’ 306 
This event precipitated the break up of 
that fond intercourse which was always but 
too probable, though she at times cherished 
the hope of being still his wife; but he was 
proud of his birth and his sixty quarterings, 
and must keep up the family succession— 
and marriage with an actress was quite im- 
possible. The thing that was thus inevita- 
ble one day or other, seemed at last, as if it 
were well done if it were done quickly ; and 
meeting with a desirable match, on the 
common principle of life, he abruptly and 
perfidiously announced his intention to marry 
and see her no more. Shocked at this bar- 
barity, she spurned at his offers of provision, 
and determining to rely on her own talents, 
she fled to Naples, and assuming another 
name, unknown to the count, she quickly 
attained the highest celebrity. Here all the 
fascination of the tale terminates. Mabel 
had been insulted, and revenge she was de- 
termined to have. She laid a deep and 
loathsome scheme. The count had only 
one child by his wife, and that a daughter. 
The very purpose for which he had thus 
abandoned Mabel, and married—the exten- 
sion of his line—was thus defeated; und 
Mabel resolved, Medea-like, to strike where 
he was most sensitive. She contrived to 
steal the girl when three years old, and 
finding her likely to grow beautiful, re- 
solved to pervert her moral feelings, and 
expose her to the corruptions of profligacy 
for the purpose of disgracing the man who 
had abandoned her for considerations of 
family pride. The plan succeeded but too 
well: the miserable girl became accom- 
plished and unprincipled, and fell the vic- 
tim of the young Duc de Richelieu, and 
thus became qualified for Mabel’s ultimate 
vengeance. Mabel now returned with her 
to Dresden, under an assumed name, to 
throw her in the way of the profligate 
Augustus. All fell out as she had planned ; 
and the count, still a favourite at court, was 
actually employed by the king to promote 
his connexion with the young beauty, which 
‘was brought about at his own castle— 
when Mabel presented herself, and an- 
nounced the completion of her revenge—and 
died at his feet, suffocated by the violence of 
her emotions. 
This naked outline shews more extrava-~ 
gance than will be felt in the story—for 
thereallisadmirably developed. Thefirst part 
in particular is all in a tone of beautiful and 
touching softness, and the whole career of 
passion is traced with such a thorough defi- 
niteness, that every word of it may be 
read. We have seen nothing so energetic 
and fixing for many years. 
We have just cast our eyes over the third 
story, and perceive it has great capabilities, 
which the author is well able to make themost 
of, and can have no offence in it—which can 
scarcely be said of the one we have been 
describing. 
The Ellis Correspondence ; 2 vols., 8vo ; 
Monthly Review of Literature, 
. obligations. 
[Marcu, 
1829.—This is another addition to those 
stores, which have of late been thrown open, 
and which are calculated to let us in toa 
closer and more correct view of events, by 
the communications of men who have come 
in contact with official persons—communi- 
cations, which made in the confidence of 
friendship, have not been dressed up to meet 
the general eye—to gull the public, or gra~ 
tify private passions. Admirably fitted are 
these sorts of memorials for exhibiting the 
naked state of facts—indispensable, indeed, 
for stripping off the shows of things—but 
which-can seldom be got at till generations 
pass away, and family interests and family 
pride have none to support them. A cen- 
tury must generally lapse before they are 
released, though, undoubtedly, the present 
passion for private history, which is however 
a very justifiable one, will, in numerous in- 
stances, accelerate the publication of family 
papers, and vanity will here, as in many 
other cases, be often more than a match for 
pride. 
How comes it about that these revelations 
of private documents have almost invariably 
tended to make of historical persons the bad 
better, and the good worse? Simply be- 
cause the plain truth was never told. Spite 
or partiality, for the most part, were the first 
to tell the public tale. Sometimes the truth 
itself was unknown, but more frequently, 
we believe, it has been designedly perverted. 
Cotemporary writers are stimulated by per- 
sonal feelings--resentments—admirations— 
Historians, who come after, in 
absolute ignorance of circumstances, and 
often of the characters and connections of 
their authorities, can only take what they 
find, or pick and cull, and must give to 
events that tone which depends on their 
own judgments and convictions. These 
may be good or bad—sagacious or simple ; 
and generally, though there are conspicuous 
exceptions, it may be said, from their actual 
position in society, or their necessary re- 
tirements, they are fairly excluded from the 
means and opportunities of measuring the 
motives and rules of action of influential 
persons, and are disposed with a marvellous 
tenacity to judge of public men by the rules 
of romance instead of humanity—giving 
them credit for pure patriotism and undis- 
turbed rectitude, because, in their uncor- 
rected simplicity, they persuade themselves 
official persons are too high-minded to suffer 
private bias to influence public action. 
It is not one in a hundred, who writes 
with a free spirit, bent upon penetrating, — 
into secret and real motives, and exhibiting © 
uncoloured truth, whomsoever it may offend, 
or with whatever theory or favourite fancy — 
the results may conflict. Who write the — 
lives of great men? Sometimes their very 
protégés ; and the world—which has always — 
more regard for conventional proprieties than — 
facts—would brand with infamy the man, 
who so circumstanced should venture to do- 
any thing but applaud his protector. Even — 
