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As Mr. Sterne, in the foregoing narrative, hath brought down the account of himself until within a few months of his death, it remains only to mention that he left York about the end of the year 1767, and came to London in order to publish The Sentimental Journey, which he had written during the preceding summer at his favourite living at Coxwold. His health had been for some time declining, but he continued to visit his friends, and retained his usual flow of spirits. In February, 1768, he began to perceive the approaches of death, and with the concern of a good man, and the folicitude of an affectionate parent, devoted his attention to the future welfare of his daughter. His letters at this period reflect so much credit to his character, that it is to be lamented some others in the collection are not permitted to see the light. After a short struggle with his disorder, his debilitated and worn out frame submitted to fate on the 18th day of March, 1768, at his lodgings in Bond-ftreet. He was buried at the new burying-ground, belonging to the parish of St. George, Hanover-square, on the 22d of the same month, in the most private manner; and hath fince been indebted to strangers for a monument very unworthy

of his memory; on which the following lines are inscribed:

* Near to this Place

Lies the Body of
The Reverend Laurence Sterne, A.M.
Died September 13th, 1768, *

Aged 53 Years.
66 Ah! molliter offa quiefcant."

If a sound Head, warm Heart, and Breaft humane,
Unsullied Worth, and Soul without a Stain;
If mental Powers could ever justly claim
The well-won Tribute of immortal Fame,
Sterne was the Man, who, with gigantic Stride,
Mowed down lúxuriant Follies far and wide.
Yet what, though keene Knowledge of Mankind
Unseal’d to him the Springs that move the Mind;
What did it cost him ridicul'd, abus'd,
By Fools insulted, and by Prudes accus'd,
In his, mild Reader, view thy future Fate,
Like him despise, what 'twere a Sin to hate.

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This monumental stone was erected by two brother masons; for although he did not live to be a member of their society, yet as his all incomparable performances evidently prove him to have acted by rule and square, they rejoice in this opportunity of perpetuating his high and irreproachable character to after ages.

W. & S.”

• It is scarcely necessary to observe that this date is erroneous.





TRITING, when properly managed (as you

may be fure I think mine is), is but a differ, ent name for conversation. As no one, who knows what he is about in good company, would venture to talk all;--so no author, who understands the just boundaries of decorum and good-breeding, would presume to think all: The truest respect which you can pay to the reader's understanding, is to halve this matter amicably, and leave him something to imagine, in his turn, as well as yourself.

For my own part, I am eternally paying him compliments of this kind, and do all that lies in my power to keep his imagination as busy as my own.








Coxovould, Aug. 3, 1760. CHEN a man's brains are as dry as a squeez’d

Orange-and he feels he has no more conceit in him than a mallet, 'tis in vain to think of fitting down, and writing a letter to a lady of your wit, unless in the honest John-Trot-Stile of, jours of the 1.5th inftant come safe to hand, &c. which, by the bye, looks like a letter of business ; and you know very well, from the first letter I had the honour to write to you, I am a man of no business at all. This vile plight I found my genius in was the reason I have told Mr. I would not write to you till the next post-hoping by that time to get some recruit, at least of vivacity, if not wit, to set out with ; ---but upon second thoughts, thinking a bad letter in season-to be better than a good one out of it--this scrawl is the consequence, which, if you will burn the moment you get it-i promise to send yoù a fine set essay in the style of your female epiftolizers, cut and trimm'd at all points.-God defend me from such, who never yet koew what it was to say or write one premeditated word in

my whole life for this reason I send you with pleasure, because wrote with the careless irre

gularity of an eafy heart.---Who told you, Garrick wrote the medley for Beard ?~'Twas wrote in his house, however, and before I left town. I deny it-I was not lost two days before I left town. I was loft ail the time I was there, and never found 'till I got to tņis Shandy-castle of mine.- Next winter I intend to sojourn amongst you with more decorum, and will neither be lost nor found


where. Now, I wish to God I was at your elbow I have just finished one volume of Shandy, and I want to read it to some one who I know can taste and relish humour-this, by the way, is a little impudent in me --for I take the thing for granted, which their high mightinesses the world have yet to determine--but I mean no such thing— I could with only to have your opinion-fhall 1, in truth, give you mine?-I dare not-but I will; provided you keep it to yourself know then, that I think there is more laughable humour,—with equal degree of Cervantic satire-if not more than in the last--but we are bad judges of the inerit of our children.

I return you a thousand thanks for your friendly congratulations- upon my habitation-and I will take care you shall never wish me but well, for I am, Madam,

With great esteem and truth,

Your most obliged,


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