give me the nography......[Call it ichnography, quoth my uncle]......of the town or citadel your Honour was pleased to sit down before, and I will be shot by your Honour upon the glacis of it, if I do not fortify it to your Honour's mind......I dare say thou would'st, Trim, quoth my uncle..............For if your Honour, continued the Corporal, could but mark me the polygon, with its exact lines and angles...... That I could do very well, quoth my uncle......I would begin with the fosse, and if your Honour could tell me the proper depth and breadth.............. I can to a hair's breadth, Trim, replied my uncle......I would throw out the earth upon this hand towards the town for the scarp,-and on that hand towards the campaign for the counter scarp........ Very right, Trim, quoth my uncle Toby......And when I had sloped them to your mind, an' please your Honour, I would face the glacis, as the finest fortifications are done in Flanders, with sods,—and as your Honour knows they should be, -and I would make the walls and parapets with sods too......The best engineers call them gazons, Trim, said my uncle Toby...... Whether they are gazons or sods, is not much matter, replied Trim; your Honour knows they are ten times beyond a facing either of brick or stone......I know they are, Trim, in some respects,quoth my uncle Toby, nodding his head;-for a cannon ball enters into the gazon right onwards, without bringing any rubbish down with it, which might fill the fosse (as was the case at St Nicholas's Gate) and facilitate the passage over it.

Your Honour understands these matters, replied Corporal Trim, better than any officer in his Majesty's service :

-but would your Honour please to let the bespeaking of the table alone, and let us but go into the country, I would work, under your Honour's directions, like a horse, and make fortifications for you something like a tansy, with all their batteries, saps, ditches, and palisadoes, that it should be worth all the world's riding twenty miles to go and see it.

My uncle Toby blushed as red as scarlet, as Trim went on ;- -but it was not a blush of guilt,-of modesty, or of anger ;- -it was a blush of joy ;- -he was fired with Corporal Trim's project and description...... Trim! said my uncle Toby, thou hast said enough...... We might begin the campaign, continued Trim, on the very day that his Majesty and the Allies take the field, and demolish 'em, town for town, as fast as...... ..Trim, quoth my uncle Toby, say no more.........Your Honour, continued Trim, might sit in your arm-chair (pointing to it) this fine weather, giving me your orders, and I would......Say no more, Trim, quoth my uncle Toby.........Besides, your Honour would get not only pleasure and good pastime, but good air, and good exercise, and good health, and your Honour's wound would be well in a month......Thou hast said enough, Trim, quoth my uncle Toby (putting his hand into his breeches-pocket)—I like thy project mightily. ......... And, if your Honour pleases, I'll this moment go and buy a pioneer's spade to take down with us, and I'll bespeak a shovel and a pick-axe, and a couple of ..... Say no more, Trim, quoth my uncle Toby, leaping up upon one leg, quite overcome with rapture,-and thrusting a guinea into Trim's hand...... Trim, said my uncle Toby, say no more;-but go down, Trim, this moment, my lad, and bring up my supper this instant. Trim ran down and brought up his master's supper,to no purpose, Trim's plan of operation ran so much

My uncle Toby had a neat little country house of his own, in the village where my father's estate lay at Shandy, which had been left him by an old uncle, with a small estate of about one hundred pounds a year. Behind this house, and contiguous to it, was a kitchen garden of about half an acre;—and at the bottom of the garden, and cut off from it by a tall yew-hedge, was a bowling-green containing just about as much ground as Corporal Trim wished for so that as Trim uttered the words, A rood and a half of ground to do what they would with'-this identical bowling-green instantly presented itself, and became curiously painted, all at once, upon the retina of my uncle Toby's fancy;— which was the physical cause of making him change colour, or, at least, of heightening his blush to that immoderate degree I spoke of.

Never did lover post down to a beloved mistress with more heat and expectation than my uncle Toby did to enjoy this self-same thing in private.........I say private

.for it was sheltered from the house, as I told you, by a tall yew-hedge, and was covered on the other three sides from mortal sight, by rough holly, and thickset flowering shrubs. .........so that the idea of not being seen did not a little contribute to the idea of pleasure preconceived in my uncle Toby's mind...... Vain thought! however thick it was planted about,- -or private soever it might seem,-to think, dear uncle Toby, of enjoying a thing which took up a whole rood and a half of ground, and not have it known.

How my uncle Toby and Corporal Trim managed this matter, with the history of their campaigns, which were no way barren of events,-may make no uninterest ing under-plot in the epitasis and working up of this drama..... At present the scene must drop,-and change for the parlour fire-side.

(From Tristram Shandy, ii. 5-)

Mr Shandy on his Son's Death. -And a chapter it shall have, and a devil of a one too ;-so look to yourselves.

'Tis either Plato, or Plutarch, or Seneca, or Xenophon, or Epictetus, or Theophrastus, or Lucian,-or some one, perhaps, of later date, either Cardan or Budæus, or Petrarch, or Stella,-or, possibly, it may be some divine or father of the church; St Austin, or St Cyprian, or Barnard-who affirms that it is an irresistible and natural passion to weep for the loss of our friends or children:and Seneca (I'm positive) tells us somewhere that such griefs evacuate themselves best by that particular channel: and, accordingly, we find that David wept for his son Absalom, Adrian for his Antinöus, Niobe for her chil dren, and that Apollodorus and Crito both shed tears for Socrates before his death.

My father managed his affliction otherwise; and indeed differently from most men, either ancient or modern; for he neither wept it away, as the Hebrews and the Romans, nor slept it off, as the Laplanders,-nor

hanged it, as the English,- -nor drowned it, as the Germans ;-nor did he curse, nor damn it, nor excommunicate it, nor rhyme it, nor lillibullero it.

-He got rid of it, however.

Will your Worships give me leave to squeeze in a story between these two pages?

When Tully was bereft of his dear daughter Tullia, at first he laid it to his heart, he listened to the voice of nature, and modulated his own unto it.-O, my Tullia -my daughter! my child!-Still, still, still,—it was, O, my Tullia!--my Tullia! Methinks I see my Tullia, I hear my Tullia, I talk with my Tullia.-But as soon as he began to look into the stores of philosophy, and consider how many excellent things might be said upon the occasion,-nobody upon earth can conceive, says the great orator, how happy, how joyful it made

me.

My father was as proud of his eloquence as Marcus Tullius Cicero could be, for his life, and, for aught I am convinced of to the contrary, at present, with as much reason: it was, indeed, his strength,-and his weakness too. His strength, for he was by nature eloquent; and his weakness, for he was hourly a dupe to it; and, provided an occasion in life would but permit him to show his talents, or say either a wise thing, a witty, or a shrewd one--(bating the case of a systematic misfortune)--he had all he wanted.-A blessing which tied up my father's tongue, and a misfortune which set it loose with a good grace, were pretty equal: sometimes, indeed, the misfortune was the better of the two; for instance, where the pleasure of the harangue was as ten, and the pain of the misfortune but as five,-my father gained half in half; and consequently was as well again off as if it had never befallen him.

:

This clue will unravel what otherwise would seem very inconsistent in my father's domestic character :and it is this, that in the provocations arising from the neglects and blunders of servants, or other mishaps, unavoidable in a family, his anger, or rather the duration of it, eternally ran counter to all conjecture.

My father had a favourite little mare, which he had consigned over to a most beautiful Arabian horse, in order to have a pad out of her for his own riding. He was sanguine in all his projects; so talked about his pad every day with as absolute a security as if it had been reared, broke-and bridled and saddled at his door ready for mounting. By some neglect or other in Obadiah, it so fell out that my father's expectations were answered with nothing better than a mule, and as ugly a beast of the kind as ever was produced.

My mother and my uncle Toby expected my father would be the death of Obadiah, and that there never would be an end of the disaster. -See here! you rascal, cried my father, pointing to the mule, what you have done!.....It was not I, said Obadiah...... How do I know that? replied my father.

Triumph swam in my father's eyes, at the repartee,— the Attic salt brought water into them ;-and so Obadiah heard no more about it.

Now let us go back to my brother's death.

Philosophy has a fine saying for everything. -For Death, it has an entire set: the misery was they all at once rushed so into my father's head that 'twas difficult to string them together, so as to make anything of a consistent show out of them,-He took them as they

came.

"Tis an inevitable chance, the first statute in Magna Charta ;-it is an everlasting act of parliament, my dear brother,-All must die.

'If my son could not have died, it had been matter of wonder, not that he is dead.

Monarchs and princes dance in the same ring with us. 'To die is the great debt and tribute due unto nature : tombs and monuments, which should perpetuate our memories, pay it themselves; and the proudest pyramid of them all, which Wealth and Science have erected, has lost its apex, and stands obtruncated in the traveller's horizon.'--(My father found he got great ease, and went on.)-Kingdoms and provinces, and towns and cities, have they not their periods? and when those principles and powers which at first cemented and put them together have performed their several evolutions, they fall back '.............. Brother Shandy, said my uncle Toby, laying down his pipe at the word evolutions......Revolutions, I meant, quoth my father-by Heaven! I meant revolutions, brother Toby ;-evolutions is nonsense...... 'Tis not nonsense, said my uncle Toby...... But is it not nonsense to break the thread of such a discourse upon such an occasion? cried my father;-do not, dear Toby, continued he, taking him by the hand, do not— do not, I beseech thee, interrupt me at this crisis.— -My uncle Toby put his pipe into his mouth.

'Where is Troy and Mycenae, and Thebes and Delos, Persepolis and Agrigentum?' continued my father, taking up his book of post-roads, which he had laid down. What is become, brother Toby, of Nineveh and Babylon, of Cizycum and Mitylena? the fairest towns that ever the sun rose upon are now no more; the names only are left; and those (for many of them are wrong spelt) are falling themselves by piece-meal to decay, and in length of time will be forgotten, and involved with everything in a perpetual night. The world itself, brother Toby, must-must come to an end.

'Returning out of Asia, when I sailed from Ægina towards Megara,' (when can this have been, thought my uncle Toby,) 'I began to view the country round about. -Ægina was behind me, Megara was before, Pyræus on the right hand, Corinth on the left.-What flourishing towns, now prostrate upon the earth! Alas! alas! said I to myself, that man should disturb his soul for the loss of a child, when so much as this lies awfully buried in his presence!-Remember, said I to myself again,— remember thou art a man.'

:

Now, my uncle Toby knew not that this last paragraph was an extract of Servius Sulpicius's consolatory letter to Tully-he had as little skill, honest man, in the fragments as he had in the whole pieces of antiquity :and as my father, whilst he was concerned in the Turkey trade, had been three or four different times in the Levant, in one of which he had stayed a whole year and a half at Zant, my uncle Toby naturally concluded that, in some one of these periods, he had taken a trip across the Archipelago into Asia; and that all this sailing affair, with Egina behind, and Megara before, and Pyræus on the right hand, &c., was nothing more than the true course of my father's voyage and reflections.-'Twas certainly in his manner;-and many an undertaking critic would have built two stories higher upon worse foundations. -And pray, brother, quoth my uncle Toby, laying the end of his pipe upon my father's hand, in a kindly way of interruption-but waiting till he finished the account,-What year of our Lord was

this? 'Twas no year of our Lord, replied my father...... That's impossible, cried my uncle Toby......Simpleton ! said my father, 'twas forty years before Christ was born. My uncle Toby had but two things for it; either to suppose his brother to be the Wandering Jew,—or that his misfortunes had disordered his brain.- May the Lord God of heaven and earth protect him and restore him,' said my uncle Toby, praying silently for my father, and with tears in his eyes.

My father placed the tears to a proper account, and went on with his harangue with great spirit.

There is not such great odds, brother Toby, betwixt good and evil, as the world imagines.' (This way of setting off, by the bye, was not likely to cure my uncle Toby's suspicions.) Labour, sorrow, grief, sickness, want, and woe, are the sauces of life.......Much good may it do them,-said my uncle Toby to himself.

My son is dead!'--so much the better;—'tis a shame, in such a tempest, to have but one anchor.

'But he is gone for ever from us! be it so.— - He is got from under the hands of his barber before he was bald; he is but risen from a feast before he was surfeited;-from a banquet before he had got drunken.

'The Thracians wept when a child was born,'. (And we were very near it, quoth my uncle Toby)...... 'and feasted and made merry when a man went out of the world; and with reason-Death opens the gate of fame, and shuts the gate of Envy after it ;-it unlooses the chain of the captive,-and puts the bondsman's task into another man's hands.

'Shew me the man, who knows what life is, who dreads it, and I'll show thee a prisoner who dreads his liberty.'

Is it not better, my dear brother Toby-(for mark— our appetites are but diseases)-is it not better not to hunger at all, than to eat?- -not to thirst, than to take physic to cure it?

Is it not better to be freed from cares and agues,from love and melancholy, -and the other hot and cold fits of life, than, like a galled traveller who comes weary to his inn, to be bound to begin his journey afresh?

There is no terror, brother Toby, in its looks but what it borrows from groans and convulsions--and the blowing of noses and the wiping away of tears with the bottoms of curtains in a dying man's room.-Strip it of these,-What is it?......'Tis better in battle than in bed, said my uncle Toby.-Take away its hearses, its mutes, and its mourning, its plumes, escutcheons, and other mechanic aids-What is it?......Better in battle? continued my father, smiling; for he had absolutely forgot my brother Bobby-it is terrible no way-for consider, brother Toby,-when we are death is not ;——and when death is-we are not. -My uncle Toby laid down his pipe, to consider the proposition; my father's eloquence was too rapid to stay for any man ;-away it went and hurried my uncle Toby's ideas along with

it.

For this reason, continued my father, 'tis worthy to recollect how little alteration, in great men, the approaches of death have made-Vespasian died in a jest upon his close-stool-Galba with a sentence ;Septimus Severus in a despatch ;-Tiberius in dissimulation; and Cæsar Augustus in a compliment......I hope 'twas a sincere one,-quoth my uncle Toby-'Twas to his wife,―said my father.

(From Tristram Shandy, v. 7.)

The Kitchen Sorrowing.

-My young master in London is dead! said Obadiah. of my mother's, which

-A green satin night-gown had been twice scoured, was the first idea which Obadiah's exclamation brought into Susannah's head.———— Well might Locke write a chapter upon the imperfections of words. -Then, quoth Susannah, we must all go into mourning.But note a second time: the word mourning, notwithstanding Susannah made use of it herself— failed also of doing its office; it excited not one single idea, tinged either with grey or black,-all was green. The green satin night-gown hung there still.

-Oh! 'twill be the death of my poor mistress, cried Susannah. My mother's whole wardrobe followed.— What a procession! her red damask,—her orange-tawny, --her white and yellow lute-strings,-her brown taffeta, -her bone-laced caps, her bed-gowns, and comfortable under-petticoats- -Not a rag was left behind.‘No -she will never look up again!' said Susannah.

We had a fat foolish scullion;-my father, I think, kept her for her simplicity;-she had been all autumn struggling with a dropsy.- -He is dead! said Obadiah; -he is certainly dead!......So am not I, said the foolish scullion.

Here is sad news, Trim! cried Susannah, wiping her eyes as Trim stepped into the kitchen,-master Bobby is dead and buried-the funeral was an interpolation of Susannah's-we shall have all to go into mourning, said Susannah.

I hope not, said Trim......You hope not! cried Susannah, earnestly.- -The mourning ran not in Trim's head, whatever it did in Susannah's....I hope,-said Trim, explaining himself, I hope in God the news is not true....I heard the letter read with my own ears, answered Obadiah; and we shall have a terrible piece of work of it in stubbing the Ox-moor....Oh! he's dead, said Susannah....As sure, said the scullion, as I'm alive. I lament for him from my heart and my soul, said Trim, fetching a sigh.-Poor creature!-poor boy!— poor gentleman!

He was alive last Whitsuntide! said the coachman...... Whitsuntide !-alas! cried Trim, extending his right arm, and falling instantly into the same attitude in which he read the sermon,-what is Whitsuntide, Jonathan (for that was the coachman's name), or Shrovetide, or any tide or time past, to this! Are we not here now, continued the Corporal (striking the end of his stick perpendicularly upon the floor, so as to give an idea of health and stability);—and are we not-(dropping his hat on the ground) gone! in a moment !— 'Twas infinitely striking-Susannah burst into a flood of tears. We are not stocks and stones.—Jonathan, Obadiah, the cook-maid, all melted.-The foolish fat scullion herself, who was scouring a fish-kettle upon her knees, was roused with it.-The whole kitchen crowded about the Corporal.

Now, as I perceive plainly that the preservation of our constitution in church and state, and, possibly, the preservation of the whole world,-or, what is the same thing, the distribution and balance of its property and power, may in time to come depend greatly upon the right understanding of this stroke of the Corporal's eloquence,-I do demand your attention:-your Wor ships and Reverences, for any ten pages together, take

them where you will in any other part of the work, shall sleep for it at your ease.

I said, 'We are not stocks and stones :'-'tis very well. I should have added, nor are we angels,-I wish we were ;-but men clothed with bodies, and governed by our imaginations:--and what a junketing piece of work of it there is betwixt these and our seven senses, especially some of them; for my own part, I own it, I am ashamed to confess. Let it suffice to affirm that, of all the senses, the eye (for I absolutely deny the touch, tho' most of your Barbati, I know, are for it) has the quickest commerce with the soul,-gives a smarter stroke, and leaves something more inexpressible upon the fancy than words can either convey-or sometimes get rid of.

-I've gone a little about ;-no matter, 'tis for health, —let us only carry it back in our mind, to the mortality of Trim's hat-Are we not here now, and gone in a moment?'-There was nothing in the sentence ;'twas one of your self-evident truths we have the advantage of hearing every day; and if Trim had not trusted more to his hat than his head, he had made nothing at all of it.

- Are we not here now,' continued the Corporal, and are we not '-dropping his hat plump upon the ground, and pausing, before he pronounced the word -gone! in a moment?' The descent of the hat was as if a a heavy lump of clay had been kneaded into the crown of it. Nothing could have expressed the sentiment of mortality, of which it was the type and forerunner, like it ;-his hand seemed to vanish from under it ;-it fell dead; the Corporal's eye fixed upon it as upon a corpse ;-and Susannah burst into a flood of tears.

Now, ten thousand, and ten thousand times ten thousand (for matter and motion are infinite) are the ways by which a hat may be dropped upon the ground without any effect.-Had he flung it, or thrown it, or cast it, or skimmed it, or squirted it, or let it slip or fall in any possible direction under Heaven,- -or in the best direction that could be given to it :-had he dropped it like a goose,- like a puppy,-like an ass, or in doing it, or even after he had done it, had he looked like a fool,-like a ninny,--like a nincompoop,-it had failed, and the effect upon the heart had been lost.

Ye who govern this mighty world and its mighty concerns with the engines of eloquence ;-who heat it, and cool it, and melt it, and mollify it,-and then harden it again to your purpose ;

Ye who wind and turn the passions with this great windlass; and having done it, lead the owners of them whither ye think meet ;

Ye, lastly, who drive- ; and why not? Ye also who are driven, like turkeys to market, with a stick and a red clout, meditate,-meditate, I beseech you, upon Trim's hat. (From Tristram Shandy, v. 7.)

The Starling. Eugenius, knowing that I was as little subject to be overburthened with money as thought, had drawn me aside to interrogate me how much I had taken care for? Upon telling him the exact sum, Eugenius shook his head and said it would not do; so pulled out his purse, in order to empty it into mine......I 've enough, in conscience, Eugenius, said I......Indeed Yorick, you have not, replied Eugenius; I know France and Italy better than you... ......But you don't consider, Eugenius, said I, refusing his offer, that before I have been three days in

Paris, I shall take care to say or do something or other for which I shall get clapped up into the Bastile, and that I shall live there a couple of months entirely at the King of France's expense......I beg pardon, said Eugenius, drily; really, I had forgot that resource.

Now the event I had treated gaily came seriously to my door.

Is it folly, or nonchalance, or philosophy, or pertinacity; or what is it in me, that after all, when La Fleur had gone down stairs, and I was quite alone, I could not bring down my mind to think of it otherwise than I had then spoken of it to Eugenius?

-And as for the Bastile-the terror is in the word.— Make the most of it you can, said I to myself, the Bastile is but another word for a tower ;-and a tower is but another word for a house you can't get out of.Mercy on the gouty! for they are in it twice a year.— But with nine livres a day, and pen and ink and paper and patience, albeit a man can't get out, he may do very well within, -at least for a month or six weeks; at the end of which, if he is a harmless fellow, his innocence appears, and he comes out a better and wiser man than he went in.

I had some occasion (I forget what) to step into the court-yard, as I settled this account; and remember I walked down stairs in no small triumph with the conceit of my reasoning.Beshrew the sombre pencil! said I, vauntingly-for I envy not its power, which paints the evils of life with so hard and deadly a colouring. The mind sits terrified at the objects she has magnified herself, and blackened; reduce them to their proper size and hue, she overlooks them.'Tis true, said I, correcting the proposition-the Bastile is not an evil to be despised.-But strip it of its towers-fill up the foss-unbarricade the doors-call it simply a confinement, and suppose 'tis some tyrant of a distemper-and not of a man, which holds you in it-the evil vanishes, and you bear the other half without complaint.

I was interrupted in the hey-day of this soliloquy, with a voice which I took to be of a child, which complained it could not get out.'-I look'd up and down the passage, and, seeing neither man, woman, nor child, I went out without further attention.

In my return back through the passage, I heard the same words repeated twice over; and, looking up, I saw it was a starling hung in a little cage.-' I can't get out I can't get out,' said the starling.

I stood looking at the bird; and to every person who came through the passage, it ran fluttering to the side towards which they approached it, with the same lamentation of its captivity,-'I can't get out,' said the starling.

-God help thee! said I,-but I'll let thee out, cost what it will; so I turned about the cage to get the door: it was twisted and double twisted so fast with wire there was no getting it open without pulling the cage to pieces. -I took both hands to it.

The bird flew to the place where I was attempting his deliverance, and, thrusting his head through the trellis, pressed his breast against it, as if impatient. -I fear, poor creature, said I, I cannot set thee at liberty.—' No,' • said the starling; 'I can't get out—I can't get out.'

I vow I never had any affections more tenderly awakened; nor do I remember an incident in my life where the dissipated spirits, to which my reason had been a bubble, were so suddenly call'd home. Mechanical as the notes were, yet so true in tune to nature were they

chanted, that in one moment they overthrew all my systematic reasonings upon the Bastile; and I heavily walked up stairs, unsaying every word I had said in going down them.

Disguise thyself as thou wilt, still, Slavery, said I, still thou art a bitter draught! and, though thousands in all ages have been made to drink of thee, thou art no less bitter on that account.-'Tis thou, thrice sweet and gracious goddess, addressing myself to Liberty, whom all, in public or in private, worship, whose taste is grateful, and ever will be so, till Nature herself shall change. No tint of words can spot thy snowy mantle, nor chymic power turn thy sceptre into iron;-with thee, to smile upon him as he eats his crust, the swain is happier than his monarch, from whose Court thou art exiled.-Gracious Heaven! cried I, kneeling down upon the last step but one in my ascent, grant me but health, thou great Bestower of it, and give me but this fair goddess as my companion,-and shower down thy mitres, if it seem good unto thy Divine Providence, upon those heads which are aching for them!

I sat

The bird in his cage pursued me into my room. down close by my table, and, leaning my head upon my hand, I began to figure to myself the miseries of confinement. I was in a right frame for it, and so I gave full scope to my imagination.

I was going to begin with the millions of my fellowcreatures born to no inheritance but slavery: but finding, however affecting the picture was, that I could not bring it near me, and that the multitude of sad groups in it did but distract me,

--I took a single captive; and, having first, shut him up in his dungeon, I then looked through the twilight of his grated door to take his picture.

I beheld his body half wasted away with long expectation and confinement, and felt what kind of sickness of the heart it was which arises from hope deferred. Upon looking nearer, I saw him pale and feverish; in thirty years the western breeze had not once fanned his blood; -he had seen no sun, no moon, in all that time;-nor had the voice of friend or kinsman breathed through his lattice-His children!

But here my heart began to bleed; and I was forced to go on with another part of the portrait.

He was sitting upon the ground upon a little straw, in the furthest corner of his dungeon, which was alternately his chair and bed: a little calender of small sticks was laid at the head, notched all over with the dismal days and nights he had passed there :-he had one of these little sticks in his hand, and, with a rusty nail, he was etching another day of misery to add to the heap. As I darkened the little light he had, he lifted up a hopeless eye towards the door, then cast it down,-shook his head, and went on with his work of affliction. heard his chains upon his legs, as he turned his body to lay his little stick upon the bundle. He gave a deep sigh. I saw the iron enter into his soul!-I burst into -I could not sustain the picture of confinement which my fancy had drawn.

tears.

(From A Sentimental Journey.)

I

There is an edition of Sterne's works by the present writer (with the letters and sermons, 6 vols 1894); of Tristram Shandy, by Messrs Henley and Whibley (1894); and of Tristram Shandy and the Sentimental Journey, in Macmillan's Library of English Classics (1900). For the biography consult Ferriar's Illustrations of Sterne (1812), Percy Fitzgerald's Life of Sterne (new ed. 1896), H. D. Traill's monograph in the English Men of Letters Series (1882),

the French Life by Paul Slapfer (1881), Scherer's Essay (trans 1891), and Mr Sidney Lee's article in the Dictionary of National Biography. It ought, perhaps, to be said that this last adds very largely, from sources mostly unpublished and sometimes accessible with great difficulty, to our previous information. The particulars however, though sometimes interesting, are in no single instarce great importance; and in a good many cases probably represe merely the gossip to which, unluckily, Sterne seems to have give. more than sufficient handles. But on the whole they may be sa materially to confirm and enliven, without in any way altering, de portrait of the author of Tristram Shandy that we derive from s own books and his long-known letters.

GEORGE SAINTSBURY, James Townley (1714-78) was author of High Life below Stairs, a burlesque on the extravagance and affectation of servants in aping the manners of their masters, ultimately detected by the master in disguise. The play was said actually to have had some effect in correcting this abuse; at all events it provoked organised and violent protest from all the liveried servants in the gallery when it was produced in the Edinburgh theatre. Townley, son of a wealthy London merchant and brother of Sir Charles Townley, Garter King of Arms, was born at Barking and bred at St John's, Cambridge. From 1760 he was head-master of Merchant Taylors' School, and latterly he also held clerical preferments. Other two farces of his were failures. But it was said that from one of them came much of a piece produced by Garrick and Colman, and that many of the best things by Garrick, Townley's intimate, benefited greatly by Townley's suggestion and revision.

John Hawkesworth (c. 1715-73), born in London, in 1744 succeeded Dr Johnson on the Gentleman's Magazine; and in 1752 started, with Johnson and others, The Adventurer, half of whose 140 numbers were from Hawkesworth's pen, and show a not wholly unsuccessful imitation of the Johnsonian manner. Hawkesworth, who became LL.D., published a volume of fairy tales (1761, edited Swift, and prepared the account of Captain Cook's first voyage, which formed vols. ii. and iii. of Hawkesworth's Voyages (3 vols. 1773).

Charles Johnstone (c. 1719-1800) amused the town in 1760-65 by the clever contemporary satire of his Chrysal, or the Adventures of a Guinea. Born of Annandale ancestry in County Limerick, Johnstone studied at Dublin, and was debarred by deafness from success as a lawyer. He went to India in 1782, was a proprietor of one of the Bengal newspapers, and died at Calcutta. Several other novels from his pen are now even more completely forgotten than Chrysal. Dr Johnson-to whom the manuscript was shown by the bookseller-advised the publication of Chrysal, whose author, Sir Walter Scott afterwards said, might safely be ranked as a prose Juvenal. The adventures are related somewhat in the style of Le Sage and of Smollett, but the satirical portraits are overcharged; the author exaggerated the vices of his age and of its public men, and his book was not altogether unjustly called the best scandalous chronicle of the day.