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I CANNOT rest, Eliza, though I shall call on you at half-past twelve, till I know how you do. May thy dear face smile, as thou risest, like the sun of this morning. I was much grieved to hear of your alarming indisposition yesterday; and disappointed, too, at not being let in. Remember, my dear, that a friend has the same right as a physician. The etiquettes of this town (you'll say) say otherwise. No matter! Delicacy and propriety do not always consist in observing their frigid doctrines.

I am going out to breakfast, but shall be at my lodgings by eleven; when I hope to read a single line under thy own hand, that thou art better, and wilt be glad to see thy Bramin. Nine o'clock.

LXXXIII.-TO THE SAME.

always the protector of men of wit and genius:
and has had those of the last century, Addison,
Steele, Pope, Swift, Prior, etc, etc., always at
his table. The manner in which his notice
began of me was as singular as it was polite.
He came up to me, one day, as I was at the
Princess of Wales' court. 'I want to know
you, Mr. Sterne; but it is fit you should know,
also, who it is that wishes this pleasure. You
have heard (continued he) of an old Lord
Bathurst, of whom your Popes and Swifts have
sung and spoken so much: I have lived my life
with geniuses of that cast, but have survived 1
them; and, despairing ever to find their equals,
it is some years since I have closed my accounts,
and shut up my books, with thoughts of never
opening them again. But you have kindled a
desire in me of opening them once more before
I die which I now do; so go home and dine
with me.' This nobleman, I say, is a prodigy;
for at eighty-five he has all the wit and prompt-
ness of a man of thirty. A disposition to be
pleased, and a power to please others beyond
whatever I knew: added to which, a man of
learning, courtesy, and feeling.

He heard me talk of thee, Eliza, with uncommon satisfaction; for there was only a third person, and of sensibility, with us. And a most sentimental afternoon, till nine o'clock, have we passed! But thou, Eliza, wert the star that conducted and enliven'd the discourse. And when I talked not of thee, still didst thou fill my mind, and warmed every thought I uttered, for I am not ashamed to acknowledge I greatly miss thee. Best of all good girls! the suffer

I GOT thy letter last night, Eliza, on my return from Lord Bathurst's, where I dined, and where I was heard (as I talked of thee an hour without intermission) with so much pleasure and attention that the good old lord toasted your healthings I have sustained the whole night on account three different times; and now he is in his eighty-fifth year, says he hopes to live long enough to be introduced as a friend to my fair Indian disciple, and to see her eclipse all other nabobesses as much in wealth, as she does already in exterior, and (what is far better) in interior, merit. I hope so too. This nobleman is an old friend of mine. You know he was

might in his opinion contribute to her real happiness. If it is asked, whether the glowing heat of Mr. Sterne's affection never transported him to a flight beyond the limits of pure Platonism, the publisher will not take upon him absolutely to deny; but this he thinks so far from leaving any stain upon that gentleman's memory, that it perhaps includes his fairest encomium; since to cherish the seeds of piety and chastity, in a heart which the passions are interested to corrupt, must be allowed to be the noblest effort of a soul fraught and fortified with the justest sentiments of religion and virtue.'

After reading these letters, the curiosity of the public will be naturally excited to inquire concerning the fate of the lady to whom they were addressed. To this question it will be sufficient to answer that she has been dead some years; and that it might give pain to many worthy persons if the circumstances which attended the latter part of her life were disclosed, as they are generally said to have reflected no credit either on her prudence or discretion.

of thine, Eliza, are beyond my power of words. Assuredly does Heaven give strength proportioned to the weight he lays upon us! Thou hast been bowed down, my child, with every burden that sorrow of heart and pain of body could inflict upon a poor being; and still thou tellest me, thou art beginning to get ease-thy fever gone, thy sickness, the pain in thy side vanishing also. May every evil so vanish that thwarts Eliza's happiness, or but awakens thy fears for a moment! Fear nothing, my dearhope everything; and the balm of this passion will shed its influence on thy health, and make thee enjoy a spring of youth and cheerfulness, more than thou hast hardly yet tasted.

And so thou hast fixed thy Bramin's portrait over thy writing-desk, and wilt consult it in all doubts and difficulties. Grateful and good girl! Yorick smiles contentedly over all thou dost; his picture does not do justice to his own complacency.

Thy sweet little plan and distribution of thy time-how worthy of thee! Indeed, Eliza, thou leavest me nothing to direct thee in; thou leavest me nothing to require, nothing to ask, but a continuation of that conduct which won my esteem, and has made me thy friend for ever.

May the roses come quick back to thy checks, and the rubies to thy lips! But trust my declaration, Eliza, that thy husband (if he is the good, feeling man I wish him) will press thee to him with more honest warmth and affection, and kiss thy pale, poor dejected face with more transport, than he would be able to do in the best bloom of all thy beauty; and so he ought, or I pity him. He must have strange feeling if he knows not the value of such a creature as thou art.

I am glad Miss Light' goes with you. She may relieve you from many anxious moments. I am glad your shipmates are friendly beings. You could least dispense with what is contrary to your own nature, which is soft and gentle, Eliza: it would civilise savages; though pity were it thou shouldest be tainted with the office! How canst thou make apologies for thy last letter? 'tis most delicious to me, for the very reason you excuse it. Write to me, my child, only such. Let them speak the easy carelessness of a heart that opens itself, any how and every how, to a man you ought to esteem and trust. Such, Eliza, I write to thee, -and so I should ever live with thee, most artlessly, most affectionately, if providence permitted thy residence in the same section of the globe; for I am all that honour and affection can make me, THY BRAMIN.

LXXXIV. TO THE SAME.

I WRITE this, Eliza, at Mr. James's, whilst he is dressing, and the dear girl, his wife, is writing, beside me, to thee. I got your melancholy billet before we sat down to dinner. "Tis melancholy, indeed, my dear, to hear so piteous an account of thy sickness! Thou art encountered with evils enow, without that additional weight! I fear it will sink thy poor soul, and body with it, past recovery. Heaven supply thee with fortitude! We have talked of nothing but thee, Eliza, and of thy sweet virtues, and endearing conduct, all the afternoon. Mrs. James and thy Bramin have mixed their tears a hundred times, in speaking of thy hardships, thy goodness, thy graces. The ****s, by heavens, are worthless! I have heard enough to tremble at the articulation of the name. How could you, Eliza, leave them (or suffer them to leave you rather) with impressions the least favourable? I have told thee enough to plant disgust against their treachery to thee, to the last hour of thy life! yet still thou toldest Mrs. James, at last, that thou believest they affectionately love thee. Her delicacy to my Eliza, and true regard to her ease of mind, have saved thee from hearing more glaring proofs of

1 Miss Light afterwards married George Stratton, Esq., late in the service of the East India Company at Madras. She is since dead.

their baseness. For God's sake write not to them; nor foul thy fair character with such polluted hearts. They love thee! What proof? Is it their actions that say so? or their zeal for those attachments which do thee honour, and make thee happy? or their tenderness for thy fame? No. But they weep, and say tender

things. Adieu to all such for ever. Mrs. James's honest heart revolts against the idea of ever returning them one visit. I honour her, and I honour thee for almost every act of thy life, but this blind partiality for an unworthy being.

Forgive my zeal, dear girl, and allow me a right which arises only out of that fund of affection I have, and shall preserve for thee to the hour of my death! Reflect, Eliza, what are my motives for perpetually advising thee? think whether I can have any but what proceed from the cause I have mentioned! I think you are a¦ very deserving woman; and that you want nothing but firmness, and a better opinion of yourself, to be the best female character I know. I wish I could inspire you with a share of that vanity your enemies lay to your charge (though to me it has never been visible), because I think, in a well-turned mind, it will produce good effects.

I probably shall never see you more; yet I flatter myself you'll sometimes think of me with pleasure; because you must be convinced I love you, and so interest myself in your rectitude that I had rather hear of any evil befalling you than your want of reverence for yourself. I had not power to keep this remonstrance in my breast. It's now out; so adieu. Heaven watch over my Eliza ! Thine, YORICK.

LXXXV.-TO THE SAME.

To whom should Eliza apply in her distress but to her friend who loves her? Why then, my dear, do you apologize for employing me? Yorick would be offended, and with reason, if you ever sent commissions to another, which he could execute. I have been with Zumps; and your pianoforte must be tuned from the brass middle string of your guitar, which is C. I have got you a hammer too, and a pair of plyers to twist your wire with; and may every one of them, my dear, vibrate sweet comfort to my hopes! I have bought you ten handsome brass screws to hang your necessaries upon; I purchased twelve, but stole a couple from you to put up in my own cabin at Coxwould. I shall never hang, or take my hat off one of them, but I shall think of you. I have bought thee, moreover, a couple of iron screws, which are more to be depended on than brass, for the globes.

I have written, also, to Mr. Abraham Walker, pilot at Deal, that I had despatched these in a packet, directed to his care; which I desired he would seek after, the moment the Deal machine

arrived. I have, moreover, given him directions what sort of an arm-chair you would want, and have directed him to purchase the best that Deal could afford, and take it, with the parcel, in the first boat that went off. Would I could, Eliza, so supply all thy wants, and all thy wishes! It would be a state of happiness to me. The journal is as it should be-all but its contents. Poor, dear, patient being! I do more than pity you; for I think I lose both firmness and philosophy, as figure to myself your distresses. Do not think I spoke last night with too much asperity of ****; there was cause; and besides, a good heart ought not to love a bad one, and indeed cannot. But adieu to the ungrateful subject.

I have been this morning to see Mrs. James. She loves thee tenderly and unfeignedly. She is alarmed for thee. She says thou look'dst most ill and melancholy on going away. She pities thee. I shall visit her every Sunday while I am in town. As this may be my last letter, I earnestly bid thee farewell. May the God of kindness be kind to thee, and approve himself thy protector, now thou art defenceless! And, for thy daily comfort, bear in thy mind this truth, that whatever measure of sorrow and distress is thy portion, it will be repaid to thee in a full measure of happiness by the Being thou hast wisely chosen for thy eternal friend.

Farewell, farewell, Eliza! whilst I live, count upon me as the most warm and disinterested of earthly friends. YORICK.

LXXXVI.-TO THE SAME.

MY DEAREST ELIZA,-I began a new journal this morning you shall see it; for if I live not till your return to England, I will leave it to you as a legacy. "Tis a sorrowful page; but I will write cheerful ones; and could I write letters to thee, they should be chcerful ones too; but few, I fear, will reach thee! However, depend upon receiving something of the kind by every post; till then, thou wavest thy hand, and bid'st me write no more.

Tell me how you are; and what sort of fortitude Heaven inspires you with. How are you accommodated, my dear? Is all right? Scribble away, anything, and everything to me. Depend upon seeing me at Deal, with the James's, should you be detained there by contrary winds. Indeed, Eliza, I should with pleasure fly to you, could I be the means of rendering you any service, or doing you kindness. Gracious and merciful God! consider the anguish of a poor girl. Strengthen and preserve her in all the shocks her frame must be exposed to. She is now without a protector, but thee! Save her from all accidents of a dangerous element, and give her comfort at the last.

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sky seems to smile upon me as I look up to it. I am just returned from our dear Mrs. James's, where I have been talking of thee for three hours. She has got your picture, and likes it; but Marriot and some other judges agree that mine is the better, and expressive of a sweeter character. But what is that to the original? yet I acknowledge that hers is a picture for the world, and mine is calculated only to please & very sincere friend, or sentimental philosopher. In the one, you are dressed in smiles, and with all the advantages of silks, pearls, and ermine; in the other, simple as a vestal-appearing the good girl nature made you, which, to me, conveys an idea of more unaffected sweetness than Mrs. Draper, habited for conquest in a birthday suit, with her countenance animated, and her dimples visible. If I remember right, Eliza, you endeavoured to collect every charm of your person into your face, with more than common care, the day you sat for Mrs. James. Your colour, too, brightened, and your eyes shone with more than usual brilliancy. I then requested you to come simple and unadorned when you sat for me-knowing (as I see with unprejudiced eyes) that you could receive no addition from the silkworm's aid, or jeweller's polish. Let me now tell you a truth, which I believe I have uttered before. When I first saw you, I beheld you as an object of compassion, and as a very plain woman. The mode of your dress (though fashionable) disfigured you. But nothing now could render you such but the being solicitous to make yourself admired as 2 handsome one. You are not handsome, Eliza, nor is yours a face that will please the tenth part of your beholders; but you are something more: for I scruple not to tell you, I never saw so intelligent, so animated, so good a countenance; nor was there (nor ever will be) that man of sense, tenderness, and feeling, in your company three hours, that was not (or will not be) your admirer, or friend, in consequence of it; that is, if you assume, or assumed, no character foreign to your own, but appeared the artless being nature designed you for. A something in your eyes and voice you possess in a degree more persuasive than any woman I ever saw, read, or heard of. But it is that bewitching sort of nameless excellence that men of nice sensibility alone can be touched with.

Were your husband in England, I would freely give him five hundred pounds (if money could purchase the acquisition) to let you only sit by me two hours in a day, while I wrote my Sentimental Journey. I am sure the work would sell so much the better for it that I should be reimbursed the sum more than seven times told. I would not give ninepence for the picture of you the Newnhams have got executed. It is the resemblance of a conceited, made-upcoquette. Your eyes, and the shape of your

My prayer, Eliza, I hope is heard; for the face (the latter the most perfect oval I ever

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saw), which are perfections that must strike the most indifferent judge, because they are equal to any of God's works in a similar way, and finer than any I beheld in all my travels, are manifestly injured by the affected leer of the one and strange appearance of the other, owing to the attitude of the head, which is a proof of the artist's, or your friend's, false taste. The ****s, who verify the character I once gave of teasing, or sticking like pitch or bird-lime, sent a card that they would wait on Mrs. **** on Friday. She sent back she was engaged. Then to meet at Ranelagh to-night. She answered she did not go. She says, if she allows the least footing, she never shall get rid of the acquaintance, which she is resolved to drop at once. She knows them. She knows they are not her friends, nor yours; and the first use they would make of being with her would be to sacrifice you to her (if they could) a second time. Let her not then, let her not, my dear, be a greater friend to thee than thou art to thyself. She begs me to reiterate my request to you that you will not write to them. It will give her, and thy Bramin, inexpressible pain. Be assured all this is not without reason on her side. I have my reasons too,-the first of which is, that I should grieve to excess if Eliza wanted that fortitude her Yorick has built so high upon. I said I never more would mention the name to thee; and had I not received it as a kind of charge from a dear woman that loves you, I should not have broken my word. I will write again to-morrow to thee, thou best and most endearing of girls! A peaceful night to thee. My spirit will be with thee through every watch of it. Adieu.

LXXXVII.-TO THE SAME.

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washing and rubbi ng do, instead of painting your cabin, as it is to be hung? Paint is so pernicious, both to your nerves and lungs, and will keep you so m uch longer, too, out of your apartment, where I hope you will pass some of your happiest hours.

I fear the best of your shipmates are only genteel by comparison with the contrasted crew with which thou must behold them. So wasyou know who! from the same fallacy that was put upon the judgment, when-but I will not mortify you. If they are decent, and distant, it is enough, and as much as is to be expected. If any of them are more, I rejoice: thou wilt want every aid, and 'tis thy due to have them. Be cautious only, my dear, of intimacies. Good hearts are open, and fall naturally into them. Heaven inspire thine with fortitude, in this and every deadly trial. Best of God's works, farewell! Love me, I beseech thee; and remember me for ever!

I am, my Eliza, and will ever be, in the most. comprehensive sense, thy friend,

YORICK.

P.S.-Probably you will have an opportunity of writing to me by some Dutch or French ship, or from the Cape de Verd Islands. It will reach me somehow.

LXXXVIII.-TO THE SAME.

MY DEAR ELIZA,-Oh! I grieve for your cabin. And the fresh painting will be enough to destroy every nerve about thee. Nothing so pernicious as white lead. Take care of yourself, dear girl, and sleep not in it too soon. It will. be enough to give you a stroke of an epilepsy. I hope you will have left the ship, and that my letters may meet, and greet you, as you get out of your post-chaise at Deal. When you have got them all, put them, my dear, into some order. The first eight or nine are num

I THINK you could act no otherwise than you did with the young soldier. There was no shutting the door against him, either in polite-bered: but I wrote the rest without that direcness or humanity. Thou tellest me he seems susceptible of tender impressions; and that before Miss Light has sailed a fortnight he will be in love with her. Now I think it a thousand times more likely that he attaches himself to thee, Eliza; because thou art a thousand times more amiable. Five months with Eliza, and in the same room, and an amorous son of Mars besides!-'It canno be, masser.' The sun, if he could avoid it, would not shine upon a dunghill; but his rays are so pure, Eliza, and celestial, I never heard that they were polluted by it. Just such will thine be, dearest child, in this, and every such situation you will be exposed to, till thou art fixed for life. But thy discretion, thy wisdom, thy honour, the spirit of thy Yorick, and thy own spirit, which is equal to it, will be thy ablest counsellors.

Surely, by this time, something is doing for thy accommodation. But why may not clean

tion to thee; but thou wilt find them out by the day or hour, which I hope I have generally prefixed to them. When they are got together in chronological order, sew them together under a cover. I trust they will be a perpetual refuge to thee from time to time; and that thou wilt (when weary of fools and uninteresting discourse) retire and converse an hour with them and me. I have not had power, or the heart, to aim at enlivening any one of them with a single stroke of wit or humour; but they contain something better, and what you will feel more suited to your situation-a long detail of much advice, truth, and knowledge. I hope, too, you will perceive loose touches of an honest heart in every one of them, which speaks more than the most studied periods, and will give thee more ground of trust and reliance upon Yorick than all that laboured eloquence could supply. Lean, then, thy whole weight, Eliza, upon them and

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Remember that while I have life and power, whatever is mine you may style and think yours; though sorry should I be if ever my friendship was put to the test thus, for your own delicacy's sake. Money and counters are of equal use in my opinion; they both serve to set up with.

I hope you will answer me this letter; but if thou art debarred by the elements which hurry thee away, I will write one for thee, and, knowing it is such a one as thou wouldst have written, I will regard it as my Eliza's.

Honour, and happiness, and health, and comforts of every kind, sail along with thee, thou most worthy of girls! I will live for thee and my Lydia-be rich for the dear children of my heart-gain wisdom, gain fame and happiness to share with them-with thee and her-in my old age. Once for all, adieu. Preserve thy life, steadily pursue the ends we proposed, and let nothing rob thee of those powers Heaven has given thee for thy well-being.

What can I add more, in the agitation of mind I am in, and within five minutes of the last postman's bell, but recommend thee to Heaven, and recommend myself to Heaven with thee, in the same fervent ejaculation, that we may be happy, and meet again, if not in this world, in the next!' Adieu, --I am thine, Eliza, affectionately and everlastingly.

YORICK.

LXXXIX.-TO THE SAME.

I WISH to God, Eliza, it was possible to postpone the voyage to India for another year; for I am firmly persuaded within my own heart that thy husband could never limit thee with regard to time.

I fear that Mr. B- has exaggerated matters. I like not his countenance. It is absolutely killing. Should evil befall thee, what will he not have to answer for? I know not the being that will be deserving of so much pity, or that I shall hate more. He will be an outcast alien. In which case I will be a father to thy children, my good girl!-therefore take no thought about them.

But, Eliza, if thou art so very ill, still put off all thoughts of returning to India this year. Write to your husband: tell him the truth of your case. If he is the generous, humane man you describe him to be, he cannot but applaud your conduct. I am credibly informed that his

repugnance to your living in England arises only from the dread which has entered his brain that thou mayest run him in debt beyond thy appointments, and that he must discharge them. That such a creature should be sacrificed for the paltry consideration of a few hundreds is too, too hard! O my child! that I could with propriety indemnify him for every charge, even to the last mite, that thou hast been of to him! With joy would I give him my whole subsistence-nay, sequester my livings, and trust the treasures Heaven has furnished my head with for a further subsistence.

You owe much, I allow, to your husband; you owe something to appearances and the opinion of the world; but trust me, my dear, you owe much likewise to yourself. Return, therefore, from Deal, if you continue ill. I will prescribe for you gratis. You are not the first woman by many I have done so for, with success. I will send for my wife and daughter, and they shall carry you in pursuit of health to Montpellier, the wells of Bançois, the Spa, or whither thou wilt. Thou shalt direct them, and make parties of pleasure in what corner of the world fancy points out to thee. We shall fish upon the banks of Arno, and lose ourselves in the sweet labyrinths of its valleys. And then thou shouldst warble to us, as I have once or twice heard thee, 'I'm lost! I'm lost!' but we should find thee again, my Eliza. Of a similar nature to this was your physician's prescription: Use gentle exercise, the pure southern air of France, or milder Naples, with the society of friendly, gentle beings.' Sensible man! He certainly entered into your feelings. He knew the fallacy of medicine to a creature whose ILLNESS HAS ARISEN FROM THE AFFLICTION OF HER MIND. Time only, my dear, I fear you must trust to and have your reliance on; may it give you the health so enthusiastic a votary to the charming goddess deserves!

I honour you, Eliza, for keeping secret some things, which if explained had been a panegyric on yourself. There is a dignity in venerable affliction which will not allow it to appeal to the world for pity or redress. Well have you supported that character, my amiable, philosophic friend! And indeed I begin to think you have as many virtues as my uncle Toby's widow. I don't mean to insinuate, hussey, that my opinion is no better founded than his was of Mrs. Wadman; nor do I conceive it possible for any Trim to convince me it is equally fallacious. I am sure, while I have my reason, it is not. Talking of widows, pray, Eliza, if ever you are such, do not think of giving yourself to some wealthy nabob, because I design to marry you myself. My wife cannot live long; she has sold all the provinces in France already, and I know not the woman I should like so well for her substitute as yourself. "Tis true I am ninety-five in constitution, and you but twenty-five-rather too

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