This little work presents us with an amusing narrative,
interspersed with sprightly anecdotes, acute observations, and interesting events.
The hero of the story is a Foundling; whose parents, more humane than the sentimental
Rousseau, did not send him to an hospital and abandon him for ever, but cherished him,
and provided for his happiness by an unremitting superintendance. He commences his
juvenile career, however, under the tuition of a philosophical pedagogue whose system
is founded on that of Rousseau; and poor Frederic (like Emilius) is therefore first condemned to suffer a
variety of experimental caprices for the benefit of his mind, and is at last sent
to
an obscure mechanic to learn a handy-craft employment for the benefit of his body.
The Curé de Mareil, the gentleman in question, is well
described; and, though seemingly a fancy sketch, he is a living picture:

The Curé de Mareil, without being contradictory,
never agreed with any person in opinion; and, as he seldom remained many days in
the same way of thinking, it might be said that in this respect he treated others
as he served himself. His elocution was easy, graceful, and animated by
discussion; and his mind seemed to derive a vigour from it, which abandoned him
when he was given up to his own reflections. As he had the mania of reducing every
thing into system; as there is no system that has not its vulnerable side; and as
the weakness of his character did not permit him to maintain that which he no
longer believed, nor to believe any thing long; he was opinionated without being
obstinate, deducing false inferences without ceasing to reason justly, well
informed without having one idea in connection with another, and always possessing
the power of persuading others, without the faculty of convincing himself.

From the whimsical school of this systematic professor, Frederic is conveyed to
Paris, to be placed in some situation of employment:—but it seems as if he were
destined to be persecuted by philosophers, as St. Anthony was by demons, for he is
no
sooner emancipated from one than he falls into the hands of another.—Mons. de Vignoral, in whose house he was placed as a sort of
clerk, was originally a poor gentleman; who would have
been sent to the plough, had not a great prelate treated him with an education. By
means of this bounty, he made a progress in learning by which he acquired
distinguished reputation: but, having paid his court to placemen without obtain-

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ing any eligible situation, —nothing better being offered to
him than a commission in the army, to which his personal courage was not adequate, —he presumed for better success on the courage of his mind, and
decided on the profession of Philosophy.

Under this gentleman, Frederic’s employment was to transcribe manuscripts,—a
wearisome business for a handsome young man; and he must inevitably have died of ennui, if Mons. de
Vignoral had not had a philosophe coquette for
his wife, the principles of whose system were better adapted to the taste and
disposition of a gay young Frenchman. Madame de V.’s
philosophy consisted in obeying nature, and following her instincts in a school
rather more prejudicial to the pupil’s morals than either of the preceding; and from
which he did not escape uncontaminated. He had, however, still more danger to
encounter from his protectress, Madame de Sponasi, an
atheistical philosopher, with whom he was taken to
live on quitting the situation which he held under Mons. de
Vignoral. Frederic is very properly cautioned by his friend Philip, before he
enters on the task of conciliating this lady’s esteem, de ne
parler jamais de la Divinité.—Our hero at length shakes off his philosophers; and, after having passed through a variety
of rugged and intricate paths, having met with many perplexing adventures, and having
committed as many disgraceful immoralities, he reaches the harbour of virtue: where
we have the pleasure of leaving him, repenting of illicit amours, and fixing vagrant
affections in the bosom of chastity. Adèle, the goddess who reclaims him, is a
charming creature: but the features of her character have too philosophical a
complexion, and are not natural to a very young woman.—The other portraits are
skillfully drawn, and we could with pleasure enlarge on many of them: but our limits
are bounded, and our pens must not play truant.

Though this author introduces his readers to the vicious characters and practices
of
the Crebillon school, he exhibits them in a more chaste
and delicate manner; and the denouement of Madame de
Sponasi’s intrigue, as related by the good Philip, is a sketch which
manifests considerable talents. If the style of the work be not in the first class
of
elegance, it is rarely so reprehensible as not to atone by its wit and sprightliness:
but the writer himself acknowledges, with apparent indifference, that he has
committed ‘some rather aukward faults.’