1829.] 
patron, we find him introduced, and quite at 
home, in the first circles (that is the correct 
phrase, we believe) chatting with the minister, 
and making love tothe daughter of a Marquis. 
The more conspicuous he becomes, the 
more of course he excites inquiry ; and whis- 
pers soon circulate, that he is nobody knows 
who—perhaps old Talbot’s bastard. A Lord 
Borodaile, the son of an Earl Ulswater, an 
admirer of the Marquis’s daughter, resolves 
to settle the question, and insultshim. The 
high spirited youth, of course, challenges ; 
but the reader is surprised to find some 
struggle—a burst of tears, even—before he 
determines. In the encounter, he is severely 
wounded, and fires in the air. Before he 
fairly recovers, old Talbot dies, and leaves 
him a mansion, 5000. a year, and 80,0007. in 
the funds—we lceve to be accurate. With 
these indispensables he addresses Lady Flora, 
and has his letter returned—the same story 
had reached her and her friends. Thus re- 
pulsed, he accepts the secretaryship, about 
which his ample windfall had before induced 
him to waver, and again we lose sight of him 
for another two or three years ; and when he 
reappears it is of course with additional splen- 
dour—he is in Parliament—under-secretary 
of state, and conspicuous for activity, intrigu- 
ing, and speaking. 
Lady Flora, in the mean while, is not 
forgotten, though no longer pursued, till 
suddenly he gets a letter from some duke, 
his particular friend—(who, by the way, 
never bows to a gentleman) who has just 
married an especial confidante of her’s, that 
neither is he forgotten—and that though 
she is now betrothed to Lord Ulswater, his 
old rival and duellist, she may still be won. 
To the marquiss he accordingly flies on 
the instant—finds her in the arbour—be- 
gins to tell the softest tale—when Lord 
Ulswater presents himself, and a scene of 
violence is threatened, till Clarence catches 
him by the arm, and bids him beware how 
he incenses him to pollute his soul with the 
blood of a - “ What ?” exclaims in 
fury the other. The word is whispered in 
his ear,—and a word that astounds and 
paralyzes. ‘‘ Are you prepared to prove it ?” 
“Tam.” <A compact follows—they are to 
meet in the presence of the marchioness 
and her daughter in two days. On the day 
of appointment Clarence appears—no Lord 
Ulswater—Clarence begins his tale—when 
Lord Ulswater is brought in, on a litter, 
_ dying.—He had, with his horse, been foreed 
down a precipice, by a man who had been 
stung into the act by an insult—and has 
but just time to request an interview with 
Lady Flora and resign her to his brother. 
And the fact was, Clarence was his half- 
brother, and had been disowned by the 
father, because the mother had intrigued with 
some one, to whom she had been attached 
before marriage; but pains are taken to 
assure us of his perfect legitimacy. Clarence 
thus suceceds to the earldom of Ulswater, 
and, of course marries Lady Flora. ‘This 
Domestic and Foreign. 
85 
story—if it is worth calling one—is mixed 
up with the events of two or three others— 
particularly those of a Mr. Mordaunt—who 
is an ardent philosopher and a fond lover— 
loses for love an estate—is plunged into the 
most loathsome poverty—loses his wife by 
disease—recovers his estate, and is finally 
shot by a radical, who mistakes him for the 
prime minister. This radical, also is shewn 
up at full length—but the lines are much 
too broad—he is a perfect and frenzied 
fanatic in republicanism. Poor Mordaunt’s 
tale is a thrilling one, and the tone of gen- 
tleness, softness, and tenderness towards the 
wife, is touching and lovely beyond any 
thing we remember. 
Memoirs of the Duke of Rovigo (Sa- 
vary), 4 vols. 8vo. 1828.—Savary has had 
hard measure ; he has been made the scape- 
goat for the sins of many of his scoundrel 
contemporaries ; hisback seems to be thought 
broad enough, and streng enough, to bear 
any burden, and no mercy has been shewn 
in piling packages upon it. Insult has 
roused him—and, like a stag at bay, he has 
turned, and made some desperate lunges 
into the viscera of his pursuers. Though 
looking upon him as no very scrupulous 
person, we do not find him either so mali- 
cious or so formidable as others represented 
him, nor so cunning or so successful as he 
probably thought himself—nor do we see 
why he is not entitled to a hearing. A man 
cannot be always lying, nor, if he could, 
would it be his interest to do so. He is 
checked in a thousand ways, and his very 
lies, in a large proportion, furnish materials 
for their own detection—were it not so, 
truth would be more scarce even than ‘it is. 
Placed in a peculiar position, and wielding 
peculiar weapons, he excited the indigna- 
tion and vengeance of numbers ; but it fol- 
lows not that this indignation was always 
just. They were thwarted often by him in 
very unjustifiable measures, and the lan- 
guage of complaint and reprobation must be 
cautiously construed into that of justice and 
equity. We take Savary to have been a 
pretty honest man, according to his standard 
of morals—obedience to a superior. We 
do not believe he originated atrocious ac- 
tions, though he might not hesitate to exe- 
cute them. With a better master he had 
been a better man. 
At the breaking out of the revolution, he 
was quite a boy, andin 1791, at fifteen, ob- 
taining a commission in the regiment of 
cavalry, of which his father had been major, 
with a cross of St. Louis, he commenced his 
career in the army commanded by Bouillé. 
He was successively with Custine, Pichegru, 
Moreau, and very early employed as an 
aide-de-camp, first by Ferino, and after- 
wards by Desaix. In the expedition to 
Egypt, he was still attached as aide-de- 
-camp to Desaix, attending him wherever he 
went, to Syria, and the Cataracts, and re- 
turning with him to Hurope—was present 
