fall of Napoleon brought her back to Paris; and after the vicissitudes of 1814-15, enabled her to establish herself there for the short remainder of her life, with the interruption only of visits to Coppet and to Italy.  She died on the 13th July 1817:  her two last works, Dix Annees d’Exil and the posthumous Considerations sur La Revolution Francaise, being admittedly of considerable interest, and not despicable even by those who do not think highly of her political talents.

And now to Corinne, unhampered and perhaps a little helped by this survey of its author’s character, career, and compositions.  The heterogeneous nature of its plan can escape no reader long; and indeed is pretty frankly confessed by its title.  It is a love story doubled with a guide-book:  an eighteenth-century romance of “sensibility” blended with a transition or even nineteenth-century diatribe of aesthetics and “culture.”  If only the first of these two labels were applicable to it, its case would perhaps be something more gracious than it is; for there are more unfavourable situations for cultivating the affections, than in connection with the contemplation of the great works of art and nature, and it is possible to imagine many more disagreeable ciceroni than a lover of whichever sex.  But Corinne and Nelvil (whom our contemporary translator[1] has endeavoured to acclimatise a little more by Anglicising his name further to Nelville), do not content themselves with making love in the congenial neighbourhoods of Tiber or Poestum, or in the stimulating presence of the masterpieces of modern and ancient art.  A purpose, and a double purpose, it might almost be said, animates the book.  It aims at displaying “sensibility so charming”—­the strange artificial eighteenth-century conception of love which is neither exactly flirtation nor exactly passion, which sets convention at defiance, but retains its own code of morality; at exhibiting the national differences, as Madame de Stael conceived them, of the English and French and Italian temperaments; and at preaching the new cult of aesthetics whereof Lessing and Winckelmann, Goethe, and Schlegel, were in different ways and degrees the apostles.  And it seems to have been generally admitted, even by the most fervent admirers of Madame de Stael and of Corinne itself, that the first purpose has not had quite fair play with the other two.  “A little thin,” they confess of the story.  In truth it could hardly be thinner, though the author has laid under contribution an at least ample share of the improbabilities and coincidences of romance.