I

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 ceiling, 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