Laurence, an eminent writer of fiction, has left behind him a sketch of the principal events of his life, and some particulars of his family history. From that outline it appears that he was born at Clonmel, in the south of Ireland, on the 24th November 1713. His father was a lieutenant in the army, and grandson of Dr Richard Sterne, archbishop of York. When his son was about eight years of age, Lieutenant Sterne placed him at a school in Halifax, to which town he had been conducted by his professional duties. That officer died in 1731, and in the following year, young Sterne, by the bounty of a relation and namesake of his own, was transferred from the school of Halifax to Jesus College, Cambridge. Having completed his studies at the university, he proceeded to York; and his uncle, Dr Jacques Sterne, prebendary of Durham, and canon residentiary and precentor of York, procured him the living of Sutton, and afterwards a prebend at York. At York he formed an acquaintance with the lady who afterwards became his wife, under circumstances sufficiently romantic. From a friend of hers he obtained the living of Stillington, but continued for twenty years to reside at Sutton, relieving the burden of his double charge, as he informs us, "by books, painting, fiddling, and shooting." In the library of Shelton Castle, the residence of his friend and relation, John Hall Stevenson, author of a licentious production, entitled Crazy Tales, Sterne found among the dross of antiquity many a brilliant gem, which he transferred without scruple to his own pages. In this stolen garb he cut a most imposing figure, until Dr Ferriar of Manchester, twenty years after the death of the celebrated plagiarist, restored the pilfered trappings to the rightful owners. (See Dr Ferriar's Illustrations of Sterne, Lond., 1790, 8vo.)

In 1759, Sterne produced the first two volumes of Tristram Shandy, which procured him both money and reputation. In these volumes there was abundance of matter which every one could relish; and what was unintelligible was thought profound. Much ingenious speculation was squandered upon the black leaves and marbled pages, which were long contemplated with wonder, before they were discovered to mean nothing. "The republic of dark authors," says Swift, "have been peculiarly happy in the variety, as well as extent, of their reputation." Before this period Sterne had only printed two sermons. The two volumes of Tristram Shandy were succeeded by two volumes of Sermons. In 1761 appeared the third and fourth volumes of the novel, and the fifth and sixth in the year following. The seventh and eighth volumes were published in 1765; but these monstrous births had by that time ceased to please. Four volumes of Sermons were produced in 1766; and in 1767 these were followed by the ninth and last volume of Tristram Shandy. In 1768 Sterne returned from Italy, whither he had repaired in the hopes of finding relief for a consumptive complaint with which he had long been afflicted. He only survived to prepare for the press the first part of his Sentimental Journey, which was published in 1768. In the month of March of that year he expired at his lodgings in Bond Street, surrounded by strangers, a mode of death which he considered as most desirable.

The English writer to whom the author of Tristram Shandy is most indebted for his matter is Burton; and his manner bears some resemblance to the capricious, whimsical, and digressive Tale of a Tub. He even mimics Swift in sneering at "the great Dryden;" but in the writings of his prototype he might have found many things infinitely more worthy of imitation. In order to make room for his pathos, however, he eschewed the misanthropy of the dean of St Patrick's, and set up for a lover of his species, to which character his claims were less than equivocal, for his philanthropy did not extend so far as to his own mother. Sternhold

That sensibility is worthy only of ridicule that bestows a tear with greater promptitude than a shilling.

The humour of Swift and Rabelais, whom Sterne pretended to succeed, came from them as naturally as song from a bird; they lose nothing of their manly dignity in laughing their great laugh as nature bade them. But Sterne, who can make you laugh and cry by turns, who will not permit you any repose, he is but a great jester rather than a great humourist. Yet, nevertheless, a critic who refuses to see in many charming descriptions of Sterne's wit, humour, pathos, and sometimes even real sentiment, must be hard to please. If the last words the famous author wrote were bad and wicked, the last words written by the stricken man were for pity and pardon.