and one form. Sensation communicates itself, like a force applied to a chain with its single links, and as a form which has flown together from uninterrupted series. . . .

If the affection of charity is in them, then all the abovementioned diversions are for its recreation, spectacles and plays, musical harmonies and songs, and all the beauties of fields and gardens, and social intercourse in general. The affection for use remains interiorly within them, which, while it is thus resting, is gradually renewed. A longing for one's work breaks or ends them; for the Lord flows into them from heaven and renews; and He also gives an interior sense of pleasure in them, which they who are not in the affection of charity know nothing of. He breathes into them as it were a fragrance or sweetness perceptible only to oneself. A fragrance, by which is meant a spiritual pleasantness; and sweetness, by which is meant spiritual delight. Pleasantness is predicated of wisdom, and of the perception of the understanding therefrom; and delight is predicated of love, and of the affection therefrom, of the will. They have not these who are not in the affection of charity, because the spiritual mind is closed; and in the degree that they depart from charity the spiritual mind, as to its voluntary part, is as if stuffed with a glutinous substance.

To those who have only an affection for honor, that is, who do the works of their calling merely for the sake of reputation, that they may be praised, and promoted, these diversions are similar, outwardly. They work, are vigilant in their occupation, and perform uses in abundance; not however from a love of use, but from the love of self; thus not from love to the neighbor, but from the love of glory. They may also feel a delight in the work of their calling; but it is an infernal delight. To their eyes it may counterfeit heavenly delight; for they are both alike outwardly. But their delight is full of what is undelightful; for they have no rest and peace of mind, except when they are thinking of fame and honor, and when they are being honored and adored. When they are not thinking of these things they rush into voluptuous pleasures, into drunkenness, luxury, fornication, —into hatred, vindictiveness, and slander of the neighbor, if he does not do them honor. And if from time to time they are not raised to higher honors, they come to loathe their employments, and give themselves up to leisure and become idlers; and after their departure from the world they become demons.

To those who have only an affection for gain these are also diversions; but they are carnal, inspired within only by the delight of opulence. Such men are careful, prudent, industrious, especially if they are merchants, or workmen. If in official position, they are vigilant in the duties which pertain to their offices, and sell uses; if judges, they sell justice; if priests, they sell salvation. To them lucre is the neighbor. For the sake of office they love lucre, and they love the lucre derived from their office. They that are high in office may sell their country, and even betray their army and their fellowcitizens to the enemy. Whence it is evident what their love is in the diversions above mentioned. These are full of rapine; and in so far as they are not in fear of the civil laws, or public punishments, and, for the sake of gain, the loss of reputation, they rob and steal. Outwardly they are sincere; but inwardly insincere. They look upon men as a tiger or wolf upon sheep and lambs, which they devour if they can. They do not know that the good of use has any reality. There is an infernal delight and pleasure in their diversions. They are like asses, that see nothing pleasant in meadows and fields but what they eat, be it wheat or barley in the ear. But these things are said of the avaricious.

But to those who perform the duties of their calling only for the sake of support and the necessaries of life; and those who perform them only for a name, that they may be celebrated; and those who perform them only for the sake of the emoluments, to the end that they may grow rich or may live generously, the above-mentioned diversions are the only uses. They are corporeal and sensual men. Their spirits are unclean, - lusts and appetites. They do the works of their calling for the sake of the diversions. They are human beasts, — dead; and their duties are burdens to them. They seek substitutes to do the work of their office, while they retain the name and the salary. When not engaged in the above-named diversions, they are idlers and sloths; they lie in bed, thinking of nothing but how they may find companions to talk, eat, and drink with. They are a public burden. All such after death are shut up in workhouses, where they are under a judge administrator, who daily appoints them the work they are to do; and if they do not do it, no food, or clothing, or bed is given them; and this is continued until they are driven to do something useful,

PASSAGES FROM A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY.

BY LAURENCE STERNE.

[For biographical sketch, see page 36.]

THE PULSE.

HAIL, ye small sweet courtesies of life, for smooth do ye make the road of it; like grace and beauty, which beget inclinations to love at first sight: 'tis ye who open this door, and let the stranger in.

Pray, Madame, said I, have the goodness to tell me which way I must turn to go to the Opéra Comique.

work.

Most willingly, Monsieur, said she, laying aside her

I had given a cast with my eye into half a dozen shops as I came along, in search of a face not likely to be disordered by such an interruption, till, at last, this hitting my fancy, I had walked in.

She was working a pair of ruffles as she sat on a low chair on the far side of the shop facing the door.

- Très volontiers; most willingly, said she, laying her work down upon a chair next her, and rising up from the low chair she was sitting in, with so cheerful a movement and so cheerful a look, that, had I been laying out fifty louis d'or with her, I should have said "This woman is grateful."

You must turn, Monsieur, said she, going with me to the door of the shop, and pointing the way down the street I was to take, you must turn first to your left hand, — mais prenez garde, there are two turns; and be so good as to take the second, then go down a little way, and you'll see a church, and when you are past it, give yourself the trouble to turn directly to the right, and that will lead you to the foot of the Pont-Neuf, which you must cross, and there any one will do himself the pleasure to show you.

She repeated her instructions three times over to me, with the same good-natured patience the third time as the first; and if tones and manners have a meaning, which certainly they have, unless to hearts which shut them out, she seemed really interested that I should not lose myself.

I will not suppose it was the woman's beauty, notwithstanding she was the handsomest grisette, I think, I ever saw, which had much to do with the sense I had of her courtesy; only I

remember, when I told her how much I was obliged to her, that I looked very full in her eyes, and that I repeated my thanks as often as she had done her instructions.

I had not got ten paces from the door, before I found I had forgot every tittle of what she had said: so looking back, and seeing her still standing in the door of her shop, as if to look whether I went right or not, I returned back, to ask her whether the first turn was to my right or left, for that I had absolutely forgot. Is it possible? said she, half laughing.— 'Tis very possible, replied I, when a man is thinking more of a woman than of her good advice.

As this was the real truth, she took it, as every woman takes a matter of right, with a slight courtesy.

-Attendez, said she, laying her hand upon my arm to detain me, whilst she called a lad out of the back shop to get ready a parcel of gloves. I am just going to send him, said she, with a packet into that quarter; and if you will have the complaisance to step in, it will be ready in a moment, and he shall attend you to the place. So I walked in with her to the far side of the shop; and taking up the ruffle in my hands which she laid upon the chair, as if I had a mind to sit, she sat down herself in her low chair, and I instantly sat myself down beside her.

- He will be ready, Monsieur, said she, in a moment.— And in that moment, replied I, most willingly would I say something very civil to you for all these courtesies. Any one may do a casual act of good nature, but a continuation of them shows it is a part of the temperature; and certainly, added I, if it is the same blood which comes from the heart, which descends to the extremes (touching her wrist), I am sure you must have one of the best pulses of any woman in the world. Feel it, said she, holding out her arm. So, laying down my hat, I took hold of her fingers in one hand, and applied the two forefingers of my other to the artery.

Would to Heaven! my dear Eugenius, thou hadst passed by, and beheld me sitting in my black coat, and in my lackadaisical manner, counting the throbs of it, one by one, with as much true devotion as if I had been watching the critical ebb or flow of her fever! How wouldst thou have laughed and moralized upon my new profession! and thou shouldst have laughed and moralized on. - Trust me, my dear Eugenius, I should have said, "there are worse occupations in this world

than feeling a woman's pulse.”· -But a grisette's! thou wouldst have said, and in an open shop, Yorick!

So much the better for when my views are direct, Eugenius, I care not if all the world saw me feel it.

THE HUSBAND.

I had counted twenty pulsations, and was going on fast towards the fortieth, when her husband, coming unexpectedly from a back parlor into the shop, put me a little out of my reckoning. 'Twas nobody but her husband, she said—so I began a fresh score. Monsieur is so good, quoth she, as he passed by us, as to give himself the trouble of feeling my pulse. The husband took off his hat, and, making me a bow, said, I did him too much honor; and having said that, he put on his hat and walked out.

Good God! said I to myself, as he went out, — and can this man be the husband of this woman?

Let it not torment the few who know what must have been the grounds of this exclamation, if I explain it to those who do not.

In London, a shopkeeper and a shopkeeper's wife seem to be one bone and one flesh. In the several endowments of mind and body, sometimes the one, and sometimes the other, has it, so as in general to be upon a par, and to tally with each other as nearly as a man and wife need to do.

In Paris, there are scarce two orders of beings more different; for the legislative and executive powers of the shop not resting in the husband, he seldom comes there :-in some dark and dismal room behind, he sits commerceless in his thrum nightcap, the same rough son of Nature that Nature left him.

The genius of a people where nothing but the monarchy is salique having ceded this department, with sundry others, totally to the women-by a continual higgling with customers of all ranks and sizes from morning to night, like so many rough pebbles shook long together in a bag, by amicable collisions, they have worn down their asperities and sharp angles, and not only become round and smooth, but will receive, some of them, a polish like a brilliant - Monsieur le Mari is little better than the stone under your foot.

Surely, — surely, man! it is not good for thee to sit alone, thou wast made for social intercourse and gentle greet