drawing upon an accurate knowledge of the human heart, he has coaxed the tears out of us by mere intelligence and a subtle choice of affecting traits of character. In the former case he will never abandon his conquest suddenly at the conclusion of the passage; as his emotion cools, so does ours, and he lets us down without our knowing it. In the latter case, however, a writer seldom takes the trouble to make use of his conquest, but to the greater admiration of his art than of his heart often throws the reader into a different state of mind—a trick that costs the writer nothing except the wit, but deprives the reader of almost everything that he had previously gained. Sterne, it seems to me, belongs to the latter class. The expressions with which he attempts to secure applause from one tribunal are very often irreconcilable with the conquest which has just gained him his laurels from another.
A happy situation invented all of a piece makes the rest of the work easy; but those who try to embellish anything by means of mere flashes of thought have the very devil’s work to do.
Poets have perhaps never exactly been among the wisest of their kind; at the same time it is more than probable that they furnish us with what was best in their social intercourse. As Horace has bequeathed us so much that is admirable, I always say to myself how much that is admirable must not have been said in the society of his age; for
