SCRAPS ORIGINAL AND SELECTED. "Inest sua gratia parvis.” J'AVOUE que la sensibilité coûte cher quelquefois, mais c'est une si bonne chose qu'on ne sauroit trop la payer.-Marmontel. How strong are the recollections of childhood! There is an innocent simplicity and a pure warmth of feeling in all our emotions at that age,-in our thoughts and opinions, which make us look back on them with a tenderness something akin to our feelings towards others *. The following is written on a blank leaf of an old copy of the Sentimental Journey: I met, to my great surprise, at Paris, early in the summer of 1790, with La Fleur. He was my servant for some months, and his wife washed my silk stockings. I promised to engage my friends to subscribe for his support, and put my own name down for five pounds. per annum, during his life. He died, poor fellow, in 1791. He abounded with anecdotes, and shewed me a book, which Sterne gave him, of this journey. La Fleur was lively, honest, and grateful.-W. A. Miles. *Those fragments, which have not the name of the author added to them, are original. -à Rome. Quand on a du genie, c'est là qu'on le sent. Je crois que de grandes ruines doivent plus frapper que ne feraient des monumens entiers et conservés. Les ruines sont loin des villes: elles menacent, et la main du tems a sémé parmi la mousse qui les couvre une foule de grandes idées, et de sentimens melancoliques et doux. J'admire l'edifice entier-la ruine me fait frissonner; mon cœur est emu; mon imagination a plus de jeu. Je reviens sur les peuples qui ont produits ces merveilles et qui ne sont plus; "et in lenocinio commendationis dolor est minus, cum id ageret, extinctæ."Diderot. The art of puffing is not confined to these times. The following is an advertisement in an original copy of the Tatler, and is, we think, a specimen of the puff direct which would scarcely be hazarded at present: The most Noble Volatile Smelling-Bottle in the World; which smelled to, momentarily fetches the most dismal faintings or swooning fits, and, in a minute, removes flushings, vapours, dulness, head-ach, megrims, &c. It takes off all heavy sleepiness, retards swoonings, keeps up the spirits to a miracle; and, by its use admits of no faintings, but invigorates and enlivens the whole man, recreates and make cheerful, although never so sad, and, in a moment raises all the sensitive faculties. It is also to be taken inwardly by drops, which effectually takes off and eradicates the very cause; for it potently relieves, comforts, and strengthens the brain, creates and corroborates a stomach, removes sickness from it, helps digestion, cleanses the blood; and, in a word, is the greatest cephalick, stomatick, hepatick, and powerful aromatick, possible; therefore, it is extream necessary for all gentlemen, ladies, &c., always to be carried in their pockets. It is only sold at Mr. King's Picture-shop, in the Poultry, and at Mr. Overton's at the Golden Buck Picture-shop, against St. Dunstan'schurch in Fleet-street, at 2s. 6d. each, with printed directions. The pococurante character which is satisfied with the common round of empty pleasures of a town life; which lives on, without aim or active pursuit,-without the dignified and endearing interests of domestic life, or the stirring ones of professional duty. Elle a la tête d'un homme, le corps d' une femme, et le cœur d'un ange.-Jouy. I met at Bruges, in the summer of 1816, with a French Abbé, whose person is probably remembered by many who have gone that way to the continent. He was a constant guest at the table d'hôte at the Fleur de Blé; and was a man of considerable learning, though it was most curiously misdirected. The Abbé discovered from the book in which the visitors of the inn wrote their names, that I was a clergyman; and, entering into conversation with me, asked me whether I understood Latin? On my saying that I did, he informed me that he had composed a Latin Poem of three hundred and twentyfour lines, in honour of the battle of Waterloo, every line of which began with the letter P. He pressed me exceedingly to visit him the next morning to peruse his work, and seemed much to regret, as indeed I did also, that he had not the poem with him. My party had gone on to Ghent, and I was obliged to follow them, leaving the epic unseen. He gave me, however, the title, which ran thus:-every word, it is true, begins with a P, but The capital the said P appears to be understood. letters-as is the case in some old inscriptions-form the date: The poem, from this specimen, and from what the Abbé told me of it, must be a most extraordinary production. I have seen no mention of it made by any of the numerous tourists who have passed through Bruges. Il étend les bras et s'écrie, "Ne m'entendra-t-elle donc jamais! jamais!" Et les voûtes de l'église répétèrent "Jamais!"-Mde. de Souza. Alas! how often do our actions belie the sentiments we believed were ours; because in the cool moments of reason we had adopted them as beautiful, and had spoken of them till we deceived ourselves, as much as others, in thinking them the genuine guides of our hearts. The following are the ten commandments, as versified in Latin by Peter de Riga, an English monk of the twelfth century, canon of the church of St. Denis at Rheims*: I. Est homo sanguineus, cui non colitur Deus unus. V. Fit pecus, et moritur, quasi brutus adulter habetur. VII. Fur rapit exterius, Deus illum grandinat intus. *He has left also a version of the Bible, which, we believe, has never been published. SCRAPS. VIII. Dente locusta nocet, falsus testis malè mordet. X. Prima' perit plebes, male si fore quis cupit hæres. Ce premier des plaisirs, un entretien on l'accord le plus parfait règne dans tout ce qu'on sent et dans tout ce qu'on dit.-Mme. de Staël. Oh! Love, what is it in this world of ours Which makes it fatal to be loved?—Ah why With cypress branches has thou wreath'd thy flowers, And made thy best interpreter a sigh? Lord Byron. Eagles fly alone;-they are but sheep which always herd together.-Sir Philip Sidney. De ta tige detachée, Pauvre feuille desséchée, Où vas-tu?-Je n'en sais rien. L'orage a brisé le chêne Où va la feuille de rose. Anon. I do not agree with you that the essence of poetry is exaggeration. It is exaggeration to cold, plodding minds, intent only on exact and useful realities; but a poet should have a temperament more easily excited than that of other men: his sensibility-his fancy-his imagination, should be more powerful, and what he |