O F
_Diego_ and _Julia._
Heavens! thou art a strange creature, _Slawkenbergius!_ what a
whimsical view of the involutions of the heart of woman hast thou
opened! how this can ever be translated, and yet if this specimen of
_Slawkenbergius_’s tales, and the exquisitiveness of his moral, should
please the world—translated shall a couple of volumes be.——Else, how
this can ever be translated into good _English_, I have no sort of
conception—There seems in some passages to want a sixth sense to do it
rightly.——What can he mean by the lambent pupilability of slow, low,
dry chat, five notes below the natural tone——which you know, madam, is
little more than a whisper? The moment I pronounced the words, I could
perceive an attempt towards a vibration in the strings, about the
region of the heart.——The brain made no acknowledgment.——There’s often
no good understanding betwixt ’em—I felt as if I understood it.——I had
no ideas.——The movement could not be without cause.—I’m lost. I can
make nothing of it—unless, may it please your worships, the voice, in
that case being little more than a whisper, unavoidably forces the eyes
to approach not only within six inches of each other—but to look into
the pupils—is not that dangerous?——But it can’t be avoided—for to look
up to the cieling, in that case the two chins unavoidably meet——and to
look down into each other’s lap, the foreheads come to immediate
contact, which at once puts an end to the conference——I mean to the
sentimental part of it.——What is left, madam, is not worth stooping
for.