Jacques Necker, born of Protestant parents at Geneva, was sent, at the age of fifteen, to seek his fortune at Paris. After serving as a clerk in the banking-house of Vernet, he passed into that of the eminent banker Thelusson, where he displayed such a capacity for business, as to lead to his admission into the house as a partner. In a few years he acquired a large fortune, and withdrew from active business, but remained at Paris as minister of the republic of Geneva to the French court. His “Éloge de Colbert,” which gained the prize in the French Academy in 1773, and his essay on the corn laws, first drew towards him the attention of the public, which finally settled upon him as the only person capable of preserving the country from that bankruptcy upon the verge of which it was standing; and Louis XVI., notwithstanding his religious bigotry, was compelled to appoint Necker to the office of director-general of the finances, in 1785, being the first Protestant who had held office since the revocation of the edict of Nantes.

There resided with Madame Thelusson, as companion, a Swiss lady, named Curchod, the same who had the fortune to excite in the bosom of the historian Gibbon, for the first and last time, the passion of love. There is, however, no undue praise in the following description which he has given of her: “The personal attractions of Mdlle. Curchod were embellished by the virtues and talents of her mind. Her fortune was humble, but her family was respectable. Her mother, a native of France, had preferred her religion to her country. Her father, with the moderation of a philosopher, was content with a small salary and laborious duty in the obscure lot of minister of Cressy, a small village in the mountains of Switzerland. He bestowed a liberal and even learned education on his only daughter. She surpassed his hopes by her proficiency in the sciences and languages; and in her short visits to Lausanne, the wit, the beauty, and the learning, of Mademoiselle Curchod were the theme of universal applause. The report of such a prodigy awakened my curiosity; I saw and loved. I found her learned without pedantry, witty in conversation, pure in sentiment, and elegant in manners.” After the death of her father, she supported herself and her mother by teaching young ladies at Geneva; from whence she removed to Paris.

The character of Necker gained her admiration, her respect, and her love. She married him; and, from that time, the great business of her life was to make him happy. To divert him after the cares of business, she sought to make her house agreeable. She had not the light and gay manners of a Parisian lady, but she had a native grace and sweetness, and a solidity of talent, which caused her society to be sought for by the learned and intelligent, and her drawing-rooms to be filled with the beaux esprits of Paris.

Her only daughter, Anne Louisa Germaine, born in 1766, became her next object of solicitude. She wished that her education should be perfect; she wished her to know every thing, and thought that her mind could not be stored with too many words and facts; she introduced her, even in infancy, to the brilliant circle of her own friends, and learned men were almost her only companions. It was therefore with a transport of delight that the child received, at the age of eleven, a young girl, whom her mother wished her to make her companion, and who afterwards described her thus: “She spoke with a warmth and facility which were already eloquent, and which made a great impression on me. We did not play like children. She at once asked me what my lessons were, if I knew any foreign languages, and if I went often to the play. When I said, I had only been three or four times, she exclaimed, and promised that we should often go together, and, when we came home, write down an account of the piece. It was her habit, she said; and, in short, we were to write to each other every day. We entered the drawing-room. Near the arm-chair of Madame Necker was the stool of her daughter, who was obliged to sit very upright. As soon as she had taken her accustomed place, three or four old gentlemen came up, and spoke to her with the utmost kindness. One of them, in a little round wig, took her hands in his, held them a long time, and entered into conversation with her, as if she had been twenty. This was the Abbe Raynal; the others were Messrs. Marmontel, Thomas, the Marquis de Pesay, and Baron de Grimm. We sat down at table. It was a picture to see how Mademoiselle Necker listened. She did not speak herself; but so animated was her face, that she appeared to converse with all. Her eyes followed the looks and movements of those who talked; it seemed as if she grasped their ideas before they were expressed. She entered into every subject, even politics, which at this epoch was one of the most engrossing topics. After dinner, a good deal of company arrived. Each guest, as he approached Madame Necker, addressed her daughter with some compliment or pleasantry; she replied to all with ease and grace. They delighted to attack and embarrass her, and to excite her childish imagination, which was already brilliant. The cleverest men were those who took the greatest pleasure in making her talk.” When she was not in society, she was kept constantly at her books. She wrote a great deal, and her writings were read in public and applauded. This system of education had its natural results. Praise, and reputation, and success in society, became as necessary to her as her daily food: her understanding, brilliant, but not profound, gathered knowledge by cursory reading and from conversation not by hard study; hence it was superficial.

Her physical strength could not endure this constant straining and excitement of the mind. At fourteen, her physicians ordered that she should be removed to the country, and should give up all study. Madame Necker was deeply disappointed: unable to carry her system of education to the fullest extent, she abandoned it altogether; henceforth she took little interest in the talents of her daughter, and, when she heard her praised, would say, “O, it is nothing, absolutely nothing, in comparison to what I intended to make her.” This carelessness on the part of her mother, developed in the young girl an ardent affection for her father, which she dwells upon in her writings with so much fervor. There existed between them the most unreserved and open communication of thought. He delighted in her talents, which she exerted for his entertainment, and to amuse his hours of leisure. Her superior success in this last particular even excited the jealousy of her mother, who sought by reproof to check the outpouring of her wit and imagination. Mademoiselle listened with respect to the reproof, but took the first opportunity to escape from her mother’s side, and shelter herself behind her father’s chair, where she soon collected the cleverest men in the room to listen to her sallies, and to be charmed by her eloquence.

As has already been said, her career of authorship began at a very early age. When a little older, she composed tales and plays, which were received with rapturous applause by the company to which, in accordance with French custom, they were read; but which in print appear flat enough. At the age of fifteen, she made her appearance before the great public as the author of an anonymous political pamphlet in defence of an act of her father’s, which had excited a great clamor on the part of the ultra-royalists, and was the cause of his resignation of office.

The position which her father held in France, during her early years, exercised a very important influence on the character and feelings of Mademoiselle Necker. Despised as a plebeian and detested as a reformer by the queen and the court, he was regarded, by the moderate of all parties, as the only man who could save France, and was worshipped as an idol by the people at large. No sooner was it known that he had resigned, than “all France,” as she says, that is, all who were eminent for wealth, for talent, or for rank, excepting the few attached to the court, came to visit him, and to express to him their regrets, their fears, and the hope that he would soon return to office. She heard that consternation pervaded Paris; all fearing ruin for that country which Necker had abandoned. It is not surprising that she should conceive for him a passionate admiration; should regard him as superior to all in modern times, and as answering the beau ideal of Grecian or of Roman patriotism. Nor is it wonderful that his persecution by the court should have excited feelings of resentment and disgust towards a form of government under which such things could take place.

Necker remained a short time in France, and then returned to Coppet, an estate which he purchased on the banks of the Lake of Geneva, from whence he watched the course of events, feeling certain that he should at last be recalled to the helm. An occasional visit to Paris, or the publication of a political pamphlet, served to keep him in the public remembrance.

At the age of twenty-two; Mademoiselle Necker was married. To her, marriage was merely a convenience. It was necessary to give her a position in society admittance at court. She did not look for a lover, not even for a friend or companion, in her husband. He must be of noble birth, and a Protestant. The Baron de Stael, the Swedish ambassador, had both these requisites; he was, moreover, an amiable and honorable man. He had received positive assurances from his sovereign, that he should be continued for many years at the court of France, and she, having made a distinct contract that she should never be obliged to go to Sweden, except with her own consent, accepted his proposals of marriage.

We have a portrait of her as she appeared at this period, written in a style then much in fashion: “Zalma advances; her large dark eyes sparkle with genius; her hair, black as ebony, falls on her shoulders in waving ringlets; her features are more marked than delicate, yet they express something superior to her sex. ‘There she is!’ every one cried, when she appeared, and all became breathless. When she sang, she extemporized the words of her song; the celestial brightness of composition animated her face, and held the audience in serious attention; at once astonished and delighted, we know not which most to admire, her facility or perfection. When her music ceased, she talked of the great truths of nature, the immortality of the soul, the love of liberty, of the fascination and danger of the passions: her features meanwhile have an expression superior to beauty; her physiognomy is full of play and variety; the accents of her voice have a thousand modulations; and there is perfect harmony between her thoughts and their expression. Without hearing her words, the inflection of her tones, her gestures, her look, cause her meaning to be understood. When she ceased, a murmur of approbation ran round the room; she looked down modestly; her long eyelashes covered her flashing eyes, and the sun was clouded over.”

Meantime affairs in France were rapidly approaching to a crisis. Minister succeeded minister, but each left the ship more inextricably involved than his predecessor. The failure of the crops, and consequent distress of the poorer classes, increased the turbulence of the people and the distress of the court. At length, in 1788, seven years after his resignation, the queen and the court were compelled to confess that the only hope of safety was in recalling Necker, and to join in the general solicitation that he would take the helm.

His name revived the public credit; the pressing wants of the treasury were supplied; by importing grain, he removed the fears of famine. His position at this period was one to gratify his highest ambition; his return had been a triumph over the court; and the people were eager to prostrate themselves at his feet. But his talents were those of the financier only; as a statesman, he was sadly wanting. The example of the Americans had excited in the minds of a portion of the nobility an indefinable and romantic longing for something called liberty; the middle classes, who possessed the most intelligence, education, and wealth, were indignant at being excluded from most places of honor, and at being obliged to bear the whole burden of the taxes, from which the nobles and the clergy were exempt; the great body of the people, who were in the condition of slaves, had the wrongs and outrages of many centuries of oppression to avenge: all these classes, though agreeing in nothing else, were united in demanding a change. On the other side, the queen, supported by her royal brothers-in-law and a portion of the nobles, resolutely set themselves against any innovations.

Necker did not agree entirely with either party; he was in favor of a limited monarchy; the British constitution appeared to him, as it did to his daughter, the perfection of government. But he had not the decision and energy requisite for insuring the success of his own opinions. The well-disposed but weak monarch yielded to the more daring counsels of the court, and prepared to crush at once their opponents by force. But these measures were concerted without the knowledge of Necker, and before they could be executed, he must quietly be got rid of. Accordingly, on the 11th of July, 1789, as he was about to sit down to dinner, he received an order to quit France within four and twenty hours, and without exciting observation. Necker obeyed to the very letter. He and his wife, without changing their dress, stepped into the carriage, as if to take the usual evening airing, and travelled night and day till they reached Brussels.

Madame de Stael was informed of this event on the morning of the 12th, and on the 15th, having been advised of their route, she set off to join her parents. “When I reached them,” says she, “three days after, they still wore the full dress which they had on, when, after a large dinner party, and while no one suspected the agitating position in which they were placed, they silently quitted France, their friends, their home, and the power which they enjoyed. This dress, covered with dust, the name assumed by my father for the sake of avoiding recognition in France, and so detention through the favor in which he was still held, all these filled me with feelings of reverence, that caused me to throw myself at his feet, as I entered the room of the inn where I found him.”

While thus exhibiting his respect for the king, Necker, by another act, displayed his love for the people. To purchase a supply of corn for the starving population of Paris, Necker had negotiated a loan of two millions of livres, for which his own personal security was to be given. The transaction was not completed at the period of his exile, and, lest this should occasion any delay, he wrote at once to confirm his guaranty.

No sooner was Necker’s dismissal known, than Paris rose in insurrection. An army of one hundred thousand men was arrayed in a night; on the 14th of July, the Bastile was destroyed, and the king was forced to attend in person at the Hotel de Ville, and to express his approbation of the acts of the revolutionists. A courier, bearing an order of recall, overtook Necker at Frankfort. He hesitated, but at last determined to comply. “What a moment of happiness,” says Madame de Stael, “was our journey to Paris! I do not think that the like ever happened to any man who was not sovereign of the country. The liveliest acclamations accompanied every step; the women threw themselves on their knees afar off in the fields when they saw his carriage pass; the first citizens of the different places acted as postilions; and, in the towns, the inhabitants took off the horses to drag the carriage themselves. It was I that enjoyed for him; I was carried away by delight, and must not feel ungrateful for those happy days, however sad were the ones that followed.” “O, nothing can equal the emotion that a woman feels when she has the happiness of hearing the name of one beloved repeated by a whole people. All those faces, which appear for the time animated by the same sentiment as one’s self; those innumerable voices, which echo to the heart the name that rises in the air, and which appear to return from heaven after having received the homage of earth; the inconceivable electricity which men communicate to each other when they share the same emotions; all those mysteries of nature and social feeling are added to the greatest mystery of all love filial or maternal but still love; and the soul sinks under emotions stronger than itself. When I came to myself, I felt that I had reached the extreme boundary of happiness.”

The triumph was of short duration: striving to act a middle part, Necker incurred the distrust of both parties. His want of capacity, also, to rule the tempest, was most evident; his propositions were weak and inconsistent; but his daughter saw not this: the loss of the confidence of the king and of the favor of the people, was attributed by her to their ingratitude and perversity; in her eyes, her father was still the greatest of men. His resignation and departure from France was to her a subject of mortification, however. As he passed on his way to Switzerland, the same people who, the year before, had swelled the acclamations of triumph and joy, now met him with reproaches and revilings. At one place he was detained as a prisoner, and only released in pursuance of a decree of the National Assembly.

His daughter remained at Paris. Although excluded theoretically from the exercise of any political power, there is no country where the women take so active a part in politics as in France. Madame de Stael was not a woman to forego the exercise of rights which custom had given her sex: accordingly we find her deeply involved in all the political intrigues of the day, and her drawing-room the scene of the most important political discussions.

During the dreadful days of August, 1792, she exerted herself to the utmost to save the lives of her friends; fearlessly traversing the streets filled with the lowest wretches of both sexes; visiting the victims in the obscure houses in which they were concealed, and taking them into her own house, which, from the protection which the law of nations throws over an ambassador, she trusted would be to them a sanctuary. But those now in power heeded little the law of nations: the police demanded to search her house; she met them at the door, talked to them of the rights of ambassadors, and of the vengeance which Sweden would take if they persisted in their demand; she rallied them upon their want of courtesy, and finally, by argument and gayety, induced them to abandon their intention.

Although it was apparent that her personal safety was endangered, she could not bear to leave Paris, the theatre in which so exciting a drama was being acted. With her passports ready, she yet lingered until the 2d of September, when the news of the advance of the foreign troops into France excited the Parisians to madness, and led to the commission of those horrible excesses which have left an indelible stain on the French name. She then set out for Switzerland; but even now her love of effect and of display was exhibited. She left her house in a coach drawn by six horses, with the servants in full livery, trusting for safety to her title as wife of an ambassador. But she had hardly left her own door, when the carriage was surrounded by a host of furious women, who compelled the postilions to drive to the office of the section of the city to which she belonged, from whence she was ordered to the Hotel de Ville. This was at the opposite side of the city, and she was three hours in making her way thither through crowds of ferocious wretches thirsting for her blood. She was detained at the Hotel de Ville during the remainder of the day, and in the evening was conducted by Manuel to his own house. On the next day, she was suffered to leave the city attended by her maid alone, and accompanied by a gendarme.

At Coppet she found personal safety; but not even the society of her father could render its quiet agreeable to her. Her activity found some exercise for itself in affording protection to those who were so fortunate as to escape from the fangs of the Revolutionary Tribunal. She also wrote an eloquent appeal in behalf of the queen, and “Reflections on the Peace,” which was quoted by Fox, as full of sound political views and just argument.

No sooner had the fall of Robespierre rendered Paris a comparatively safe place of residence, than she hastened thither, eager to bear a part in the busy scenes which were taking place. Her return formed an epoch in society; it was the signal of the revival of refinement. She became the centre of a brilliant circle, composed of the most distinguished foreigners, and of the most eminent men of France. In the society of women she took no pleasure; she loved to be surrounded by those who could appreciate her talents, and could discuss those questions which are foreign to the general tastes of women. But it could hardly be called discussion: her own opinions were delivered like oracles, and if she ever asked a question, it was in such an indeterminate way that no one felt called upon to reply. In this connection one little peculiarity may be mentioned: in public she always held in her hand, which, by the by, was well-formed, some plaything, which she twirled between her fingers; in summer, it was a twig of poplar with two or three leaves at the end; in winter, it was a rolled paper; and it was usual, on her entrance at a party, to present a number of these, from which she made a selection.

The influence which she had acquired excited the alarm of the revolutionists; she was denounced in the Convention and attacked in the newspapers. But this moved her not, so long as by her eloquence she could make converts to her own opinions opinions adopted hastily, and without reflection, which were, therefore, often changing, and frequently contradictory.

At length Bonaparte appeared upon the stage; and at their first interview, Madame de Stael felt that he was a man not to be dazzled or won. He had just returned from the conquest of Italy. She thus speaks of the impression he made on her: “I could not reply to him, when he told me that he had visited Coppet, and felt much regret at passing through Switzerland without seeing my father. To a feeling of admiration succeeded one of fear a feeling that was experienced by all who approached him, and which resulted solely from his personal attributes; for at this time he held no political power, but had himself fallen under the suspicions of the Directory. I soon learned that his character was not to be defined by the words in ordinary use; that he was neither gentle nor violent, mild nor cruel, according to the fashion of other men. The feeling of fear was only increased by subsequent intercourse with him. I had a confused feeling that no emotion of the heart ever influenced him.”

In all that Madame de Stael says of Napoleon, there is an evident feeling of pique, and of mortified vanity. Hitherto triumphant in society, she now met with one upon whom all her powers were tried in vain. An opportunity of testing this occurred at an early period. Bonaparte proposed to the Directory the invasion of Switzerland; upon which she sought a conference with him, in the hope of turning him from his purpose. He viewed the interference as impertinent, and the matter entirely out of a woman’s province: from deference to her reputation, however, he entered into a discussion of the matter, and, having said as much as he thought ought to convince her, turned the conversation to other subjects, much to Madame de Stael’s mortification, who could not bear to be treated like a mere woman.

When Bonaparte became first consul, Madame de Stael did not hesitate to express openly her dissatisfaction at his rising power. Joseph Bonaparte, of whom she was fond, remonstrated with her. “My brother,” said he, “complains of you. ‘Why,’ said he, yesterday, ’does not Madame de Stael attach herself to my government? What does she want? The payment of the money due her father? She shall have it. To remain in Paris? I will permit it. In short, what does she want?’” “The question is not what I want,” replied Madame de Stael, “but what I think.”

There was one thing which operated as a check on her, and that was, the fear of being obliged to leave Paris. The possibility of such a catastrophe filled her with wretchedness. Away from the society and the excitements of that capital, she was the victim of ennui: her own brilliant powers of mind furnished her with no protection; she had no internal resources for happiness. Hear her own confession: “In this point was I vulnerable. The phantom of ennui forever pursues me; fear of it would have made me bow before tyranny, if the example of my father, and the blood which flowed in my veins, had not raised me above such weakness.”

The “dispensation of ennui” she viewed as the most terrible exercise of Bonaparte’s power. But even her fear of it would not control the ruling passion: she continued to discourse on politics, though to a constantly diminishing audience, and to excite those with whom she possessed influence to oppose the measures of government, until the forbearance of that government was exhausted, and she received advice from the minister of police to retire for a short time into the country. This she terms the commencement of a series of persécutions by Bonaparte a reproach which is not deserved; for it could not be expected that any government, much less one whose power was not yet established, would submit to a constant opposition, which exhibited itself not only in epigrams, always a most powerful weapon in France, but, as she herself confesses, in direct political intrigues; the interference, too, being by one who had small claims to be called a Frenchwoman. She was the daughter of a Swiss, and the wife of a Swede, of which latter character she more than once made use to secure her own personal safety and that of her friends. What course could the government have adopted of a milder character? There was no personal violence, nor threat of any: she was banished from the theatre of her hostile influence, and forbidden to circulate her works there.

Not long after the banishment of Madame de Stael from Paris, Bonaparte passed through Switzerland, on his way to Italy. Having expressed a wish to see Necker, the latter waited on him. After a two hours’ conversation, the aged minister left Napoleon, fascinated, like all who approached him, by his powers of pleasing, and gratified, as well by this mark of respect, as by the permission which he obtained for his daughter to reside at Paris.

The publication of her work on “Literature” restored Madame de Stael to popularity. Her salons were again crowded, but chiefly with foreigners, for she still remained upon bad terms with the first consul. “She pretends,” said he, “to speak neither of politics nor of me; yet it happens that every one leaves her house less attached to me than when they went in. She gives them fanciful notions, and of the opposite kind to mine.” Wounded vanity had no doubt a large share in producing her state of feeling. Upon him, as we have before seen, all her powers of fascination were exerted in vain. Indeed, he seems, in his treatment of her, to have been wanting in his usual tact. She was one day asked to dine in company with him. As she had heard that he sometimes spoke sarcastically of her, she thought he might perhaps address to her some of these speeches, which were the terror of the courtiers. She prepared herself, therefore, with various repartees. But Bonaparte hardly appeared conscious of her presence, and her consolation for the neglect was the conjecture that fear had been the cause of his forbearance.

The early attempts of Madame de Stael in novel-writing gave no promise of superiority in that department of literature. Four tales, published in 1795, were as weak in plan and in execution as they were deficient in moral taste. It is a sad illustration of the state of moral feeling in the community, that a mind, naturally so well-intentioned and powerful, could be so debased, especially of one who had, at all times, a deep sense of religion, and who had been educated in the strict principles of Calvin. “Delphine,” which appeared in 1802, is marked by the same faults of a moral character, and its tendency was so marked, as to incur the censure even of French critics, “who dared,” as Madame de Stael indignantly exclaims, “to blame a book approved by Necker.” That the censure was merited, no right-minded person can deny. The defence which Madame de Stael felt called upon to put forth is weak, inconclusive, and abounding in sophistries. The misfortunes of the heroine are, indeed, the consequences of her actions, but these results are made to appear her misfortune, and not her fault. Fascinated by the eloquence of the author, our hearts are enlisted on the side of the sufferer, whatever may be the decision of our judgment.

Though deficient in some of the requisites for a novelist, especially in dramatic talent, Madame de Stael was eminently endowed with one essential faculty that of delineating character. In Delphine, it was said the character of the author herself was exhibited, and that Madame de Vernon, in whom we have a perfect picture of social Machiavelism, was drawn from Talleyrand. “I am told,” said he to her, “that you have put us both in your novel in the character of women.” Even if this had been the occasion of offence to the wily courtier, he was too sagacious to disclose it.

Madame de Stael was at Coppet, passing the summer, when her father published a work called “Last View of Politics and Finance.” In this he points out the progress which Bonaparte was making towards despotic power. Irritated at this attack, the first consul forbade the return of the daughter to Paris, from whence she had conveyed such false impressions to her father.

But, much as she loved her father, she could not content herself away from Paris. Genevese society contrasted sadly, in her estimation, with the brilliant circle of her Parisian friends. Hoping, amidst the excitements which attend the commencement of a war, to be overlooked, she ventured, after the rupture of the peace of Amiens, to establish herself at the distance of thirty miles from her beloved capital. The first consul was informed that the road to her residence was crowded with her visitants. She heard that she was to receive an order to depart, and she sought to evade it by wandering from the house of one friend to that of another. It was at length received, and the intercession of Joseph Bonaparte, and other friends of the first consul, was of no avail.

Loath to appear in disgrace among the Genevese, and hoping, amid new scenes, to forget her griefs, she resolved to visit Germany. “Every step of the horses,” she tells us, as she left Paris, “was a pang; and, when the postilions boasted that they had driven fast, I could not help smiling at the sad service they did me.”

The enjoyment which she derived from the attention and kindness with which she was every where received, and from the vast field of knowledge which opened itself to her, was interrupted by the sad news of the illness of her father, followed quickly by intelligence of his death. She at once set off for Coppet. Her feelings, during the melancholy journey, are beautifully and naturally recorded in the “Ten Years of Exile.” This work, which was not published until after her death, is the most interesting of her writings, and the best as it respects style. It was commenced at Coppet, and feigned names and false dates were substituted for the real, for the purpose of misleading the government, whose perfect system of espionage would otherwise have rendered fruitless her most careful endeavors at concealment.

Her fears for the consequences of a discovery were natural; for she expresses most freely her opinions of the character and conduct of the great ruler of France, which take their coloring from her feelings, highly excited by the persecution of which she conceived herself to be the victim. Here are also recorded her observations on the various countries which this persecution compelled her to visit. But the work is far more valuable and interesting from the traits which it unconsciously discloses of the character of the author herself; and any diminution of our preconceived ideas of the absolute dignity of her nature, is more than compensated by the abundant proofs of the kindness and honesty of her disposition.

Her first occupation, after the death of her father, was to publish his writings, accompanied by a biographical memoir. Her passion for him took a new turn. Every old man recalled his image; and she watched over their comforts, and wept over their sufferings. It mingled with her devotions. She believed that her soul communed with his in prayer, and that it was to his intercession that she owed all the good that befell her. Whenever she met with any piece of good fortune, she would say, “It is my father who has obtained this for me.”

In happier days, this passion sometimes was the occasion of scenes not a little amusing to the bystanders. Her cousin and biographer, Madame de Necker Saussure relates the following anecdote: She had come to Coppet from Geneva in Necker’s carriage, and had been overturned on the way, but received no injury. On relating the incident to Madame de Stael, she inquired, with great vehemence, who had driven; and, on being told that it was Richel, her father’s coachman, she exclaimed, in an agony, “Mon Dieu! he may one day overturn my father!” and ordered him into her presence. While waiting his coming, she paced the room, crying out, “My father, my poor father, he might have been overturned;” and, turning to her cousin, “At your age, and with your slight person, the danger is nothing; but with his bulk and age I cannot bear to think of it!” The coachman now came in; and the lady, usually so mild and indulgent with her servants, in a sort of frenzy, and in a voice of solemnity, but choked with emotion, said, “Richel, do you know that I am a woman of genius?” The poor man stared at her in astonishment, and she went on, yet louder, “Have you not heard, I say, that I am a woman of genius?” The man was still mute. “Well, then, I tell you that I am a woman of genius of great genius of prodigious genius! and I tell you more that all the genius I have shall be exerted to secure your rotting out your days in a dungeon, if ever you overturn my father!”

To recruit her health, which was wasting with grief, she next undertook a journey into Italy. Hitherto she had appeared totally insensible to the beauties of nature, and when her guests at Coppet were in ecstasies with the Lake of Geneva, and the enchanting scenery about it, she would exclaim, “Give me a garret in Paris, with a hundred Louis a year.” But in Italy she seems to have had a glimpse of the glories of the universe, for which enjoyment she always said she was indebted to her father’s intercession.

The delights which she experienced in that enchanting country are imbodied in the novel of “Corinne.” Her representation of its society evinces a want of intimate acquaintance with it, but it is a lively and true picture of the surface. In this work her peculiar talent as a novelist is richly displayed. In the characters of Comte d’Erfeuil, Corinne, and Oswald, we have not only examples of the most true and delicate discrimination, but vivid portraits of individuals, in whom are imbodied the most pleasing peculiarities of their respective nations. A purer morality displays itself in Corinne; the result, rather than the object, of the book. She does not seek, by logical demonstration, to enforce a moral axiom, but the influence of the spirit which emanates from the whole is purifying and elevating.

Madame de Stael was forbidden to approach within forty leagues of Paris; but, after hovering about the confines of the magical circle, she at last established herself within it, at a distance of only twelve leagues from the city. So long as she was contented to remain in obscurity, in the society of a small circle of friends, and to maintain a strict silence on the subject of politics, her violation of the imperial mandate was overlooked. But the publication of Corinne put an end to the indulgence, and she was ordered to quit France.

The tedium of her life at Coppet was somewhat relieved by the visits of her friends, and of distinguished foreigners. She was occupied, too, by her work on Germany, which was completed in 1810. To superintend its publication, she took up her abode at the permitted distance from Paris, at the old chateau of Chaumont-sur-Loire, already notable as the residence of Diane de Poitiers, Catherine de Medicis, and Nostradamus.

She submitted her book to the censor, and expunged such passages as were objected to. She now deemed herself safe in publishing it. Ten thousand copies were already printed, when an order was issued by Savary, minister of police, for the suppression of the work. The impressions were seized, and, the ink being obliterated by a chemical process, the paper was returned to the publisher. The manuscript was demanded, and the author ordered to quit France in twenty-four hours; but, upon her remonstrance, the time was extended to eight days. “Your exile,” says Savary, “is the natural consequence of the course of conduct you have constantly pursued for many years. It is evident that the air of France does not agree with you.” The true reasons for the suppression of her work were not assigned, but were turned off with the remark that “It is not French; and that the French are not yet reduced to seek for models in the countries which she admired.”

In 1810, M. de Rocca, a French officer, who was yet suffering from dangerous wounds, received in Spain, arrived at Geneva. His personal condition and his reputation for brilliant courage heightened the interest excited by his youth and noble physiognomy. He first saw Madame de Stael at a public assembly. She entered the ball-room, dressed in a costly but unbecoming style, and followed by a train of admirers. “Is this the far-famed woman?” said Rocca; “she is very ugly, and I detest such straining for effect.” A few words of sympathy, set off by the music of her voice, effected a complete revolution in his feelings. Wishes and hopes apparently the most extravagant took possession of his heart for she was now a widow. “I will love her so much that she will marry me,” said he, and his words were soon fulfilled; but the event was carefully concealed until the death of Madame de Stael; for she was peculiarly sensitive to public opinion, and refused to acknowledge a marriage which might have excited ridicule so great was the disparity of age and of condition between the parties. She was unwilling likewise to change her name. “Mon nom est a l’Europe,” said she to M. Rocca, when, on a subsequent occasion, he jestingly asked her to marry him.

For this marriage, as well as for her former one, Madame de Stael has been severely censured. Many apologies, if any be really necessary, may be found for her. Since the death of her father, she had felt, more than before, the want of an essential accessory to her happiness. Speaking of the asylum which she hoped to find in England, she said, “I feel the want of love, of cherishing, of some one to lean upon; if I can find in that country a man possessing real nobleness of character, I will gladly yield up my liberty.” Heartbroken and disappointed, both as a woman and an author, she had returned to Coppet, to find her residence there more irksome and unhappy than ever. She was advised not to go farther than ten leagues from home; and fear lest she should involve her friends, induced her to forbid their coming to her. Her fears were not altogether without reason. Regardless of the advice she had received, she made the tour of Switzerland with M. de Montmorency, and the consequence to him was exile from France. Another friend, the beautiful and celebrated Madame de Recamier, paid for a few hours’ intercourse by exile to Lyons.

Imagination conjured up new terrors. The fear of imprisonment seized her, and she resolved to escape. The choice of a route perplexed her. She passed her life, she says, in studying the map of Europe, to find how she could escape beyond the wide-spread poison-tree of Napoleon’s power. She at length departed. England was the point of destination.

Passing through Germany, she was received at St. Petersburg with great distinction by the emperor, and, thence passing on her way, spent eight months at Stockholm with her old friend Bernadotte, crown prince of Sweden; with whom at Paris, in the early days of Bonaparte’s career, she had been discovered concerting measures to stop his progress towards absolute power a discovery which furnished an apology for the treatment she received.

The “Ten Years of Exile,” which, after an intermission of several years, had been resumed, closes at Stockholm. In England, she met with a most cordial reception. Fashionable society courted her as a lion; the more intelligent and highly educated sought her for her genius.

Her work on Germany was published in London, and raised her reputation as a critic to the highest point. She was among the founders of the philosophical school of critics; who, not wasting their attention on the conventional forms of composition, look to the intrinsic qualities which constitute literary excellence. But she was not sufficiently dispassionate always to form a correct judgment. Her enthusiasm and susceptibility made her too indulgent. As she would often be thrown into ecstasies by a wretched hand-organ in the street, so she would be in raptures with verses, the melody of which pleased her ear. She would repeat them with great pomp and emphasis, and say, “That is what I call poetry! it is delicious! and all the more that it does not convey a single idea to me.”

“Germany” was a gift of the greatest price to France. Her standards in literature had been fixed a century before, and to alter or advance them was deemed a work of impiety. A natural result was a want of vigor and of originality. She had imposed her fetters, too, on foreign nations. The cold, artificial spirit of the age of Louis XIV. long pressed, like an incubus, upon the literary spirit of Germany. But about the middle of the last century, the spell was broken. A literary revolution took place in that country, and, from being destitute of all national literature, Germany became possessed of one the most characteristic. To furnish a literary and mental portraiture of this emancipated nation, was a work requiring a rare combination of talents, and one which was executed by Madame de Stael with singular ability.

She hailed with delight the overthrow of Napoleon, which opened to her the way to Paris. But she never joined in the senseless cry which was raised, that he had neither talents nor courage. “It would be too humiliating for France, and for all Europe,” she said, “that, for fifteen years, it had been beaten and outwitted by a coward and a blockhead.” Her joy was, however, tempered by grief and indignation, that the soil of France, “cette belle France,” should be desecrated by the feet of foreign invaders. To avoid witnessing the humiliating spectacle of Paris in the possession of barbarians, she retired to Coppet, where, in 1816, she renewed her acquaintance with Lord Byron, whose genius fascinated her, and who had been chief favorite while she was in England. She now gave him much advice as to his conduct, which he met by quoting the motto to “Delphine,” “Man must learn to brave opinion, woman to submit to it.” But she no longer defended the truth of this epigraph. Always religious, the principles of Christianity now mingled more intimately in her sentiments.

Time, too, had wrought a change in her character: she was much softened, and appreciated more justly the real blessings and misfortunes of life. In her own family she found sources of happiness. Her children were dutiful and affectionate, and the marriage of her daughter to the Duke de Broglie gave her pleasure. Her chief cause of disquietude was the ill health of her husband, in anticipation of whose death she composed a book, with the title, “The only Misfortune of Life, the Loss of a Person beloved.” But she was not destined to be the sufferer now. She had ever despised the accommodation of the body, and gave herself no trouble about health. She affected to triumph over infirmity, and was wont to say, “I might have been sickly, like any body else, had I not resolved to vanquish physical weakness.” But nature was not to be thus defied. Her health failed, and the use of opium aided the progress of disease. But sickness threw no cloud over her intellect; “I am now,” she said, “what I have ever been sad, yet vivacious;” but it displayed the moral beauties of her character in a more striking light. She was kind, patient, and devout. Her sleepless nights were spent in prayer. Existence no longer appeared to her in its gayest colors. “Life,” she said, “resembles Gobelin tapestry; you do not see the canvass on the right side; but when you turn it, the threads are visible. The mystery of existence is the connection between our faults and our misfortunes. I never committed an error that was not the cause of a disaster.” Yet she left life with regret, though death possessed for her no terrors. “I shall meet my father on the other side,” she said, “and my daughter will ere long rejoin me.” “I think,” said she, one day, as if waking from a dream, “I think I know what the passage from life to death is; and I am convinced that the goodness of God makes it easy; our thoughts become confused, and the pain is not great.” She died with the utmost composure, at Paris, July, 1817.

Her husband survived her but a few months. “Grief put a period to his already precarious existence. He withdrew from Paris, to die beneath the beautiful sky of Provence, and there breathed his last sighs in the arms of his brother.”

The chief works of Madame de Stael, and her peculiarities as an author, have already been spoken of. One work, published after her death, and the most powerful of all, remains to be mentioned. In the “Considerations on the French Revolution,” she sought to blend the memoir with the philosophical history. The faults are what might have been expected. The details, too minute for the one, are too scanty for the other. In the selection of these she was biased by her personal feelings, but to a degree far less than was to be anticipated. Her feelings were warm and excitable; she had lived in the midst of the events of which she speaks; she had herself been an actor, and her father had borne a conspicuous part, in them; indeed, one grand purpose of the work is to exculpate him. That she should, under these disqualifying circumstances, have produced a work so temperate, and on the whole so impartial one that exhibits such philosophical depth and comprehensiveness of vision excites in us wonder and admiration. But it is not as a history that the work is interesting and valuable. It is that it exhibits to us the impressions made by the great events of which she speaks, and the scenes which she witnessed, upon a powerful and original mind. It abounds with profound reflections and brilliant remarks. The style, eloquent and impassioned, is in a high degree conversational, and, as we read it, we almost expect to hear the sound of the voice. The remarkable talent for discrimination and delineation of character, which distinguish her as a novelist, lead us to regret that it did not come within the design of the work to furnish us with historical portraitures of the distinguished personages of the period. The few which she has given us, increase our regret, and mark her as a mistress in the art.