1831.] Sterne aiid the Duke of Wharlon : a Dramatic Scene. 307 



that " I hate the man who can travel from Dan to Beersheba, and say, 

 'tis all barren ;" but assuredly such a scene of ennui I never beheld. 

 From the Avindow of my old mansion I behold, perhaps, half-a-dozen 

 individuals in the lapse of a day. Here is the picture, — the village, 

 with its grass-covered pavement, seems asleep in the sunshine ; scarcely 

 a passing foot to disturb its slumbers from morn to night : the cawing 

 of a saucy rook from the top of a tree, or the bellowing of an overfed 

 bull in a pasture, often fills up an hiatus of two hours. Perhaps the 

 rolling of some distant and coming chariot may summon the women to 

 the window, eager to behold some indication of humanity besides them- 

 selves ; suppose it to be a spectacled antiquary driving to the neigh- 

 bouring ruin of Byland Abbey ; now his countenance is tolerable, con- 

 trasting it with that of the driver of yon load of hay — not an idea there 

 above the swine's flesh he feeds upon. How whimsical a contact, 

 Eugenius, should the man of lore stop his vehicle to inquire of the 

 rustic about the style, date of erection, and what illustrious characters 

 have had sepulture in the wealthy old abbey. 



Wharton. Yes, whimsical indeed ; should he be fool enough to put 

 such outrageous interrogations to one so incompetent to answer them. 

 But look not with jaundiced vision, Yorick ; there is somewhat of inci- 

 dent, even at Coxwold. 



Sterile. It presents little to me, however. If I visit the apothecary, he 

 wearies me with his symptomatic and pathognomic distinctions of fever ; 

 if I caU upon the tithe collector, he draws upon my patience with his 

 dissertations on the different qualities of land ; if I meet my parish clerk, 

 he exclaims against the remissness of the parishioners in attending 

 Sunday service ; and if I look in upon the venerable old landlady of 

 the little alehouse, she detains me with the history of the hamlet for the 

 last three quarters of a century, and laments the innovations of recent 

 introduction ; dwelling on the preference of linsey-wolsey to printed 

 cotton, and censuring the village " lasses" for wearing white stockings. 



Wharton. Vapid as these retirements and their humble incidents may 

 be to us, a race of poets and poetasters, novel and essay writers, shall 

 arise, who, scorning the cold though classical path of their predecessors, 

 shall discover, amidst these rustic retreats, the brightest gems of literary 

 adornment. 



Sterne. Yes, when the sheets of thy " Crazy Tales" will be found 

 enveloping the butter in the market-woman's basket ; and the " Senti- 

 mental Journey," be sacrilegiously employed to singe fowls — when the 

 inscription, " Alas, poor Yorick !" may be erased from my monument, 

 and the stone itself depositee! in the lumbering belfry by the officious 

 sexton — and when all of Eugenius shall be found beneath a triple row 

 of coffins in the cemetery of his fathers ! 



Wharton. Confound thy changing notes ! Thou wouldst horrify me, 

 let the wind blow from what quarter it would. 



Sterne. Suppose, Eugenius, it should be now in the north-east ; for 

 though it appears to point meridionally, yet the chilly air, and the 

 struggling sunbeams, indicate that hellish breeze thou so fearest. 



Wharton. No more of thy airi/ nonsense, Yorick. If it be a whimsy 

 then will I this day renounce it : but the whole world, leagued to dis- 

 suade, could not shake my belief regarding this physical atfection — my 

 recruited spirits, temper, and appetite, arc proofs irrefragable that my 



