1831.] Sterne and the Duke of Wharton : u Dramatic Scene. 363 



Wharton. Nay, an' thou wilt affect the cloister, I must suppose thee 

 entering a nunnery, disguised as one of the sisters, and the third evening's 

 moon lighting thy precipitate retreat through one of the narrow win- 

 dows, accompanied by a veiled virgin : thou mightst take her to the 

 ** sweet south," enshrine her image in thy voluptuous fancy, and fall 

 down and worship her — quarrel with her in a week, and in one month 

 forget the whole occurrence. 



Slerne. I allow, Eugenius, that I am as fickle as tliine own weather- 

 cock ; yet trust me, were I elevated for its purposes, I would never 

 point from the pestilent north-east, for thy sake ! 



Wharton. My own weathercock ! — an apt analogy, to witness to the 

 truth of which I might call thine own Eliza. 



Sterne. Yet how cheerfully could I refer thee to her for an irrefraga- 

 ble declaration of my affection and constancy ! 



Wharton. Forgive the sally, and most sincerely will I make amends, 

 by contending that thou art a true poet ; yea, and I defy all the critics 

 and half-wits who weekly chatter about thy genius, to disprove the 

 assertion. I would choose as arbiter of the question, not a systematic 

 and icy reviewer, but one of Nature's own manufacture, with a heart 

 like Rousseau's, and let him peruse thy letters to Eliza ; one of which 

 commences — " Yes, I will steal from the world, to a retreat so remote 

 and tranquil that Echo shall not whisper of it. Suffer thy imagination 

 to paint it as a little sun-gilt cottage on the side of a romantic hill, with 

 woodbined windows and straw-roof, where the birds might revel in the 

 brightness of morning. But, thinkest thou I will leave love out of the 

 question ? — No, Eliza shall go with me !" Now there is more real 

 poetry in that single passage than a hundred of the pigmy productions 

 which appear in the hobbling reviews and sleepy miscellanies of the 

 day. 



Sterne. So thou hast elected me a critic with " a heart like Rous- 

 seau's }" — Now mad-cap fortune defend me from the censorship of such 

 a visionary ! and give me rather Voltaire. 



Wharton. Voltaire ? ha, ha ! — I laugh to think what unsparing havoc 

 his pen would make of thy romantic sensibility, Yorick. Only to ima- 

 gine his withered and wicked-looking phiz poring over thy " Senti- 

 mental Journey" — the bare mention of it is provocative of laughter. 

 Were he, however, to turn over the leaves of thy " Tristram Shandy," 

 he would relax into sympathy : and, further, were he to meet thee on 

 thy bony steed, [vide the Parson's description of himself) like Death on 

 the Pale Horse, he would instantly recognise thee as of the fraternity 

 of skinny wits, and thrusting forth his anatomy-like fingers, give thee a 

 hearty shake of the hancL 



Sterne. Speak somewhat more reverently of my bony steed, as thou 

 art facetiously pleased to call him, though thou rail at me ; for there 

 existeth not his counterpart in all the neighbourhood, famous, too, for 

 horses. Had Cervantes beheld him before writing " Don Quixote," 

 then Rosinante had never been ; for he would have immortalized the 

 parson's hack instead of the knight-errant's. But, by Jupiter ! though 

 it may furnish Eugenius with mirth, I am wofuUy taxed, both in pocket 

 and patience, by my beast's want of flesh, and his sorry speed. There 

 is no protection against his huge and piercing bones ; and, with their 

 friction against my own, I am fairly galled by the osseous contact. 

 The falling of a thunderbolt would not alter his pace, and tlie seasons he 



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