of this man of genius, this
actor, this quack? Some time since, I was in the company of a French
actor, who began after dinner, and at his own request, to sing French
songs of the sort called _des chansons grivoises_, and which he performed
admirably, and to the dissatisfaction of most persons present. Having
finished these, he commenced a sentimental ballad--it was so charmingly
sung that it touched all persons present, and especially the singer
himself, whose voice trembled, whose eyes filled with emotion, and who was
snivelling and weeping quite genuine tears by the time his own ditty was
over. I suppose Sterne had this artistical sensibility; he used to blubber
perpetually in his study, and finding his tears infectious, and that they
brought him a great popularity, he exercised the lucrative gift of
weeping; he utilized it, and cried on every occasion. I own that I don't
value or respect much the cheap dribble of those fountains. He fatigues me
with his perpetual disquiet and his uneasy appeals to my risible or
sentimental faculties. He is always looking in my face, watching his
effect, uncertain whether I think him an impostor or not; posture-making,
coaxing, and imploring me. "See what sensibility I have--own now that I'm
very clever--do cry now, you can't resist this." The humour of Swift and
Rabelais, whom he pretended to succeed, poured from them as naturally as
song does from a bird; they lose no manly dignity with it, but laugh their
hearty great laugh out of their broad chests as nature bade them. But this
man--who can make you laugh, who can make you cry, too--never lets his
reader alone, or will permit his audience repose: when you are quiet, he
fancies he must rouse you, and turns over head and heels, or sidles up and
whispers a nasty story. The man is a great jester, not a great humourist.
He goes to work systematically and of cold blood; paints his face, puts on
his ruff and motley clothes, and lays down his carpet and tumbles on it.

For instance, take the _Sentimental Journey_, and see in the writer the
deliberate propensity to make points and seek applause. He gets to
Dessein's Hotel, he wants a carriage to travel to Paris, he goes to the
inn-yard, and begins what the actors call "business" at once. There is
that little carriage the _desobligeant_. "Four months had elapsed since it
had finished its career of Europe in the corner of Monsieur Dessein's
courtyard, and having sallied out thence but a vampe