us by nature, and in which every wise man would wish to live.

Sermon xv.

THE TRANSLATION

Paris.

There was nobody in the box I was let into but a kindly old French officer. I love the character, not only because I honour the man whose manners are softened by a profession which makes bad men worse; but that I once knew one-for he is no more-and why should I not rescue one page from violation by writing his name in it, and telling the world it was Captain Tobias Shandy, the dearest of my flock and friends, whose philanthropy I never think of at this long distance from his death-but my eyes gush out with tears. For his sake, I have a predilection for the whole corps of veterans; and so I strode over the two back rows of benches, and placed myself beside him.

The officer was reading attentively a sınall pamphlet-it might be the book of the opera-with a large pair of spectacles. As soon as I sat down, he took his spectacles off, and, putting them into a shagreen case, returned them and the book into his pocket together. I half rose up, and made him a bow.

Translate this into any civilized language in the world-the sense is this:

"Here's a poor stranger come into the box-he seems as if he knew nobody; and is never likely, were he to be seven years in Paris, if every man he comes near keeps his spectacles upon his nose-'tis shutting the door of conversation absolutely in his face and using him worse than a German."

The French officer might as well have said it all aloud; and, if he had, I should in course have put the bow I made him into French too, and told him, "I was sensible of his attention, and returned him a thousand thanks for it."

There is not a secret so aiding to the progress of sociality, as to get master of this short hand, and be quick in rendering the several turns of looks and limbs, with all their inflections and delineations, into plain words. For my own part, by long habitude, I do it so mechanically, that, when I walk the streets of London, I go translating all the way; and have more than once stood behind in the circle, where not three words have been said, and have brought off twenty different dialogues with me, which I could fairly have wrote down and sworn to.

I was going one evening to Martini's concert at Milan, and was just entering the door of the hall, when the marquisina di E*** was coming out in a sort of a hurry— she was almost upon me before I saw her; so I gave a spring to one side to let her pass-She had done the same, and on the same side too.: so we ran our heads together: she instantly got to the other side to get out; I was just as unfortunate as she had been; for I had sprung to that side, and opposed her passage again-We both flew together to the other side, and then back-and so on-it was ridiculous; we both blushed intolerably; so I did at last the thing I should have done at first

I stood stock still, and the marquisina had no more difficulty. I had no power to go into the room, till I had made her so much reparation as to wait and follow her with my eye to the end of the passage-She looked back twice, and walked along it rather sideways, as if she would make room for any one coming up stairs to pass herNo, said I-that's a vile translation: the marquisina has a right to the best apology I can make her; and that opening is left for me to do it in-so I ran and begged pardon for the embarrassment I had given her, saying it was my intention to have made

her way.

She answered, she was guided by the same intention towards me-so we reciprocally thanked each other. She was at the top of the stairs; and, seeing no chichesbée near her, I begged to hand her to her coach-so we went down the stairs, stopping at every third step to talk of the concert and of the adventure.- -Upon my word, madame, said I, when I had handed her in, I made six different efforts to let you go out And I made six efforts, replied she, to let you enter-I wish to Heaven you would make a seventh, said I-With all my heart, said she, making room-Life is too short to be long about the forms of it -so I instantly stepped in, and she carried me home with her-And what became of the concert, St. Cecilia, who, I suppose, was at it, knows more than I.

I will only add, that the connexion which arose out of the translation, gave me more pleasure than any one I had the honour to make in Italy. Sentimental Journey.

ENMITY.

There is no small degree of malicious craft in fixing upon a season to give a mark of enmity and ill-will; a word-a look, which at one time would make no impression-at another me wounds the heart;

and, like a shaft flying with the wind, pierces deep, which, with its own natural force, would scarce have reached the object aimed at. Sermon xvi.

SHAME AND DISGRACE.

They, who have considered our nature, affirm, that shame and disgrace are two of the most insupportable evils of human life: the courage and spirits of many have mastered other misfortunes, and borne themselves up against them; but the wisest and best of souls have not been a match for these; and we have many a tragical instance on record, what greater evils have been run into, merely to avoid this one.

Without this tax of infamy, poverty, with all the burdens it lays upon our flesh-so long as it is virtuous, could never break the spirits of a man; all its hunger, and pain, and nakedness, are nothing to it: they have some counterpoise of good; and, besides, they are directed by Providence, and must be submitted to: but those are afflictions not from the hand of God or nature"for they do come forth of the DUST, and most properly may be said to spring out of the GROUND, and this is the reason they lay such stress upon our patience, and in the end create such a distrust of the world,