tives were cherished with avidity; they gave soirées, and once or twice a ball; and its splendour, and the success with which it went off, was the subject of conversation, for weeks afterwards, in every visitable dwelling of the town. Dearly did the lady dearly did her daughters prize this éclat; it was a more than sufficient recompense for the bad tone of most of the society of the place, and the want of any thing singular about them. No sooner did a new family or individual of either sex arrive, than their property, family, cause of travelling, &c. were instantly canvassed by their charitable countrypeople all over the place. However generous and honourable the behaviour of the English may be to each other in their own land, it is a frequent observation, that abroad they have neither feeling, kindness, and scarcely common humanity. A diligent inquiry, or rather investigation, is set on foot among all the old residents, who square their looks, civility, and address, according to the real or fancied result. Great is the astonishment of the French oftentimes at these cavalier airs and pitiless feelings; they imagine, erroneously, that the natives of our isle, meeting in a foreign place, in an isolated situation, and dependent, in no small degree, on the kindliness and goodwill of their fellow-creatures, would promote their happiness by being cordial and gentle to each other. Alas! they know not the fierce pride and indomitable feeling of an English bosom, whether male or female to whom, to lose the opportunity of putting on cold and reserved looks, and a calm, habitual haughtiness, is a real misfortune. So thought the family that lived on the firstfloor, and so it felt towards the unfortunate strangers from Shetland. Not that they, or any of the other families, wished them evil, or would neglect an opportunity, if it offered, to do them a real service, provided it did not much inconvenience themselves. But they were poor+this was quickly known, and in an English eye this is a cardinal sin: the whole style and details of their household, the denials they were obliged to practise, and the absence of all luxury at their meals all this was delicious intelligence to the ears of the previous residents. The Scotch travellers were invited occasionally to pass the evening with their neighbours below, and were treated with pointed kindness; but there was a studied air, an ostentation about the thing, from which the warm and ancient blood of the Shetlander revolted. The luxuries he could not afford, and which they knew he could. not, were heaped on them; then an allusion sometimes escaped the mother or the daughters about narrow circumstances, and the mistaken love of travelling, and how widely and singularly it was diffused everywhere, even in spots that one could scarcely imagine. Then if the couple sought to invite in return, and they knew they ought not to do it: it was politely waved, and they knew not whether to accept with pleasure or be offended with the excuses that were made. They soon found, indeed, they were marked people in the place; others who came for cheapness were yet richer than they: at the unexpensive soirées given by their countrypeople, they were sometimes invited, but generally declined to go. It was then that the high-spirited Shetlander felt somewhat like Rasselas, escaped from the happy valley, and pined to return. He thought of his wild coasts and wilder wave; of the bare heaths and moors that spread inland, that had once been dear to his eye; and he longed again to gaze on them, far more than on the vine-covered hills around

him. He thought of the universal respect in which he lived in his own Isle, where his family was known and honoured, where he was as rich as most of the other lairds, and the few who were more affluent, lived not more happily, or received more marked attention. But here, in this small provincial town, they were slighted and looked down upon, by many whose families were obscure compared to his own. Then the more substantial comforts too, which had always been their portion, they were now deprived of: the substantial and well-spread table the joyous circle the songs of the highlands the inspiring whiskey, inferior only, when old and mellow, to champaigne itself: how different then had many an evening glided away, to the cold, ceremonious, ineagre parties of this uninteresting place! The contrast was too great; and after a long and painful struggle, it was resolved they should bend their steps, after a time, to their own country once more, with defeated expectation, but with a certainty of future and lasting comforta esto Another inducement for many a prudent and anxious mother of a family to travel, and even to reside abroad, is the view of marrying her daughters; and this end is not seldom answered. How many hundreds of English women have found French and Swiss husbands, and have settled for good amidst vineyards and at the foot of the Alps! But in the aforesaid town there did not appear much prospect of suchy a consummation; the men were not rich; in general quite the reverse; and at the balls there was always a large proportion of women, five to one. About this time there came a stranger to the town, that happened to be one of the very few places habitable in France which her steps had not visited: a maiden lady, who owned to thirty-two, but certainly drew nearer to the calm and unlovely age of forty. Yet did she carry her years well and spiritedly, as if resolved to war with the fierce strides of time a clear dark eye and fresh complexion, and hair partly, but not all her own, so admirably adjusted by a skilful coiffeur, that men saw nothing to warn them away, but much that invited to pause and look again. An income much more than sufficient for her own wahts or pleasures, it was soon known that she possessed; and more than one half-pay officer, who had made the place his last and cheapest retreat from more attractive scenes, and more than one or two rather young Frenchmen of good condition, but small fortune, thought they could not do better than pay their homage to the fair spinster. They soon found it was neither the absence of youth or poverty that had conduced to make the wanderer pass on her way in single blessedness; she was still a finer woman than most of the French dames of the place, who were ten years younger; had read much, and had a well-culti vated mind. But from morning to night her career was one of constant and little singularities: it was strange her long travelling had not cured them, but they grew by daily and hourly indulgence. In the middle of a brilliant and sultry noon she chose to have the shutters closed, and candles lighted; and the Frenchmen, who called to pay their homage, in the idea of finding Madame in her most tasteful costume and gracious airs, perceived her seated in a dishabille at a small Stable, a dog sleeping on each side of her, and a book of massive size, and from its aspect neither of light nor luxurious contents, open before her, and the head bent intently over it. Their compliments were listened to with evident indifference or impatience; and the same eyes

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that sparkled with their best lustre at similar things the day preceding, were now scarcely lifted from their occupation. The visitors stared and swore in their hearts; they had known many singular and strange things done by the English, they said, but this surpassed all. Then her femme de chambre dined with, as well as read to her; and followed closely her mistress's footsteps as she sallied forth at times in the night without the gates, (for the town was walled,) and ruminating on high themes, or taken with the aspect of nature, though it was as dreary and bare as could well be conceived, returned not for hours to her residence. Tastes such as these, with some few others of a similar kind, seemed to repel the soft passion; the intelligent conversation of the lady, and at times the animated manner, with a good income, and no incumbrance, were scarcely deemed sufficient to banish such formidable peculiarities. But the fierce rivalry that soon sprang up between the new visitor and the family that had so long ruled the roast, banished from her thoughts, for the time, the dear prospects and dreams of love and marriage. It was with bitterness of heart that the lady and her daughters saw their ascendency, by degrees, decline before the vicinity of so formidable a neighbour, who was a cleverer and more accomplished, though far more eccentric woman than themselves. There was no compromising matters either civilities and compliments passed on each side, and visits were interchanged; but ere a few weeks had elapsed, the tongue, that source of all mischief, had committed deeds that no time could wash away. Ridicule, biting, unsparing ridicule, had been cast on the tastes and habits of the stranger; all this, of course, had been quickly and faithfully carried to her ears by the dear friends of both. War, secret, and on that account the more deadly, was declared; and the sides of the two parties were espoused by all the travelled people in the place. The curé too, the maire, and several of the Frenchmen, could not preserve their neutrality; the two former being elderly and steady men, adhered to their first acquaintance, the widow and her family; the manners and little attentions and compliments of the former being more suitable to their taste than the independent, and sometimes derisive spirit of the maiden lady. But the many, and the young, and the gallant Messieurs, went over to the new side; they admired her wit and talents, they knew she was rich, and they laughed at her sallies against priesthood and the Bourbons, and also at the keen satire she cast on the rival family. Keen and fast fell the shafts of her wit and scorn; and their ostentation, their many pretensions, and ignorance in many things, afforded a richer and more copious subject than her own eccentricity did to their malice. They felt it deeply, and writhed beneath it; they saw their influence on the wane; the morning levees were little less numerous, but the obsequious and devoted tone of manners of many were changed into carelessness or coldness. Their rides into the country, their shopping, their soirées no longer possessed universal éclat, or were watched, besieged, and lauded from the pavement to the attic. It was vain to strive with the torrent, that had thus taken a new direction. There are spirits, that, having been habituated to take the lead, disdain to play second, or be less than the first: of such texture was the haughty widow's heart. The rides they took almost every fine day, for no other purpose than to display a handsome carriage, did not bring the same feeling of delight. There was little charm of scenery in the

dreary roads and bare hills that stretched on every side around the town: the latter were covered with vines, but scarcely a tree grew on them; the soil had a yellow, unsightly hue; and a canal moved slowly onward, as far as the eye could reach, for the purpose of conveying in boats the immense quantities of wine made in the province. Admiring eyes had attended and followed the equipage, filled with the widow and her daughters, in all the extreme and variety of French taste; and amidst the many bows and compliments that often impeded the progress of the wheels along the narrow and dirty streets, their hearts owned the luxury of reigning supreme objects of notice and attention in a remote and poor French town. But the reins of empire now hung loosely in their hand; for their rival appeared sometimes at the same hour, mounted on a handsome pony, which she sat and managed with much grace and the looks of pleasure and surprise that were cast by the loungers in the streets on the air and equipment of the spinster, were of a more earnest and flattering kind, it was evident, than the slow rolling of the carriage, or the ostentation of its owners, drew. This could not be long endured: important intelligence from home was pretended, by which their presence there was immediately required, and the decline of August saw the family, that had been paramount in the place for nearly a year, long ere winter's frost commanded a retreat, quit the field to their younger and triumphant rival, and depart for the capital.

MEMOIRS OF SAVARY, DUKE OF ROVIGO.*

Of all the agents of Napoleon's tyranny, Savary has been supposed the most sanguinary, reckless, and thorough-going-to have shrunk from no infamy, and stuck at no crime-the ready and willing instrument of any deed of darkness or treachery-taking the foulest by preference, and ambitious of the most degrading eminence. Give a dog a bad name and hang him, coarsely but closely expresses Savary's fate. The Royalists denounced him as the murderer of D'Enghien, while the real authors of the tragedy made him the scape-goat; and all, who had aught to dread from the world's censures, joined in the cry to hunt the unhappy man down. Stung into indignation and book-making, he at length turned upon his detractors and vituperators, and unveiling all concealments without scruple or reserve, has assigned to every man his share in the agency and crimes of Napoleon's power. Of Napoleon himself he is the constant apologist, or rather the steady eulogist, for he scarcely ever supposes him to require defence. The main objects of his very extended memoirs are to exhibit his master's career, to establish his own faithfulness and devotedness, to clear up his own reputation, according to his measure of purity, and to lay open the blunders and treacheries of his fellow-soldiers and ministers, and especially those of Ber'nadotte, Talleyrand, Fouché, and Murat. The actions and motives of hundreds besides are freely exposed; and he has accordingly brought down upon himself the fiery attacks of many of the survivors, all of whom, however, affect to treat him with contempt as a man utterly unworthy of credit. Of these the most distinguished at present are Talleyrand, Hullin, Trouton, Kellerman. The Duke, indeed, knows too much for one man ; he assumes an almost exclusive fidelity to his master, and an extent of information, which nothing but the powers of ubiquity and omniscience could well warrant; and too often leaves it doubtful whether he is delivering the testimony

Memoirs of the Duke of Rovigo, (M. Savary,) written by Himself: illustrative of the History of the Emperor Napoleon. Four Volumes. 8vo.

of his own experience, the results of inquiry, or the reports of hearsay! He tells too much to be universally credited; but why he is to be absolutely and universally scouted, we cannot at all understand; and we are quite sure that his memoirs will come to have a very marked influence upon future estimates.

The bias of the man is evident enough, and can generally, we imagine, be readily measured. With some of the arts of a special pleader, he has a good deal of the frankness of a soldier; and often reports, without seeking to apologise, what tells against himself-disclosing, without any perceptible feeling of impropriety, schemes and stratagems practised under his direction, of which a more cultivated conscience would have been ashamed, and a more cunning spirit have suppressed. He was himself always an agent; he considered himself always as such; his principal was responsible. The Empe ror's safety was at all hazards to be secured; and if every thing which every body was doing could be discovered, plots might be dispersed and treasons be crushed; and accordingly the whole energies of his being were bent to the acquirement of intelligence, and none were deemed too high or too low to be looked after. As Minister of Police, he had spies in all quarters, and spies upon spies; was of course often deluded-defeated-put upon wrong scents baffled by his own agents-dreaded by the timid and ignorant, and laughed at by the bold and crafty. The merit of the man is, that, in such a position, he did comparatively little mischief, and committed few enormities -comparatively, we mean, with reference to the unlimited range of his action, the extensive command of men and money, the objects aimed at, and the means employed. He was, in fact, we take it, not from defect of aetivity, but inevitably, inefficient; and if his master had not lost all as he did, would himself have been dismissed for incompetency, though no other not Satan or Fouché-could ever have realized the perfect inquisition apparently aimed at. The attempt, indeed, was absurd; agents and sub-agents were indispensable; and with those who are employed in under-hand schemes, roguery is catching, and the temptation to cheat the employer quite irresistible.

We take our impressions from the book itself; and to us it appears evident, in a few words, that Savary meant honestly, according to his concep、 tions of honesty-that he was devoted to the Emperor as the maker of his fortunes, and free from any desire of deceiving him-that others, while looking to the same quarter for the same purpose, were ready to grasp at any means to push him from his stool, and seize it for themselves, or support any one under whom they might gain greater authority-that he detected these sinister views, indiscreetly exposed them, and raised up a nest of hornets about his ears, which will never cease to harass him to the day of his death. Devoted, as he undoubtedly was, to the Emperor, that Emperor was taught to distrust him, though all the while sacrificing character and credit to his interests. The measure of his conduct was plainly the Emperor's will; and his object, the accomplishment of what he conceived to be his duty. He was often plain-speaking, but he had clearly not impressed his master with any extraordinary talents for advising, and was only regarded by him as an unscrupulous, indefatigable, and resolute minister of his purposes. To con sider him severely, and by the standard of enlightened reason, he was a worthless tool-to judge him more liberally, by the common standard of common judgments, he was a faithful servant, who executed orders, and trusted to his master for reward.

Savary was born in 1776, and was, of course, quite a boy at the outbreak of the Revolution. He was not, as the Anti-Jacobins used to report, the son of a pot-house porter; his father had retired from the service with the rank t of major and the cross of St. Louis; and his elder brother was serving in the artillery, when himself, at fifteen, obtained a commission in a regiment of cavalry. Joining the troops assembled under the command of Bouillé to subdue the revolted garrison of Nancy, he stood fire the first day. In the war commenced on the part of the Allies, he was successively under the pr