1831.2 Slerne mid the Duke of Wharton : a Dramatic Scene. 365 



battlements have stood the brunt of a thousand years, will soon shade the 

 grave of their father ; the cottage will revert to strangers ; another will 

 plough the fertile soil ; those trees will shed their golden tears, and fall 

 beneath the axe of the woodman ; that gorgeous sky will be overcast, 

 and its colouring hid by autumnal clouds, and yon joyous fledgelings 

 will experience separation and sorrow : some of them may be slain in 

 patriotic warfare for their country ; others, after years of agricultural 

 slavery, may sicken and die at home. In short, what I have been so 



long in describing, Shakspeare embodied in one pithy line and I 



would to Heaven that my friend Davy were here to give it ! 



" Life's a walking shadow ; a poor player." 



Wharton. Imaginary, Yorick, imaginary !— Thou hast given the reins 

 to thy fancy to-day, and the devil could not stop it ! 



Sterne (aside). Be it so, my Antony ; but I shall by-and-by take 

 my leave of fancy, and come to fact ; and if I do not convince thee that 

 it is in our nature to fear less that which is than that which seems to be, 

 then will I forswear all collusion with the wind, and leave thy cursed 

 weathercock to be blown about as the weather may please. 



Wharton {who has taken vp Rousseau's " Confessions"). Romantic 

 Rousseau, the etherial fire kindled by thee on nature's altar, will illumi- 

 nate the wilds of sorrow when thou her chosen priest art no more! 

 Thy words have ^iven immortality to the localities of thy home ; and 

 when thou hast departed thence to adorn another existence, the " vine- 

 clad hill" will still bear its gorgeous load, the lake reflect the imagery of 

 the clouds, the sun continue to wrap thy native town in rising and 

 setting light, and all of beauty, save mortality, will survive thee ; but 

 thy v/and of sorcery has been waved over the scenery, and it is conse- 

 crated for ever ! 



Sterne. Just such another weathercock mortal as Eugenius ! 



Wharton. Next to blasphemous, Yorick ! His are the feelings of a 

 god : he approaches the temple of nature with " fear and trembling," 

 nor plucks even a flower but with hesitation : his most latent sensibilities, 

 his most nebulous imaginings, have in them that which commands our 

 sympathy : in love — 



Sterne. He is an ass, Eugenius. 



Wharton {angrihj). Perhaps he may partake less of that character 

 than he who could stop the said animal in the street, and exchange 

 symptoms of condolence with him for those blows from his master, 

 which would have been better bestowed on the meagre sentimentalist 

 himself. 



Sterne. Rousseau in love ! A Genevese fish-wife, and a Proven9al 

 orange-girl, a courtezan of the Palais-Royale, and a third-rate dancer at 

 the opera, possess enough of accomplishment to constitute them, in his 

 eye, divinities ! 



Wharton. And why not, when waiting-wenches at inns, and female 

 decoy-birds behind the counters of shops, are to be seen tete-a-tete with 

 Yorick ? 



Sterne. Yet I am no Rousseau, sleeplessly tossing whole nights on his 

 bed, and rising at an early hour, no matter wliat the weather, to ensure 

 that morning kiss from the lips of his agonizing fair one, granted by 

 courtesy and the usage of his country ! Give me the realities of love- 

 wedded rights and lawful possession. 



