Sweet pliability of man’s spirit, that can at once surrender itself to illusions, which cheat expectation and sorrow of their wearied moments!—long, long since had you numbered out my days, had I not trod so great a part of them upon this enchanted ground: when my way is too rough for my feet, or too steep for my strength, I get off it, to some smooth velvet path which fancy has scattered over with rosebuds of delights; and, having taken a few turns in it, come back strengthened and refreshed—When evils press sore upon me, and there is no retreat from them in this world, then I take a new course—I leave it—and as I have a clearer idea of the Elysian fields than I have of heaven, I force myself, like Æneas, into them—I see him meet the pensive shade of his forsaken Dido—and wish to recognise it—I see the injured spirit wave her head, and turn off silent from the author of her miseries and dishonours—I lose the feelings for myself in hers—and in those affections which were wont to make me mourn for her when I was at school. _Surely this is not walking in a vain shadow—nor does man disquiet himself_ in vain _by it_—he oftener does so in trusting the issue of his commotions to reason only—I can safely say for myself, I was never able to conquer any one single bad sensation in my heart so decisively, as by beating up as fast as I could some kindly and gentle sensation, to fight it upon its own ground. When I had got to the end of the third act, the Count de B * * * entered with my passport in his hand. M. Le Duc de C * * *, said the Count, is as good a prophet, I dare say, as he is a statesman—_Un homme qui rit_, said the Duke, _ne sera jamais dangereux_. Had it been for any one but the King’s jester, added the Count, I could not have got it these two hours—_Pardonnez moi_, M. Le Compte, said I—I am not the King’s jester—But you are Yorick?—Yes—_Et vous plaisantez?_—I answered, Indeed I did jest—but was not paid for it—it was entirely at my own expense. We have no jester at court, M. Le Compte, said I—the last we had was in the licentious reign of Charles II.—since which time our manners have been so gradually refining, that our court at present is so full of patriots, who wish for _nothing_ but the honours and wealth of their country—and our ladies are all so chaste, so spotless, so good, so devout—there is nothing for a jester to make a jest of— _Voila un persiflage!_ cried the Count. _Yorick’s Sentimental Journey through France and Italy_, etc., 1768, vol. ii. ANONYMOUS, 1769 “_The Dramatic Race. A Catch. By a Lover of the Turf._”