Chapter Secret Tribunal to Serbonian Bog of S by Brewer's Readers Handbook

Sennacherib, called by the Orientals king Moussal.—D’Herbelot: Notes to the Korân (seventeenth century).

(One of the best sacred lyrics in the language is Byron’s Destruction of Sennacherib’s Army.)

Sennamar, a very skilful architect who built at Hirah, for Nôman-al-Aôuar king of Hirah, a most magnificent palace. In order that he might not build another equal or superior to it for some other monarch, Nôman cast him headlong from the highest tower of the building.— D’Herbelot: Bibliothèque Orientale (1697).

A parallel tale is told of Neimheid, who employed four architects to build for him a palace in Ireland, and then, jealous lest they should build one like it or superior to it for another monarch, he had them all privately put to death.—O’Halloran: History of Ireland.

Sense and Sensibility, a novel by Jane Austen (1811).

Sensitive (Lord), a young nobleman of amorous proclivities,who marries Sabina Rosny, a French refugee, in Padua, but leaves her, more from recklessness than wickedness. He comes to England and pays court to lady Ruby, a rich young widow; but lady Ruby knows of his marriage to the young French girl, and so hints at it that his lordship, who is no libertine, and has a great regard for his honour, sees that his marriage is known, and tells lady Ruby he will start without delay to Padua, and bring his young wife home. This however, was not needful, as Sabina was at the time the guest of lady Ruby. She is called forth, and lord Sensitive openly avows her to be his wife.—Cumberland: First Love (1796).

Sentimental Journey (The), by Laurence Sterne (1768). It was intended to be sentimental sketches of a tour through Italy in 1764, but he died soon after completing the first part. The tourist lands at Calais, and the first incident is his interview with a poor monk of St. Francis, who begged alms for his convent. Sterne refused to give anything, but his heart smote him for his churlishness to the meek old man. From Calais he goes to Montriul (Montreuil-sur-Mer), and thence to Nampont, near Cressy, Here occurred the incident, which is one of the most touching of all the sentimental sketches, that of “The Dead Ass.” His next stage was Amiens, and thence to Paris. While looking at the Bastille, he heard a voice crying, “I can’t get out! I can’t get out!” He thought it was a child, but it was only a caged starling. This led him to reflect on the delights of liberty and the miseries of captivity. Giving reins to his fancy, he imaged to himself a prisoner who for thirty years had been confined in a dungeon, during all which time “he had seen no sun, no moon, nor bad the voice of kinsman breathed through his lattice.” Carried away by his feelings, he burst into tears, for he “could not sustain the picture of confinement which his fancy had drawn.” While at Paris, our tourist visited Versailles, and introduces an incident which he had witnessed some years previously at Rennes, in Brittany. It was that of a marquis reclaiming his sword and “patent of nobility.” Any nobleman in France who engaged in trade, forfeited his rank; but there was a law in Brittany that a nobleman of reduced circumstances might deposit his sword temporarily with the local magistracy, and if better times dawned upon him, he might reclaim it. Sterne was present at one of these interesting ceremonies. A marquis had laid down his sword to mend his fortune by trade, and after a successful career at Marrinicio for twenty years, returned home, and reclaimed it. On receiving his deposit from the president, he drew it slowly from the scabbard, and, observing a spot of rust near the point, dropped a tear on it. As he wiped the blade lovingly, he remarked, “I shall find some other way to get it off.” Returning to Paris, our tourist starts for Italy; but the book ends with his arrival at Moulines (Moulins). Some half a league from this city he encountered Maria, whose pathetic story had been told him by Mr. Shandy. She had lost her goat when Sterne saw her, but had instead a little dog named Silvio, led by a string. She was sitting under a poplar, playing on a pipe her vespers to the Virgin. Poor Maria had been crossed in love, or, to speak more strictly, the curé of Moulines had forbidden her banns, and the maiden lost her reason. Her story is exquisitely told, and Sterne says, “Could the traces be ever worn out of her brain, and those of Eliza out of mine, she should not only eat of my bread and drink of my cup, but Maria should lie in my bosom, and be unto me as a daughter.”