LETTER LXII

To David Garrick, Esq.

DEAR GARRICK,

PARIS, March 19, 1762.

This will be put into your

hands by Dr. Shippen, a physician, who has been here some time with Miss Poyntz, and is this moment setting off for your metropolis; so I snatch the opportunity of writing to you and my kind friend Mrs. Garrick. —I see nothing like her here, and yet I have been introduced to one half of their best Goddesses, and in a month more shall be admitted to the shrines of the other half- but I neither worship or fall (much) upon my knees before them; but, on the contrary, have converted many into Shandeism—for be it known, I Shandy it away fifty times more than I was ever wont, talk more nonsense than ever you heard me talk in your days —and to all sorts of people. Qui le diable est ce homme-là said Choiseul, t'other day -ce Chevalier Shandy You'll think me as vain as a devil, was I to tell you the rest of the dialogue — whether the

bearer knows it or no, I know not 'Twill serve up after supper, in Southampton-street, amongst other small dishes, after the fatigues of Richard the IIId. - O God! they have nothing here, which gives the nerves so smart a blow, as those great characters in the hands of Garrick !-but I forgot I am writing to the man himself. The devil take (as he will) these transports of enthusiasm! Apropos the whole city of Paris is bewitch'd with the comic opera, and if it was not for the affair of the Jesuits, which takes up one half of our talk, the comic opera would have it all—It is a tragical nuisance in all companies as it is, and was it not for some sudden starts and dashes - of Shandeism, which now and then either break the thread, or entangle it so, that the devil himself would be puzzled in winding it off - I should die a martyr - this by the way I never will

I send you over some of these comic operas by the bearer, with the Sallon, a satire — The French comedy, I seldom visit it- they act scarce anything but tragedies - and the Clairon is great, and Madle Dumesnil, in some places, still greater than her yet I cannot bear preaching I fancy I got a surfeit of it in

my younger days. There is a tragedy to be damn'd to-night-peace be with it, and the gentle brain which made it! I have ten thousand things to tell you I cannot write - I do a thousand things which cut no figure, but in the doing and as in London, I have the honour of having done and said a thousand things I never did or dream'd of- and yet I dream abundantly - If the devil stood behind me in the shape of a courier, I could not write faster than I do, having five letters more to dispatch by the same Gentleman; he is going into another section of the globe, and when he has seen you, he will depart in peace.

The Duke of Orleans has suffered my portrait to be added to the number of some odd men in his collection; and a gentleman who lives with him has taken it most expressively, at full length — I purpose to obtain an etching of it, and to send it you your prayer for me, of rosy health, is heard - If I stay here for three or four months, I shall return more than reinstated. My love to Mrs. Garrick. I am, my dear Garrick, your most humble servant,

L. STERNE

LETTER LXIII

To the Same

PARIS, April 10, 1762.

MY DEAR GARRICK,I snatch the occasion of Mr. Wilcox (the late Bishop of Rochester's son) leaving this place for England, to write to you, and I enclose it to Hall, who will put it into your hand, possibly behind the scenes. I hear no news of you, or your empire, I would have said kingdom- but here everything is hyperbolized - and if a woman is but simply pleased -'tis Je suis charmée — and if she is charmed, 'tis nothing less than she is ravi-sh'd - and when ravi-sh'd (which may happen), there is nothing left for her but to fly to the other world for a metaphor, and swear, qu'elle étoit tout extasiée - which mode of speaking is, by the bye, here creeping into use, and there is scarce a woman who understands the bon ton but is seven times in a day in downright extasy-that is, the devil's in her by a small mistake of one world for the other Now, where am I got?

I have been these two days reading a trag

may

edy, given me by a lady of talents to read, and conjecture if it would do for you 'Tis from the plan of Diderot, and possibly half a translation of it The Natural Son, or the Triumph of Virtue, in five acts-It has too much sentiment in it (at least for me), the speeches too long, and savour too much of preaching — this be a second reason, it is not to my taste. "Tis all love, love, love, throughout, without much separation in the character; so I fear it would not do for your stage, and perhaps for the very reason which recommends it to a French one. After a vile suspension of three weeks we are beginning with our comedies and operas again—yours I hear never flourished more—here the comic actors were never so low- the tragedians hold up their headsin all senses. I have known one little man support the theatrical world, like a David Atlas, upon his shoulders, but Preville can't do half as much here, though Mad1le Clairon stands by him, and sets her back to his she is very great, however, and highly improved since you saw her she also supports her dignity at table, and has her public day every Thursday, when she gives to eat (as they say here) to all that are hungry and dry.