it seems that those physical evils, which we have actually experienced, and which from their nature produce nearly
in any other language to answer to the English word, comfort, I suppose, because the English are the most uncomfortable of all people.) It will rather follow from what has been here said than be inconsistent with it, that the French must be more sensible of minute impressions and slight shades of difference in their feelings than others, because having, as is here supposed, less real variety, a narrower range of feeling, they will attend more to the differences contained within that narrow circle, and so produce an artificial variety. In short their feelings are very easily set in motion and by slight causes, but they do not go the whole length of the impression, nor are they capable of combining a great variety of complicated actions to correspond with the distinct characters and complex forms of things. Hence they have no such thing as poetry. This however must not be misunderstood. I mean then that I never met with any thing in French that produces the same kind of feeling in the mind as the following passage. If there is any thing that belongs even to the same class with it, I am ready to give the point up.
Antony. Eros, thou yet behold'st me.
Eros. Ay, noble Lord.
Ant. Sometimes we see a cloud that's Dragonish,
A vapour sometimes like a Bear, or Lion,
A tower'd Citadel, a pendant Rock,
A forked Mountain, or blue Promontory
With Trees upon't, that nod unto the World
And mock our Eyes with Air. Thou hast seen these Signs,
They are black Vesper's Pageants.
Eros. Ay, my lord.
Ant. That which is now a Horse, even with a Thought
The rack dislimns, and makes it indistinct
As Water is in Water.
Eros. It does, my Lord.
Ant. My good Knave, Eros, now thy Captain is
Even such a body, &c.
It is remarkable that the French, who are a lively people and fond of show and striking images, should be able to read and hear
