private secretary and panegyrist Meneval, that having once for all formed an idea to himself, often totally unfounded, of the strength of the various corps and divisions of his army, he would issue his orders, and determine his expectations of them, as if they were of that strength, without the slightest regard to the returns of the commanders, which showed they were not of half the amount.* Ex hypothesi was with him de facto. His " unconquerable adherence to error," in the face of the clearest evidence, as seen in his writings whenever it suited his purpose, Sir A. Alison can only account for by suggesting, that Napoleon's "wishes were, literally† speaking, the father to his thoughts, and that what he desired he really believed to be true." In other words, that having invented a bouncing lie, he stuck to it through thick and thin, and even came to believe in it himself. In one of his strenuous onsets against the home policy of our government during the outbreak of the French Revolution, Coleridge, himself at that time a party pamphleteer, declares the panic of property to have been struck in the first instance for party purposes, and goes on to say that "when it became general, its propagators caught it themselves, and ended in believing their own lie; -even as the bulls of Borodale are said sometimes to run mad with the echo of their own bellowing."§ Again, in one of those manuscript notes and marginalia with which S. T. C. enriched his copy, greatly-prized, of Southey's "Life of Wesley," the Moravian leader's advice to the Methodist leader, when asked what could he preach, namely, "Preach faith till you have it; and then, because you have it, you will preach faith," -is saddled by our annotator with the query: "Is not this too like, Tell a lie long enough and often enough, and you will be sure to end in believing it?"|| How much old men (at least of the Shallow sort) are given to lying, is a Shakspearean common-place. Centenarians of the Parr and Jenkins figure have recently been subjected, by the sceptical, to the general charge of more or less mild white, or sub-conscious mendacity. It might be supposed, observes one of Sir G. C. Lewis's critical school, that an educated man should know his own age, were it not that the process by which a fiction gradually imposes upon its author is only too familiar to every one who likes to tell a story. To believe your own lies is the first step in the art of lying gracefully. That acute metaphysician and always careful writer, Mr. Samuel Bailey, in his able investigation of the causes of belief being regarded as voluntary, refers to the habit people have of taking up opinions as a sort of party badge-which "opinions," having no dependence on the understanding, may be assumed and discarded at pleasure; but which, by partisans thus taking them up, are often maintained with more violence than such as are founded on the most thorough conviction. By thus defending opinions of which they have no clear conviction, people often succeed, says Mr. Bailey, in imposing on themselves as well as others. "Paradoxical as it may seem, it is nevertheless true, that they are not always aware of the exact state of their own minds; they frequently imagine themselves to believe more than they are actually convinced of. On many questions they are not able to form any definite decision, and yet, from the necessity of professing some opinion, or joining some party, and from the habit of making assertions, and even arguing in favour of what they are thus pledged to support, they come to regard themselves as entertaining positive sentiments on points about which they are really in doubt."* Notwithstanding this reserved point, practically they come to believe their own lie-that of taking up with what they are verily convinced of; and may, without much injustice, be referred to the category of Inveracities described by the metaphysical poet (Queen Anne's style): * Vie privée de Napoléon, III. 121. † [But why, and how, literally speaking?] Continuation of History of Europe, vol. iii. ch. xviii. || See Southey's Life of Wesley, vol. i. p. 93, edit. 1864. "A certain respectable Dissenting minister used to draw crowded houses by announcing that he would preach at the age of more than one hundred. He corroborated his statement by a lively account of a battle in which he had won distinction in his youth. When the old gentleman died, aged one hundred and seven, in the odour of sanctity, it appeared, by examining a register, that the battle had been fought before his birth. The evidence for such cases cannot be sufficiently weighed till a proper allowance has been deducted for enormous lying. When an old man's brain is growing gradually bewildered, it would be hard to grudge him the harmless gratification of spinning incredible yarns." - Essay on Longevity, Sat. Rev., XIX. 44. As folks, quoth Richard, prone to leasing, DAVID THE SCULPTOR. BY THEODORE KARCHER. In the early part of last year, the inhabitants of Paris witnessed a remarkable funeral procession passing along the Boulevards. Men of every rank and every profession, politicians and artists, members of the Institut de France and simple mechanics, followed the hearse which carried to the grave the mortal remains of a great sculptor and a good citizen, David (d'Angers). The students who lined the streets, recognising amongst the mourners the venerable old poet Béranger, cheered him enthusiastically, and the silence which is generally observed on such solemn occasions by the French people, was soon broken by the cries of "Vive la liberté! vive Béranger!" But the young patriots were arrested, and several of them sentenced to fines and imprisonment. This public emotion will be easily accounted for if we remember that in David (d'Angers) the art of sculpture had lost one of its chiefs on the Continent, and the republican party a man who had faithfully belonged to it from his childhood to the end of his life. During a career of sixtyseven years, he had completed more than one hundred busts and five hundred medallions; and produced, amongst other chefs-d'œuvre, the statue of Guttenberg at Strasbourg, the statues of General Bonchamps, Corneille, Cuvier, and Jefferson, the triumphal arch at Marseilles, and the fronton of the Panthéon at Paris. * Essays on the Formation of Opinions, § iv. † Prior, Alma, canto iii. Our object is not so much to dwell here on the artistical merits of that great man, as to give the true story of his life. It has been our good fortune to draw it from private sources, from near relations of the late sculptor, and we thought it to be a very instructive tale, for it will prove once more that every high aim may be obtained in the world by a certain amount of energy and perseverance. David's father was a not altogether unworthy sculptor in wood, and had been left an orphan when still a mere child. A distant relative, a rather indifferent carver, had undertaken to teach him his own profession; but the intelligent boy soon discovered that his master's knowledge was not very profound, and spent all his leisure hours in peeping through the windows of distinguished artists. One of the most illustrious remarked this persevering attention, and addressing one day abruptly the poor youth, who looked steadfastly at him, said, "You seem to be much pleased with my work, my child; shall I teach you to do the same?" The young Louis accepted with enthusiasm, and left his parent a few days afterwards. But his new master was a gambler and a drunkard, and the honest young man, fearing the contagion of a bad example, wisely determined to leave Paris. In the course of his travels he came to Angers, and married there the daughter of a cabinet-maker. The revolution of 1789 broke out, calling all the children of France to arms for the defence of the territory and the new principles of liberty. Louis David willingly obeyed the solemn appeal of his country, and fought against the Chouans of La Vendée. When, after many troubles and hardships he returned to his hearth, he found himself reduced to dire poverty, and knowing by his own sad experience how many impediments are thrown in the way of an artist, he desired his son, PierreJean, the subject of this notice, to embrace a more lucrative profession. But the latter had inherited his father's love of art, and when yet a mere child spent the whole of his time in carving wood or drawing figures. The young sculptor wanted to go to Paris, and at last, subjugated by the earnest entreaties of his beloved child and of Professor Delusse, the father could no longer withhold his approbation. But alas! that was all it was in his power to give, and young David set out for the metropolis with little more than two pounds in his pocket. He was then eighteen years old. It would be impossible to retrace the intense sufferings he underwent at that period of his life. He worked assiduously at the triumphal arch of the Carrousel, and earned tenpence a day. During the evening and part of the night he studied the pictures of the first French master, Nicolas Poussin, for he had not as yet made his choice between sculpture and painting, for which latter art he retained a great taste. When sleep at last overcame him, he took a momentary rest on what he called his bed: this was simply an old carved door, upon which he stretched a cloth. He thought he would sleep less upon this rude couch, and his body was much bruised. He suffered also very often from hunger. We have before us the following touching note, in his own handwriting : "Nobody took an interest in me; my father was too poor to help me, and my mother could only exhort me to be patient. I believe this indifference towards me had its source in my excessive timidity and my pride, which caused me to dissimulate my sad position. One of my friends, a pupil of Roland, brought from time to time a loaf of bread. I have, during eighteen months, eaten nothing but bread, on Sundays excepted." In another note he says: "When I studied in order to win the prize of Rome, I lived in the Rue des Cordiers, near the Sorbonne. My room was close under the roof, and in the story beneath me lived a government employé, who gave each Sunday a dinner to his friends. I cannot express what were my feelings when I heard the clattering sound of the plates, the jingling of the glasses, the echo of that frank and joyful cordiality, I, poor forlorn youth, who ate nothing but bread, and drank but wateraccompanied by many a bitter tear. Then, with the mobility of happy youthfulness, the magic word of Rome carried me far away from the employé and his society, and I took my refuge amongst the great men of Plutarch, or the charming pages of Paul and Virginia and of Atala. When the advancing night fell heavily on my eyelids, I took fresh courage from the reading of those sublime works. I opened my window, which looked over many roofs; I saw all the lights extinguished, and I felt a sensation of pride to be thus alone awake for glory. When I perceived by chance some small light glittering like mine on the top window of a house, I said to myself, 'Perhaps some human being suffers there the cruel agony of death, while I consume here my life for an uncertain future.'" Such persevering labour must soon find its reward. Eighteen months after his departure from home, David won a medal at the Academy, and exhibited at the public competition some beautiful specimens, which attracted every one's notice. His native town-Angers-resolved to grant him an annual aid of twenty-four pounds. In the same year (1810) he won an ordinary prize, and the following the first great prize -the prize of Rome. This distinction enabled the young artist to seek fresh and lasting inspirations under the ardent sky of Italy, in that beautiful country of great men and great deeds, the earth of which preserves piously the remains of the heroes and the marble of the statues. He remained there five years, as pensioner of the French Academy, studying with care the principles of artistic composition. He visited with true love the rich museums of Naples, Portici, and Pompeii, and gained the friendship of the painter Ingres and the sculptor Canova, who initiated the aspiring Frenchman into the secrets of art. David was much struck with the finished touch, the rare and antique perfection of Canova's works; but he was profoundly grieved by their striking uselessness in a national and religious point of view. In presence of these admirable statues, nearly all called to light by the influence of Pagan antiquity, and borrowed from the ideas of Grecian mythology, he asked what generous feelings, what patriotic enthusiasm, they were able to produce in the souls of the spectators. At that time already helooked at the products of art as destined to the instruction of the people,. being well adapted to recal to mind national triumphs, and to propose a VOL. LVIII. U noble aim. He was no partişan of the favourite romantic maxim, "Art for the sake of art," because in his eyes the artist, too, should have a useful object in view. He is aware that the masses of the people want to be encouraged and instructed, therefore the works of the sculptor should not only excite the enthusiasm of a few chosen imaginations, but give noble thoughts to all men. David, at least for one, puts an end to the idolatrous worship of the form, and seems to say to the sculptors, let the gods of the antique fable sleep in their graves; think of the heroes who have been of service to humanity, and of the men who have illustrated the country in which you were born. He intended from that time to celebrate all the glories of his native country, and indeed there is hardly an illustrious name in the recent history of France whom his chisel has not immortalised. At that epoch of his life David got into serious political troubles. He was born in 1789; as a child of four years, he had been carried on a cannon, amongst the republican soldiers, against the Chouans of La Vendée; and he never forgot these two circumstances. During his whole life he showed an ardent democratical spirit. In 1810, when the students were at work in the museum of Paris, the Emperor Napoleon came into the gallery. All the young modellers left their places and went to meet the great captain; David alone remained, and said, "I will not see the conqueror of France." And in fact he never looked at him. Although he had many opportunities for it, he was more consistent than the celebrated painter of the same name, who, calling himself a democrat, courted, nevertheless, the successful dictator. When in Italy, he joined the Carbonari, and was one of a numerous party which tried to meet the ex-king Murat in his unfortunate expedition. But the latter had already been shot; the young sculptor was made a prisoner at Paestum, and was solely indebted for his life and liberty to the magnanimity of a Hungarian officer. He saw at that time in the adventurous Murat a simple general who proclaimed the independence of Italy, for when asked in 1846 or 47, by the former Queen of Naples, to execute the statue of her husband, he wrote to her: "I will not make the bust of a man who has carried arms against France." The same patriotic feeling prevented him, in 1816, when he suffered again from dire poverty in London, to accept the commission of executing a triumphal arch in commemoration of the battle of Waterloo. The English public can but honour such high sentiments, which spring from an ardent love of one's native country. And then David's patriotism was not exclusive, for one of his best statues is that of the Vendean general, Bonchamps. The royalist hero is represented lying on a litter and wounded to death; he hears that his companions intend to murder four thousand republican prisoners, and raising himself upon his arm in sublime agitation, he exclaims: "No! mercy to the prisoners! I command it." The last humane order of the dying chief was obeyed, and four thousand unhappy men were saved : among them our sculptor's own father. From 1820, till the period of his death, David enjoyed a high fame, both in the artistical and political world. We have already given the names of some of his chief works. England possesses his busts of Jeremy Bentham and Lady Morgan; the United States those of Washington, |