A sentimental journey through France and Italy. By Mr. Yorick. ; Vol. I[-II].

THE PASSPORT. VERSAILLES.

I COULD not conceive why the Count de B**** had gone so abruptly out of the room, any more than I could con|ceive why he had put the Shakespear in|to his pocket—Mysteries which must explain themselves are not worth the loss of time, which a conjecture about them takes up: 'twas bet|ter to read Shakespear; so taking up, "Much Ado about Nothing," I transported myself instantly from the chair I sat in to Messina in Sicily, and got so busy with Don Pedro and Benedick and Beatrice, that I thought not of Versailles, the Count, or the Passport.

Sweet pliability of man's spirit, that can at once surrender itself to illusions which cheat expectation and sorrow of, their weary moments!—long—long since had ye numbered out my days, had I not trod so great a part of them upon this en|chanted ground: when my way is too rough for my feet, or too steep for my

strength, I get off it, to some smooth vel|vet path which fancy has scattered over with rose-buds 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 re|treat 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 then I have of heaven, I force myself, like Eneas, into them—I see him meet the pensive shade of his forsaken Dido— and wish to recognize it—I see the injur|ed spirit wave her head, and turn off si|lent from the author of her miseries and dishonours—I loose the feelings for my|self 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 is|sue of his commotions to reason only.—I can safely say for myself, I was never a|ble to conquer any one single bad sensati|on in my heart so decisively, as by beat|ing up as fast as I could for 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. Mons. le Duc de C****, said the Count, is as good a pro|phet,

I dare say, as he is a statesman— Un homme qui rit, said the duke, ne sera ja|mais dangereuz.—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, Mons. 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—'twas entirely at my own expence.

We have no jester at court, Mons. Le Compte, said I, the last we had was in the licentious reign of Charles the IId— 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.