great a disparity this!-but what I want in youth I will make up in wit and good-humour. Not Swift so loved his Stella, Scarron his Maintenon, or Waller his Sacharissa, as I will love and sing thee, my wife elect! All those names, eminent as they were, shall give place to thine, Eliza. Tell me, in answer to this, that you approve and honour the proposal, and that you would' (like the Spectator's mistress) have more joy in putting on an old man's slippers than associating with the gay, the voluptuous, and the young. Adieu, my Simplicia! Yours, XC.-TO THE SAME. TRISTRAM. MY DEAR ELIZA,-I have been within the verge of the gates of death. I was ill the last time I wrote to you, and apprehensive of what would be the consequence. My fears were but too well founded, for in ten minutes after I despatched my letter, this poor fine-spun frame of Yorick's gave way, and I broke a vessel in my breast, and could not stop the loss of blood till four this morning. I have filled all thy India handkerchiefs with it. It came, I think, from my heart! I fell asleep through weakness. At six I awoke, with the bosom of my shirt steeped in tears. I dreamt I was sitting under the canopy of Indolence, and that thou camest into the room with a shawl in thy hand, and told me my spirit had flown to thee in the Downs, with tidings of my fate; and that you had come to administer what consolation filial affection could bestow, and to receive my parting breath and blessing. With that you folded the shawl about my waist, and, kneeling, supplicated my attention. I awoke; but in what a frame! Oh! my God! But thou wilt number my tears and put them all into my bottle.' Dear girl! I see thee-thou art for ever present to my fancy-embracing my feeble knees, and raising thy fine eyes to bid me be of comfort; and when I talk to Lydia, the words of Esau, as uttered by thee, perpetually ring in my ears-' Bless me even also my father!' Blessings attend thec, thou child of my heart! My bleeding is quite stopped, and I feel the principle of life strong within me; so be not alarmed, Eliza-I know I shall do well. I have ate my breakfast with hunger; and I write to thee with a pleasure arising from that prophetic impression in my imagination, that all will terminate to our heart's content.' Comfort thyself eternally with this persuasion, 'that the best of Beings (as thou hast sweetly expressed it) could not, by a combination of accidents, produce such a chain of events merely to be the source of misery to the leading person engaged in them.' The observation was very applicable, very good, and very elegantly expressed. I wish my memory did justice to the wording of it. Who taught you the art of writing so sweetly, Eliza? You have absolutely exalted it to a science. When I am in want of ready cash, and ill health will not permit my genius to exert itself, I shall print your letters as finished essays 'by an unfortunate Indian lady.' The style is new, and would almost be a sufficient recommendation for their selling well, without merit; but their sense, natural ease, and spirit, is not to be equalled, I believe, in this section of the globe, nor, I will answer for it, by any of your country-women in yours. I have shown your letter to Mrs. B-, and to half the literati in town. You shall not be angry with me for it, because I meant to do you honour by it. You cannot imagine how many admirers your epistolary productions have gained you, that never viewed your external merits. I only wonder where thou couldst acquire thy graces, thy goodness, thy accomplishments-so connected! so educated! Nature has surely studied to make thee her peculiar care; for thou art (and not in my eyes alone) the best and fairest of all her works. And so this is the last letter thou art to receive from me, because the 'Earl of Chatham'1 (I read in the papers) is got to the Downs, and the wind I find is fair. If so, blessed woman! take my last, last farewell! Cherish the remembrance of me; think how I esteem, nay, how affectionately I love thee, and what a price I set upon thee! Adicu, adieu! and with my adieu let me give thee one straight rule of conduct, that thou hast heard from my lips in a thousand forms, but I concentre it in one word REVERENCE THYSELF. Adieu, once more, Eliza! May no anguish of heart plant a wrinkle upon thy face till I behold it again! May no doubt or misgivings disturb the serenity of thy mind, or awaken a painful thought about thy children, for they are Yorick's, and Yorick is thy friend for ever! Adieu, adieu, adieu! P.S.-Remember that Hope shortens all journeys by sweetening them; so sing my little stanza on the subject, with the devotion of a hymn, every morning when thou arisest, and thou wilt eat thy breakfast with more comfort for it. Blessings, rest, and Hygeia go with thee ! May'st thou soon return, in peace and affluence, to illume my night! I am, and shall be, the last to deplore thy loss, and will be the first to congratulate and hail thy return. FARE THEE WELL! XCI. TO MISS STERNE. BOND STREET, April 9, 1767. THIS letter, my dear Lydia, will distress thy good heart, for from the beginning thou wilt 1 By the newspapers of the times it appears that the Earl of Chatham' East Indiaman sailed from Deal. April 3, 1767. perceive no entertaining strokes of humour in it. I cannot be cheerful when a thousand melancholy ideas surround me. I have met with a loss of near fifty pounds, which I was taken in for in an extraordinary manner; but what is that loss in comparison of one I may experience? Friendship is the balm and cordial of life, and without it 'tis a heavy load not worth sustaining. I am unhappy-thy mother and thyself at a distance from me, and what can compensate for such a destitution? For God's sake persuade her to come and fix in England, for life is too short to waste in separation; and whilst she lives in one country and I in another, many people will suppose it proceeds from choice. Besides, I want thee near me, thou child and darling of my heart! I am in a melancholy mood, and my Lydia's eyes will smart with weeping when I tell her the cause that now affects me. I am apprehensive the dear friend I mentioned in my last letter is going into a decline. I was with her two days ago, and I never beheld a being so altered; she has a tender frame, and looks like a drooping lily, for the roses are fled from her cheeks. I can never see or talk to this incomparable woman without bursting into tears. I have a thousand obligations to her, and I owe her more than her whole sex, if not all the world put together. She has a delicacy in her way of thinking that few possess; our conversations are of the most interesting nature, and she talks to me of quitting this world with more composure than others think of living in it. I have wrote an epitaph, of which I send thee a copy. 'Tis expressive of her modest worth; but may Heaven restore her! and may she live to write mine! Columns and labour'd urns but vainly show An idle scene of decorated woe. The sweet companion, and the friend sincere, Need no mechanic help to force the tear. In heartfelt numbers, never meant to shine, "Twill flow eternal o'er a hearse like thine: "Twill flow whilst gentle goodness has one friend, Or kindred tempers have a tear to lend. Say all that is kind of me to thy mother, and believe me, my Lydia, that I love thee most truly. So adieu. I am what I ever was, and hope ever shall be, thy affectionate father, L. S. As to Mr. by your description he is a fat fool. I beg you will not give up your time to such a being. Send me some batons pour les dents; there are none good here. XCII.-TO LADY P MOUNT COFFEE-HOUSE, Tuesday, 3 o'clock. THERE is a strange mechanical effect produced in writing a billet-doux within a stone-cast of the lady who engrosses the heart and soul of an inamorato: for this cause (but mostly because I am to dine in this neighbourhood) have I, Tris tram Shandy, come forth from my lodgings to a coffee-house the nearest I could find to my dear Lady -'s house, and have called for a sheet of gilt paper to try the truth of this article of my creed. Now for it O, my dear lady, what a dish-clout of a soul hast thou made of me! I think, by the bye, this is a little too familiar an introduction for so unfamiliar a situation as I stand in with youwhere, Heaven knows, I am kept at a distance, and despair of getting one inch nearer you, with all the steps and windings I can think of to recommend myself to you. Would not any man in his senses run diametrically from you, and as far as his legs would carry him, rather than thus carelessly, foolishly, and foolhardily expose himself afresh-and afresh, where his heart and his reason tells him he shall be sure to come off loser, if not totally undone? Why would you tell me you would be glad to see me? Does it give you pleasure to make me more unhappy? or does it add to your triumph that your eyes and lips have turned a man into a fool, whom the rest of the town is courting as a wit? I am a fool-the weakest, the most ductile, the most tender fool that ever woman tried the weakness of-and the most unsettled in my purposes and resolutions of recovering my right mind. It is but an hour ago that I kneeled down and swore I never would come near you, and, after saying my Lord's Prayer for the sake of the close, of not being led into temptation, out I sallied like any Christian hero, ready to take the field against the world, the flesh, and the devil, not doubting but I should finally trample them all down under my feet; and now am I got so near you within this vile stone's cast of your house-I feel myself drawn into a vortex, that has turned my brain upside downwards; and though I had purchased a box-ticket to carry me to Miss *******'s benefit, yet I know very well, that was a single line directed to me to let me know Lady would be alone at seven, and suffer me to spend the evening with her, she would infallibly see everything verified I have told her. I dine at Mr. C-r's, in Wigmore Street, in this neighbourhood, where I shall stay till seven, in hopes you purpose to put me to this proof. If I hear nothing by that time, I shall conclude you are better disposed of, and shall take a sorry hack, and sorrily jog on to the play. Curse on the world! I know nothing but sorrow, except this one thing, that I love you (perhaps foolishly, but) most sincerely. L. STERNE. XCIII. TO MR. AND MRS. J—. OLD BOND STREET, April 21, 1767. I AM sincerely affected, my dear Mr. and Mrs. J-, by your friendly inquiry, and the interest you are so good as to take in my health. God knows I am not able to give a good account of myself, having passed a bad night in much ous supports-the feigned compassion of one, feverish agitation. My physician ordered me the flattery of a second, the civilities of a third, to bed, and to keep therein till some favourable the friendship of a fourth; they all deceive, and change. I fell ill the moment I got to my lodg- bring the mind back to where mine is retreating, ings. He says it is owing to my taking James's to retirement, reflection, and books. My deparPowder, and venturing out on so cold a day as ture is fixed for to-morrow morning, but I could Sunday; but he is mistaken, for I am certain not think of quitting a place where I have rewhatever bears the name must have efficacy ceived such numberless and unmerited civilities with me. I was bled yesterday, and again from your Lordship, without returning my most to-day, and have been almost dead; but grateful thanks, as well as my hearty acknowthis friendly inquiry from Gerrard Street has ledgments for your friendly inquiry from Bath. poured balm into what blood I have left. I Illness, my Lord, has occasioned my silence. hope still; and (next to the sense of what I owe Death knocked at my door, but I would not adto my friends) it shall be the last pleasurable mit him-the call was both unexpected and unsensation I will part with. If I continue mend-pleasant-and I am seriously worn down to a ing, it will yet be some time before I shall have strength enough to get out in a carriage. My first visit will be a visit of true gratitude-I leave my kind friends to guess where. A thousand blessings go along with this, and may Heaven preserve you both. Adieu, my dear sir, and dear lady. I am your ever obliged, L. STERNE. XCIV.-TO IGNATIUS SANCHO. BOND STREET, Saturday [April 25, 1767]. I WAS very sorry, my good Sancho, that I was not at home to return my compliments by you for the great courtesy of the Duke of M-g-'s family to me in honouring my list of subscribers with their names, for which I bear them all thanks. But you have something to add, Sancho, to what I owe your good-will also on this account, and that is, to send me the subscription money, which I find a necessity of dunning my best friends for before I leave town-to avoid the perplexities of both keeping pecuniary accounts (for which I have very slender talents), and collecting them (for which I have neither strength of body nor mind); and so, good Sancho, dun the Duke of M-, the Duchess of M-, and Lord M-for their subscriptions, and lay the sin, and money with it too, at my door. I wish so good a family every blessing they merit, along with my humblest compliments. You know, Sancho, that I am your friend and well-wisher, L. STERNE. P.S.-I leave town on Friday morning, and should on Thursday, but that I stay to dine with Lord and Lady S-.' XCV.-TO THE EARL OF S-. OLD BOND STREET, May 1, 1767. MY LORD,-I was yesterday taking leave of all the town, with an intention of leaving it this day, but I am detained by the kindness of Lord and Lady S-, who have made a party to dine and sup on my account. I am impatient to set out for my solitude, for there the mind gains strength, and learns to lean upon herself. In the world it seeks or accepts of a few treacher shadow, and still very weak; but weak as I am, I have as whimsical a story to tell you as ever befell one of my family. Shandy's nose, his name, his sash-window, are fools to it: it will serve at least to amuse you. The injury I did myself last month, in catching cold upon James's Powder, fell, you must know, upon the worst part it could, the most painful, and most dangerous of any in the human body. It was on this crisis I called in an able surgeon, and with him an able physician (both my friends), to inspect my disaster. "Tis a venereal case, cried my two scientific friends. "Tis impossible, however, to be that, replied I, for I have had no commerce whatever with the sex, not even with my wife, added I, these fifteen years. You are, however, my good friend, said the surgeon, or there is no such case in the world. What the devil, said I, without knowing women? We will not reason about it, said the physician, but you must undergo a course of mercury. I will lose my life first, said I, and trust to nature, to time, or at the worst to death. So I put an end, with some indignation, to the conference, and determined to bear all the torments I underwent, and ten times more, rather than submit to be treated like a sinner, in a point where I had acted like a saint. Now as the father of mischief would have it, who has no pleasure like that of dishonouring the righteous, it so fell out that, from the moment I dismissed my doctors, my pains began to rage with a violence not to be expressed or supported. Every hour became more intolerable. I was got to bed, cried out and raved the whole night, and was got up so near dead that my friends insisted upon my sending again for my physician and surgeon. I told them upon the word of a man of honour they were both mistaken as to my case, but though they had reasoned wrong, they might act right; but that sharp as sufferings were, I felt them not so sharp as the imputation which a venereal treatment of my case laid me under. They answered that these taints of the blood laid dormant twenty years; but they would not reason with me in a point wherein I was so delicate, but would do all the office for which they were called in, namely, to put an end to my tor L. STERNE. XCVIII.-TO A. L-E, Esq. ment, which otherwise would put an end to me, and so I have been compelled to surrender my-spects to a few. I am, dear H—, truly yours, (as at the last) be happy together. My kind reself. And thus, my dear Lord, has your poor friend, with all his sensibilities, been suffering the chastisement of the grossest sensualist. Was it not as ridiculous an embarrassment as ever Yorick's spirit was involved in? Nothing but the purest conscience of innocence could have tempted me to write this story to my wife, which, by the bye, would make no bad anecdote in Tristram Shandy's Life. I have mentioned it in my journal to Mrs. there is no difference between my wife and herIn some respects self-when they fare alike, neither can reasonably complain. I have just received letters from France, with some hints that Mrs. Sterne and my Lydia are coming to England to pay me a visit. If your time is not better employed, Yorick flatters himself he shall receive a letter from your Lordship, en attendant. I am, with great regard, my Lord, your Lordship's most faithful humble servant, L. STERNE. XCVI. TO J. D-N, Esq. OLD BOND STREET, Friday morning. I WAS going, my dear D-n, to bed before I received your kind inquiry, and now my chaise stands at my door to take and convey this poor body to its legal settlement. I languish most affectingly. I am sick both I am ill, very ill. soul and body. It is a cordial to me to hear it is different with you. No man interests himself more in your happiness, and I am glad you are in so fair a road to it: enjoy it long, my D-, whilst I-no matter what-but my feelings are too nice for the world I live in-things will mend. I dined yesterday with Lord and Lady S-; we talked much of you, and your goings on, for every one knows why Sunbury Hill is so pleasant a situation! You rogue-you have locked up my boots, and I go bootless home, and I fear I shall go bootless all my life. Adieu, gentlest and best of souls, adieu. I am yours affectionately, L. STERNE. XCVII. TO J— H— S-, Esq. NEWARK, Monday, ten o'clock in the morn. MY DEAR COUSIN,-I have got conveyed thus far like a bale of cadaverous goods consigned to Pluto and Company-lying in the bottom of my chaise most of the route, upon a large pillow which I had the prevoyance to purchase before I set out. I am worn out-but press on to Barnby Moor to-night, and if possible to York the next. I know not what me, but some derangement presses hard upon the matter with this machine; still I think it will not be overset this bout. My love to G. We shall all meet from the east, and from the south, and DEAR L,-I had not been many days at this COXWOULD, June 7, 1767. peaceful cottage before your letter greeted me with the seal of friendship; and most cordially do I thank you for so kind a proof of your good of my sentimental friend; but I would not will. I was truly anxious to hear of the recovery write to inquire after her, unless I could have how-d'yes to invalids, or those that have lately sent her the testimony without the tax; for even may return,-at least I find it so. I am as happy been so, either call to mind what is past or what as a prince at Coxwould, and I wish you could see in how princely a manner I live,-'tis a land of plenty. sit down alone to venison, fish, and wild-fowl, or a couple of fowls or ducks, with curds, and strawberries and cream, and all the simple plenty which a rich valley (under Hamilton hills) can produce,-with a clean cloth on my table, and a bottle of wine on my right hand to drink your health. I have a hundred parishioner catches a hare, or a rabbit, or a hens and chickens about my yard; and not a trout, but he brings it as an offering to me. give you an invitation; but absence and time solitude would cure a love-sick heart, I would lessen no attachment which virtue inspires. I am in high spirits-care never enters this cotchaise, with two long-tailed horses-they turn tage. I take the air every day in my postbetter upon the whole for the medicines and out good ones. And as to myself, I think I am regimen I submitted to in town. May you, dear L, want neither the one nor the other. Yours truly, L. STERNE. XCIX.-TO THE SAME. If COXWOULD, June 30, 1767. I AM in still better health, my dear L-e, than when I last wrote to you, owing, I believe, to my riding out every day with my friend H-, whose castle lies near the sea,-and there is a beach, as even as a mirror, of five miles in length with one wheel in the sea, and the other on before it, where we daily run races in our chaises, land. D- has obtained his fair Indian, and has this post sent a letter of inquiries after interests himself much in our fate. I cannot Yorick and his Bramin. He is a good soul, and forgive you, L-e, for your folly in saying you intend to get introduced to the ing much cheaper than I now do, if you persist despise them, and I shall hold your understandMrs. J- telling you they were sensible is the in a resolution so unworthy of groundwork you go upon. By you. I suppose they are not -. I clever, though what is commonly called wit may pass for literature on the other side of Temple-Bar. You say Mrs. J- thinks them amiable: she judges too favourably; but I have put a stop to her intentions of visiting them. They are bitter enemies of mine, and I am even with them. La Bramine assured me they used their endeavours with her to break off her friendship with me, for reasons I will not write, but tell you. I said enough of them before she left England; and though she yielded to me in every other point, yet in this she obstinately persisted. Strange infatuation! but I think I have effected my purpose by a falsity, which Yorick's friendship to the Bramine can only justify. I wrote her word that the most amiable of women reiterated my request, that she would not write to them. I said, too, she had concealed many for the sake of her peace of mind, when, in fact, L-e, this was merely a child of my own brain, made Mrs. J-'s by adoption, to enforce the argument I had before urged so strongly. Do not mention this circumstance to Mrs. J-; 'twould displease her; and I had no design in it but for the Bramine to be a friend to herself. I ought now to be busy from sunrise to sunset; for I have a book to write, a wife to receive, an estate to sell, a parish to superintend, and, what is worst of all, a disquieted heart to reason with ;-these are continual calls upon me. I have received half a dozen letters to press me to join my friends at Scarborough, but I am at present deaf to them all. I perhaps may pass a few days there something later in the season, not at present; and so, dear L-e, adieu. I am most cordially yours, L. STERNE. C.-TO IGNATIUS SANCHO. COXWOULD, June 30, [1767]. I MUST acknowledge the courtesy of my good friend Sancho's letter were I ten times busier than I am, and must thank him, too, for the many expressions of his good will and good opinion. "Tis all affectation to say a man is not gratified with being praised; we only want it to be sincere, and then it will be taken, Sancho, as kindly as yours. I left town very poorly, and with an idea I was taking leave of it for ever; but good air, a quiet retreat, and quiet reflections along with it, with an ass to milk and another to ride upon (if I choose it), all together do wonders. I shall live this year at least, I hope, be it but to give the world, before I quit it, as good impressions of me as you have, Sancho. I would only covenant for just so much health and spirits as are sufficient to carry my pen through the task I have set it this summer. But I am a resigned being, Sancho, and take health and sickness as I do light and darkness, or the vicissitudes of seasons,—that is, just as it pleases GOD to send them,-and accommodate myself to their periodical returns as well as I can, only taking care, whatever befalls me in this silly world, not to lose my temper at it. This I believe, friend Sancho, to be the truest philosophy; for this we must be indebted to ourselves, but not to our fortunes. Farewell. I hope you will not forget your custom of giving me a call at my lodgings next winter In the meantime I am, very cordially, my honest friend Sancho, yours, L. STERNE. CI. TO MR. AND MRS. J-. COXWOULD, July 6, 1767. IT is with as much true gratitude as ever heart felt, that I sit down to thank my dear friends, Mr. and Mrs. J-, for the continuation of their attention to me; but for this last instance of their humanity and politeness to me, I must ever be their debtor. I never can thank you enough, my dear friends, and yet I thank you from my soul; and for the single day's happiness your goodness would have sent me I wish I could have sent you back thousands: I cannot, but they will come of themselves; and so GOD bless you. I have had twenty times my pen in my hand since I came down, to write a letter to you both in Gerrard Street; but I am a shy kind of a soul at the bottom, and have a jealousy about troubling my friends, especially about myself. I am now got perfectly well, but was, a month after my arrival in the country, in but a poor state; my body has got the start, and is at present more at ease than my mind; but this world is a school of trials, and so Heaven's will be done! I hope you have both enjoyed all that I have wanted, and, to complete your joy, that your little lady flourishes like a vine at your table, to which I hope to sce her preferred by next winter. I am now beginning to be truly busy at my Sentimental Journey,-the pains and sorrows of this life having retarded its progress; but I shall make up my leeway, and overtake everybody in a very short time. What can I send you that Yorkshire produces? tell me. I want to be of use to you; for I am, my dear friends, with the truest value and esteem, your ever obliged L. STERNE. CII. TO MR. PANCHAUD, AT PARIS. YORK, July 20, 1767. MY DEAR PANCHAUD,-Be so kind as to forward what letters are arrived from Mrs. Sterne at your office by to-day's post, or the next, and she will receive them before she quits Avignon for England. She wants to lay out a little money in an annuity for her daughter; advise her to get her own life insured in London, lest my Lydia should die before her. If there are |