search for it but misleads him. Nevertheless he believes it, and is no more able to escape from this instinct of his nature than to pass beyond the limits of his science. And it must be observed that this instinct has no scientific pretensionsit suffices for itself. When it has developed itself in the soul, and at the moment when man by obeying it acquits himself towards the dead of some duty, then no curiosity and no doubt disturb him. He needs not to know what kind of communication there is between himself and the dead: he acts in virtue of an irreflective faith with which he is contented-certain that, without disturbing himself about the modes of the access between the dead and the living, his act has its object and that his sentiments will not fall short of their aim. It is only when man from being an agent becomes a speculator-and when he makes observations upon his nature instead of following its dictates, and interrogates himself instead of believing himself—it is then that scientific problems spring up in him with his natural wants, and that he undertakes in behalf of science to leap over the limits beyond which his instinctive beliefs will not carry him. Scan the thoughts of the wife, or daughter, or mother, who go to the tomb to offer to a beloved body so many marks of tenderness and respect-do they believe that they comprehend that peculiar kind of relationship which subsists between the living and the dead after which the philosophers are seeking? By no means. The questions which philosophers agitate exist not for them: if they sprung up in them, as in philosophers' minds, they would become tormented with doubts and with the impossibility of resolving them. Try to raise these questions in their thoughts, and ask them how they figured to themselves that the perfume of the flowers they cultivate and the freshness of the shade they maintain, can charm the being to whom they address their cares? The suggestion would trouble their minds; and, where a passionate enthusiasm did not exist, they would murmur timid and contradictory answers. Probably, their words would contradict their actions. Before they were disturbed by this suggestion, they lived ignorant of their ignorance: they wanted to make no enquiries, whilst they confidently adhered to a simple and natural faith and rejoiced in its natural lights without extending their wishes or their ambition beyond its range.

Such, then, is the true character of the spontaneous and primitive beliefs of man. They give no reply to doubts: they solve none of those problems which are raised by science:

they exist, they inspire, and they affirm; but they have no further power and they pretend to nothing further. In respect for the dead there is evidently contained the belieffirst, in the immortality of the soul: secondly, a belief in the individuality of the immortal being: and thirdly, a belief in the perpetuation of a certain bond, or of a certain kind of society, between those who have gone from the actual world and those who continue in it. An instinctive faith, the basis of an universal and invincible sentiment-a sentiment which could not exist if there were no faith-attests from the bottom of the soul these three facts-nothing less and nothing more; but no further demands must be made upon it to explain and to systematise them. Beyond the simple affirmation of the simple fact, it has nothing to say. At once sublime and modest, it reveals the future, but does not attempt to unveil it.

ART. III.-Men and Women in France in the Eighteenth Century. London. 1852.

IF it be true that every age as well as every country has its peculiar characteristics, we need not hesitate long in fixing on those of the last century. Of all the ages which have passed away since the era of Christianity there was, perhaps, none marked by so total a dereliction of the principles of true religion. A low standard alike of morals and art—an apathy on the question of religion only varied by scenes of frantic enthusiasm and savage persecution-a general absence of public virtue which rendered the occasional examples which were seen the more illustrious, and the deliberate adoption of a code of life which would hardly have been out of place in the court of a Heliogabalus-such was the aspect presented to the world by the century of which the generation now passing away saw the close.

In France even more than in any other country was this the case, and the lead which the brilliant but most vicious court of that country took in Europe during the entire era was in no small degree the cause of the general demoralization. He, then, who would rightly understand the causes of the awful catastrophe with which the age closed-of that open infidelity which so greatly prevailed-must look to the ethics, politics, and theology of the preceding century, and he will there find the true solution of the problem; but it is far

more easy to say this than to point out the sources where such information may be sought. To the mere English reader the books which contain it are sealed books: among those who understand the language of our neighbours there are few to whom it would be safe to entrust such works as those of Touchat la Fosse; and a merely general idea that the age was a profligate one would be neither sufficient for the philosophic nor the historical enquirer. The whole spirit is godless-the whole details are foul; and, until the appearance of the work mentioned at the head of this article, there was absolutely wanting that which would shadow forth the one and indicate the other with sufficient decency to be readable, and yet sufficient accuracy to give us a true portrait of the period.

This book, then, supplies a desideratum-fills a gap-and as such must be welcome to a great variety of readers. It is of French origin, written by one who has taken part in some of the scenes which he describes, and who has received the rest from those who are no longer "dwellers among men." As to taste, from beginning to end, nothing can be well worse than these volumes: they are in the most despicable style of French sentimentalism. As to morals, the case is still worse. The writer describes, without a word of reproof, the most fearful instances of depravity, and gives his general approbation to characters whom no society now extant would tolerate at all. If now and then a virtuous sentiment is paraded, it is so obviously with a view to effect that it is yet more offensive than the implied profligacy of the rest. To add to its deficiencies the book is miserably translated, with a great deal of vulgar slang, and with a literal rendering of idiomatic phrases, which not unfrequently quite confounds the author's meaning.

It may seem strange, then, that we should so unhesitatingly pronounce this book an acquisition to the literature of the day; but no one can rise from its perusal without a far clearer and more correct opinion of the eighteenth century than he could have obtained from any other creditably accessible sources.

We have seen the American impression from which this with some necessary alterations is a reprint, and must congratulate Mr. Bentley on having omitted many anecdotes and many remarks equally blasphemous and indelicate, and much that without being either the one or the other would hardly fail to be offensive to an English reader. It is difficult to choose selections to give our readers an idea of this singular book; but, as it treats of all classes and conditions of men, we will take a few characteristic anecdotes of French artists to com

mence with. French painters have rarely been very much admired in England; yet the names of Greuze, Lancret, and Watteau, will not fail to excite interest; and no where can such curious details of their lives and characters be found as in these pages.

There were two schools of painting which divided the favour of France in the beginning and middle of the eighteenth century: one seeking after the grand and noble, desiring to fathom the mysteries of nature and to reveal them in turn to those capable of appreciating and enjoying them—a school of more merit in design than in execution, which aimed after more than it was able to accomplish; and another which as a mirror reflected the very image of the time. Satisfied with prettiness instead of beauty, and meretricious splendour instead of sublimity, it gave us a Mignard, a Boucher, a Fragonard, and departed from the traditions of a Poussin and a Lebrun.

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Francis Boucher, who painted the beauties of Louis XV.'s court, sometimes as nymphs and sometimes as shepherdessessometimes with fanciful attire and sometimes without any all-but always with the mincing affectation which characterized the pretty originals-was born in the year in which Bossuet died. The last relics of the "great reign" were passing; and Fontenelle-that anticipation of the eighteenth century-was standing in the proportions of a pigmy on the tombs of those departed giants-Corneille, Racine, Moliére, and Bossuet. The heartless painter of a heartless age, Boucher had no love for nature: he lived in Paris and for Paris alone: he preferred landscapes at the "grand opera" to landscapes among the mountains; and, when some of his rosy back-grounds were objected to as being contrary to Nature, Well-(said the opera-painter)—well, so much the worse for Nature!" Indeed, he did not scruple to admit in a letter to Lancret, still extant, "that the fields and woods were too green and badly managed as to light!" He early obtained employment at the opera, and was received with acclamation into the society of "ces messieurs." The celebrated "Association," so-called, comprised all that might have been genius. Caylus, Voisenon, Duclos, Crébillon, shed over it the lustre of their wit, and alas! the profanation of their profligacy. Such was the school in which Boucher learned to become the favourite painter of a corrupt age. What he was in himself may be gathered from the following extract:

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“Boucher had left for Rome with Carle Vanloo : he returned alone, without money or studies, denying the merit of all the masterpieces.

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What could one then augur of such a painter? He was not, however, despaired of. His talent has ruined him: his talent will save him,' said the Count de Caylus-a just and profound remark which well describes Boucher's talent. In proof of this, he was scarcely back again when he became all the fashion: he had only to paint to gain applause. All the great mansions, all the splendid country seats, were thrown open to his graceful talents. He worked day and night, amusing himself at the expense of everybody including himself, producing, as by magic, Venuses in angelic choirs and angels equipped with arrows. He had no time to be very particular: he went on and on as rapid as the wind, finishing on the same day a Visitation for St. Germain des Prés, a Venus at Cythera for Versailles, a design for an opera scene, a portrait of a duchess, and a painting of scandalous design by turns inspired by heaven and hell, no longer believing in glory, giving himself up body and soul to making a fortune. During the remainder of his life he made every year not less than fifty thousand livres, equivalent to a hundred thousand at the present day. He lived in grand style-he lived beyond his income: he affected the philosophy of the time: he ridiculed all that was noble and grand: he doubted all religion and all that comes to us from it-the virtue of the heart, the aspirations of the soul. He gave regal fêtes: one among others which cost him a year's work, a celebrated festival, called the festival of the gods. His design was to represent Olympus and all the pagan divinities. He himself was Jupiter: his mistress, disguised as Hebe -that is to say, in very scanty garments-passed the night in serving ambrosia to all these counterfeit gods and goddesses. The Academicians, astounded at these achievements, determined upon admitting Boucher, the noisy fame of whose school had thrown the Academy into the shade. Boucher was no more of an Academician after he had the title than before. He continued to live as a prodigal and paint as an artist without faith."

As a man of ability Boucher has, perhaps, been underrated in later years, just as in his life he was excessively overrated. Of high genius he had little, if any: he was the painter of a fashion, and now that the fashion has passed away the painter is well nigh forgotten. It is singular to reflect that he was both the relative and the master of David; the teacher was noted for mock grace-the disciple for mock sublimity.

Watteau has left a more enduring as well as higher reputation, for he was a more natural character. He painted what he saw and was satisfied with nature as she was. Born in Flanders, and living in an old house with its gable-end to the street, his youthful eye was caught by out-door amusements; and he who subsequently painted the fêtes champetres of the court at Versailles, first commenced his career of art by sketching the groups of children admiring Polichinelle, or the