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She had, like a lute, all the passive powers of music in her, but wanted the mafter's hand to bring them forth.

• She had quitted England very young--before her tender affections had been rendered callous, by the collisions of the world. She had been carried into India, where she continued, till those sentiments had been ripened into principle, and were inspired with all the sublime enthusiasm of eastern morality.

• She seemed to be unhappy. This added a tenderness to my esteem for her.--I guessed, but inquired not her private history, and the communicated nothing.--She would repine, but not resent.-She had no gall to boil over-her overflowings were of the pancreatic juices only.

• From that time we held on a constant and refined intercourse, while the remained in the kingdom, and a friendly correspondence succeeded our parting-to mcet no more-in this world—I prophesy !-She happened to be anorber man's wife too.

• But the charity that had attracted, with the virtue that united us, were not able to screen us from the censures of base minds. Neither her own fair character, nor the memento of my ghostly appearance, were sufficient bars to flander.

The improbability of a malicious story serves but to help forward the currency of it-because it increases the scandal.--So that in such instances, the world, like Romih priests, are industrious to propagate a belief in things they have not the least faith themselves; or, like the pious St. Austin, who said he believed some things, because they were absurd and impoffible,'

We shall not have a disadvantageous opinion of the reader who prefers the first part of this publication to the second, containing essays, sentiments, and characters. These are generally disjointed and hasty. Their merit is very unequal, and though we often catch a gleam of Shandean sentiments and humour, it is not sufficient to guide us through the bogs and quagmires we encounter, nor are the thoughts always original; we are therefore inclined to think that the author threw them together to serve as a kind of nursery from whence he might transplant Shandeisms. The compilation, however, is so incorrect and incoherent, that we are often at a loss for the author's meaning. We shall submit the following criticisins to our learned reader. « Ah! te meæ si partem animæ rapit

Mauturior vis, quid moror altera,
Nec carus æquè, nec superstes
Integer ?

Hor. L. 2. Od. 17,

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* Please to observe here, that Paddy Horace says his friend is part of himself, and that if this same part should be taken away, the remainder-altera-would not be the whole-integer.

• Now if any modern author had written the above paffage, would not the English critics filed it an Hibernicism?

There is another pallage too in this author, which may likewise be carped at, but that it is not certain whether the error is to be imputed to the writer or transcriber--most probably to the latter, because that so small an crratum would set it right.

_“ Quid terros alio calentes Sole mutamus? Patriæ quis exul Se quoque fugit?”

Lib. 2. Od. 16. • Here the sense is deficient in the first fentence-because the commutation is not proposed and the exprellion abounds with a pleonasm in the second.-For exul comprehends patriæ.

• But change this last word into fatria, and join it to the first sentence-let us see how it will stand upon this alteration.

- " Quid terras alio calentes
Sole mutamus patriâ ? Quis exul

Se quoque fugit? • You see that the deficiency is by this means supplied in the first part, and the abundance rescinded in the latter.'

We do not remember ever to have seen in Bentley, or the most outrageous hypercritic, two such bold amendments as the above ; and till Mr. Sterne pointed them out we should have thought those two passages the most unexceptionable of any in the works of Horace. The following is a quotation we neither can answer nor do we understand.

• Ask Doctor Smollet what he means in his Travels by the Genoese, the empress of Rullia, and making heaven account. able for the death of Peter the Third- Joan—and the predestination of her son ??

After what we have said we must be acquitted of any inimi. cality, to use his own word, to the memory of Mr Sterne; but we think that nudities ought not to be exposed merely because they are those of a deceased genius. The editor, it is true, hints that he had suppressed some less allowable pasfages in his friend's legacy, but we must be of opinion that Plura depafcenda Ayle.

IV, Sen

IV. Sentimental Lucubrations. By Peter Pennyless. 8vo. Pr. 25. 6d.

Becket and De Hondt. THIS same lady Sentimentality, of whom we are apt to hear

so much in modern publications, we are sorry to say is but too apt to quarrel with her elder brother Common-lense; and we are afraid our friend Peter Pennyless has a strong bankering to take her part. Peter, however, means well, but is so great an imitator of Tristram Shandy, that his friends must blush for him, because in his endeavours to catch Tristram's manner, his delicate humour is apt to flip thro' his fingers; while Probability, the companion of that same gentleman called Common-sense, entirely forsakes him ;-but let him speak for him. self.

• Stripped of every thing but a tattered remnant of a fine garment,- alhamed of every one and every one ashamed of me, I fed from the place of my nativity ;-as I entered a small village in the west of England, an old man sat by the fide of the way, who had lost a leg and an arm in the service of his country,—he rose up as I approached, and with a look and voice rather philosophical than dejected, begged that I would spare him an halfpenny, to enable him to obtain a place of shelter from the storm which was coming on.

• Adversity, thou noblest instructor of the human heart, he who is incapable of learning at thy school, has a clay.cold heart, and will remain a stubborn and untractable clod, till he tumbles again joto that inanimate mass from which he seems to have been erroneously separated ;-thou had begun to tutor me ;-thou had awakened my reflection ;-it was the first time that ever charity had warmed my heart;~ I put my hand into my pocket ;-it was the first time that I ever had nothing to give.--How unluckily are our abilities and our inclinations contrasted, said I; so I walked away ashamed.--At another time I would have saved this blush, by saying I had no change.

• While I rioted in abundance I had always considered poverty as one of the greatest evils; but having also considered myself as entirely out of its reach, I had rather despised than pitied those who felt it.--Nothing is more natural than to change our sentiments with our condition.— Instead of disdain,-every soft emotion now arose in my breast; and the first, and perhaps the greatest unhappiness I ever felt, was because I had nothing to beltow upon this poor man, whom I reckoned the most wretched of the species, as I concluded that he would inevitably perish for want of a lodging, wbich a few poor halfpennics of all that I had heedlesly thrown away might have purchased for him.

• Self

Self-love was totally absorbed in a stronger passion. If you will not allow, ye critics, that there is any Itronger para sion, you must allow that another one can, at least for some time, thrust it out ;-for I seriously declare, that I never considered all this while that I could not purchase a lodging for myself.

• While I was revoiving in my mind what would become of him, he resumed his feat with an air of the most placid indif. ference, and wrapping himself in a tattered old cloke, -well, -faid he, if I must lie without doors to-night, I have done so in many a colder one,-here he began to hang down his head, his utterance seemed to fail him, and he added, ay, but then I had many a brave fellow to accompany me; whereas here I am like to be exposed alone to an-the rest was so low, that I could not hear it. When it was ended, he raised up his head, looked afhamed, as if he had done something below the dignity of human nature, and tried to resume his serenity.

There is a je ne sçai quoi in the manner in which a speech is delivered, that conveys the sentiments of the speaker more home to the heart, than any form of words. The speech of the old soldier was of this nature ;-it convinced me at once, that poverty and happiness were not incompatible, although nature had for a few moments got the better of his relo. lution.

• I had gone but a little way farther, when I heard a cobler, who was covered with rags in a dirty stall, singing in a manner that shewed me he understood a chearful heart much better than the harmony of founds. Since I see, said I, that other people can enjoy as much felicity in poverty as is consistent with the present state of things, I make no doubt but I shall enjoy as much as my neighbours,

• Nature now began to call aloud for the necessary supplies of existence.— I was stepping into a tavern, but just recollected in the pallage that I had no money.--A smart-looking waiter came up to me :--Sir, said he, what room would you choose to walk into? I had better walk out, thought I, so stepped toward the door.-I hope you are not affronted, Sir, continued he, pray be kind enough but to look at them ; I assure you there are not better rooms, nor beiter accommodation to be met with any where in town.

• The transition of the mind is far from being so quick as that of the circumstances - I had been too newly initiated into poverty to have become able to beg my lodging.-I will go back, faid I, and lodge by the way side with the old soldier ; we seem to be of similar tempers, and if we cannot make a hearty meal and a warm bed together, I am persuaded we

thall

Thall at least allist each other to laugh at the instability of fortune.

I walked back in a pensive and melancholy manner ; for I am no stoic, and have all the feclings of humanity about me, though the natural gaiety of my heart is such that I can never be depressed above a few hours together by the most untoward accident.-The old soldier arose when I drew near him ; -I laughed, because I expected he would accost me for ano. ther halfpenny.--Sir, said lie, I have been thinking of you ever since you passed this way ; your behaviour then, and your returning now convince me, that your mind is not at ease.I am much mistaken if you have not seen better days ;poverty puts it out of my power to aflist you with any thing but advice, but even that may perhaps be of some service to you, as I have some little experience of the world.

• I sat down silent by his side, and after staring a little at each other, It is the first time, said I, that I ever begged in my life; but must now beg to lodge with you here all night. I will not grant your requeit, said he, but we will go together to a little cottage hard by. Since you passed I have luckily received a shilling from an old colonel, under whom I served in Germany; it will procure 11s all that is necessary to nature, and we will enjoy all that it can procure.

• So saying, he laid his hand upon my shoulder, so we rose up, and jogged on towards the cot. On our way, I told him all that had happened to me.-He advised me to return to my friends, who would certainly do something for me: adding, that if I Mould throw myself friendless and unknown upon the world, the world would use me in a cold and friendless manner. I will never return to them, said l; they are the people I want most to avoid ; as they have long been tired with admonishing me in vain, a consciousness of my guilt would put it out of my power to appear before them.--I had just finished this sentence when we arrived at a little straw-built hut, into which we entered, and a simple repast was soon prepared for us. I sat down to the homely morsel with much more relish than ever I had done to the most luxurious feast, and ate with a much better appetite.

- When we had finished our meal, and, as I expected, our money likewise, my meslmate, looking cheerily over the table, told me, that the one half of our stock only was spent, and that with the other we might have a couple of bottles of strong beer. – Though this was a liquor I had never been accustomed to spend my evenings with, I agreed to the motion.--It was brougbt, – and was good.”

We

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