cool-blooded villain than he has hitherto been supposed to be.

The Rebels, or Boston before the Revolution. By the Author of Hobomok. Boston. 1826., 12mo.

pp. 304.

It may be supposed without presumption or injustice, that any one who persists in offering the fruits of literary labour to the public, is willing to assume the profession of authorship, and to discharge the universal debt of usefulness, by making useful books; and in proportion as he discovers original and vigorous talents, the public are interested that his powers are wisely exerted. It is from these considerations, rather than from its individual merits, that this work deserves particular notice. We do not think it of much importance in itself; but we do think it important, that talents like those exhibited in this and other works of the same author, should be employed to the best advantage. As a novel, it is certainly very respectable; but it is nothing more. Our own country has produced some novels which are better, and it is very far below the best of foreign origin. The following is a brief sketch of the story.

Captain Somerville arrives in Boston in 1765, and finds a young lady, Miss Grace Osborne, intimate in the family of his uncle, Governor Hutchinson. There is also in this family a Miss Fitzherbert, who is supposed to be descended from an English family of rank, and to have been defrauded of a large fortune. Miss Sandford, a maiden sister of the Governor's wife," of a certain age," meets Miss Fitzherbert, when a child, in Halifax, and brings her home; and her desolate situation and high birth win for her the compassion and protection of the Governor.

Miss Osborne is the daughter of a whig clergyman in Boston, and of course her politics differ from those of Governor Hutchinson's family. Nevertheless, Somerville falls in love with her, and they plight their faith to each other. In the mean time, Miss Fitzherbert becomes somewhat attached to Somerville, and rejects the hand of Miss Osborne's brother Henry; and, having been acknowledged by her family connexions, and declared heiress of a large estate, she goes to England to visit her relations. Somerville goes with her, makes love to her, and they return to Boston, to be married. Miss Fitzherbert finds her friend Grace dying of consumption, and learns that Somerville had won her affection, and pledged to her his own. Thereupon she discards him. Grace dies of consumption,-or a broken heart, and Somerville dies of shame and despair. Afterwards it is discovered that Miss Fitzherbert has no right to that name; her grandmother, the Mcg Merrilies of the story, having put her when an infant into the cradle of the real Miss Fitzherbert, who has been known as Miss Gertrude Wilson. After all these mistakes are rectified, Miss Fitzherbert that was, marries Henry Osborne, and all things go on happily. There are many other characters in the novel; a part of them are historical persons, some of whom bear their own names. The historical events of the day are noticed.

The principal objection we should make to this story, is the mingling of the ordinary incidents of ordinary novels, with the most interesting facts of our history. It is hardly worth while to make American novels, if we are obliged to admit an admixture of the least valuable part of a foreign literature. The adventures which befel Miss Fitzherbert would be difficult, almost to impossibility, any where; but when Boston is assigned them as a local habitation, they seem peculiarly unnatural. Experiment has proved, however, that very good novels may be made out of very bad stories, and we think that this is not a very good novel, because it is deficient in more important respects. The characters are not original or very interesting, and they are neither conceived nor executed with uncommon power. There is little indication of that readiness at seizing peculiar characteristics, or that talent for graphic representation, which in these days of universal competition, are essential to eminent success as a novelwriter. There is little pretension to wit; the jests of the jesting character, who is no other than the celebrated Mather Byles,are traditional, and are not very humorously delivered. Still, there are among its pages, proofs that the author has no common

mind. There are beautiful descriptions of natural scenery, eloquent expositions of sentiment, and passages of true pathos. Whether practice will give to the author peculiar skill in the vocation of novel-making, we must be permitted to doubt; but we do not doubt, that the mind which is imperfectly developed in this tale, if it continues to be exercised in literary labour, will, sooner or later, discover its proper employment, and produce valuable and honourable works.

Our readers may expect an extract from "The Rebels;" and we will give them a passage descriptive of Whitfield's preaching.

There was nothing in the appearance of this extraordinary man which would lead you to suppose that a Felix would tremble before him. "He was something above the middle stature, well proportioned, and remarkable for a native gracefulness of manner. His complexion was very fair, his features regular, and his dark blue eyes small and lively in recovering from the measles, he had contracted a squint with one of them; but this peculiarity rather rendered the expression of his countenance more rememberable, than in any degree lessened the effect of its uncommon sweetness. His voice excelled both in melody and compass; and its fine modulations were happily accompanied by that grace of action which he possessed in an eminent degree, and which has been said to be the chief requisite in an orator."* To have seen him when he first commenced, one would have thought him any but enthusiastic and glowing; but as he proceeded, his heart warmed with his subject, and his manner became impetuous and animated, till, forgetful of every thing around him, he seemed to kneel at the throne of Jehovah, and to beseech in agony for his fellow beings.

After he had finished his prayer, he knelt for a long time in profound silence; and so powerfully had it affected the most heartless of his audience, that a stillness like that of the tomb pervaded the whole house.

Before he commenced his sermon, long, darkening columns crowded the bright sunny sky of the morning, and swept their dull shadows over the building, in fearful augury of the storm. His text was, "Strive to enter in at the strait gate; for many, I say unto you, shall seek to enter in, and shall not be able." "See that emblem of human life," said he, as he pointed to a shadow that was flitting across the floor. "It passed for a moment, and concealed the brightness of heaven from our view-but

*This description of Whitfield's person, from Southey's Life of Wesley, appears in the book without quotation marks, by a mistake in the printing, as we are informed, which the author had no opportunity to correct.

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