CONTINUATION OF THE BRAMINES JOURNAL.

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Sunday Ap: 13.[^[23]]

WROTE the last farewel to Eliza by M^r. Wats who sails this day for Bombay—inclosed her likewise the Journal kept from the day we parted, to this—so from hence continue it till the time we meet again—Eliza does the same, so we shall have mutual testimonies to deliver hereafter to each other, That the Sun has not more constantly rose & set upon the earth, than we have thought of & remember’d, what is more chearing than Light itself—eternal Sunshine! Eliza!—dark to me is all this world without thee! & most heavily will every hour pass over my head, till that is come w^ch. brings thee, dear Woman back to Albion. Dined with Hall &c. at the brawn’s head—the whole Pandamonium assembled—supp’d together at Halls—worn out both in body & mind, & paid a severe reckoning all the night.

Ap: 14. Got up tottering & feeble—then is it Eliza, that I feel the want of thy friendly hand & friendly Council—& yet, with thee beside me, thy Bramin would lose the merit of his virtue—he could not err—but I will take thee upon any terms Eliza! I shall be happy here—& I will be so just, so kind to thee, I will deserve not to be miserable hereafter—a Day dedicated to Abstinence & reflection—& what object will employ the greatest part of mine—full well does my Eliza know.

Munday. Ap: 15.

Worn out with fevers of all kinds, but most, by that fever of the heart with w^ch. I’m eternally wasting, & shall waste till I see Eliza again—dreadful Suffering of 15 months!—it may be more—great Controuler of Events! surely thou wilt proportion this, to my Strength, and to that of my Eliza. Pass’d the whole afternoon in reading her Letters, & reducing them to the order in which they were wrote to me—staid the whole evening at home—no pleasure or Interest in either Society or Diversions—What a change, my dear Girl, hast thou made in me!—but the Truth is, thou hast only turn’d the tide of my passions a new way—they flow Eliza to thee—& ebb from every other Object in this world—& Reason tells me they do right—for my heart has rated thee at a Price, that all the world is not rich enough to purchase thee from me, at. In a high fever all the night.

Ap: 16. and got up so ill, I could not go to M^rs. James as I had promised her—took James’s Powder however—& leand the whole day with my head upon my hand, sitting most dejectedly at the Table with my Eliza’s Picture before me—sympathizing & soothing me—O my Bramine! my Friend! my Help-mate!—for that (if I’m a prophet) is the Lot mark’d out for thee;—& such I consider thee now, & thence it is, Eliza, I share so righteously with thee in all the evil or good which befalls thee—But all our portion is Evil now, & all our hours grief—I look forwards towards the Elysium we have so often and rapturously talk’d of—Cordelia’s spirit will fly to tell thee in some sweet Slumber, the moment the door is open’d for thee & The Bramin of the Vally, shall follow the track wherever it leads him, to get to his Eliza, & invite her to his Cottage—

5 in the afternoon—I have just been eating my Chicking, sitting over my repast upon it, with Tears—a bitter Sause—Eliza! but I could eat it with no other—when Molly spread the Table Cloath, my heart fainted within me—one solitary plate—one knife—one fork—one Glass!—O Eliza! ’twas painfully distressing,—I gave a thousand pensive penetrating Looks at the Arm chair thou so often graced on these quiet, sentimental Repasts—& sighed & laid down my knife & fork,—& took out my handkerchief, clap’d it across my face & wept like a child—I shall read the same affecting acc^t. of many a sad Dinner w^ch. Eliza has had no power to taste of, from the same feelings & recollections, how She and her Bramin have eat their bread in peace and Love together.

April 17. with my friend M^rs. James in Gerard street, with a present of Colours & apparatus for painting:—Long Conversation about thee my Eliza—sunk my heart w{th}. an infamous acc^t. of Draper & his detested Character at Bombay—for what a wretch art thou hazarding thy life, my dear friend, & what thanks is his nature capable of returning?—thou wilt be repaid with Injuries & Insults! Still there is a blessing in store for the meek and gentle, and Eliza will not be disinherited of it: her Bramin is kept alive by this hope only—otherwise he is so sunk both in Spirits and looks, Eliza would scarce know him again. Dined alone again to day; & begin to feel a pleasure in this kind of resigned misery arising from this situation of heart unsupported by aught but its own tenderness—Thou owest me much Eliza!—& I will have patience; for thou wilt pay me all—But the Demand is equal; much I owe thee, & with much shalt thou be requited.——sent for a Chart of the Atlantic Ocean, to make conjectures upon what part of it my Treasure was floating—O! ’tis but a little way off—and I could venture after it in a Boat, methinks—I’m sure I could, was I to know Eliza was in distress—but fate has chalk’d out other roads for us—We must go on with many a weary step, each in his separate heartless track, till Nature——

Ap: 18.

This day set up my Carriage,—new Subject of heartache, That Eliza is not here to share it with me.

Bought Orm’s account of India—why? Let not my Bramine ask me—her heart will tell her why I do this, & every Thing—

Ap: 19—poor sick-headed, sick hearted Yorick! Eliza has made a shadow of thee—I am absolutely good for nothing, as every mortal is who can think & talk but upon one thing!—how I shall rally my powers alarms me; for Eliza thou has melted them all into one—the power of loving thee & with such ardent affection as triumphs over all other feelings—was with our faithful friend all the morning; & dined with her & James—What is the Cause, that I can never talk ab^t. my Eliza to her, but I am rent in pieces—I burst into tears a dozen different times after dinner, & such affectionate gusts of passion, That she was ready to leave the room,—& sympathize in private for us—I weep for you both, said she (in a whisper,) for Eliza’s anguish is as sharp as yours—her heart as tender—her constancy as great—heaven join your hands I’m sure together!—James was occupied in reading a pamphlet upon the East India affairs—so I answerd her with a kind look, a heavy sigh, and a stream of tears—what was passing in Eliza’s breast, at this affecting Crisis?—something kind, and pathetic,! I will lay my Life.

8 o’clock—retired to my room, to tell my dear this—to run back the hours of Joy I have pass’d with her—& meditate upon those w^ch. are still in reserve for Us.—By this time M^r. James tells me, You will have got as far from me, as the Maderas—& that in two months more, you will have doubled the Cape of good hope—I shall trace thy track every day in the map, & not allow one hour for contrary Winds, or Currants—every engine of nature shall work together for us—’Tis the Language of Love—& I can speak no other. & so, good night to thee, & may the gentlest delusions of love impose upon thy dreams, as I forbode they will, this night, on those of thy Bramine.

Ap: 20. Easter Sunday.

was not disappointed—yet awoke in the most acute pain—Something Eliza is wrong with me—you should be ill, out of Sympathy—& yet you are too ill already—my dear friend—all day at home in extream dejection.

Ap: 21. The Loss of Eliza, and attention to that one Idea, brought on a fever—a consequence, I have for some time, forseen—but had not a sufficient Stock of cold philosophy to remedy—to satisfy my friends, call’d in a Physician—Alas! alas! the only Physician, & who carries the Balm of my Life along with her,—is Eliza.—why did I suffer thee to go from me? surely thou hast more than once call’d thyself my Eliza, to the same account—twil cost us both dear! but it could not be otherwise—We have submitted—we shall be rewarded. ’Twas a prophetic spirit, w^ch. dictated the acc^t. of Corp^l. Trim’s uneasy night when the fair Beguin ran in his head,—for every night & almost every Slumber of mine, since the day we parted, is a repe[ti]tion of the same description—dear Eliza! I am very ill—very ill for thee—but I could still give thee greater proofs of my affection, parted with 12 Ounces of blood, in order to quiet what was left in me—’tis a vain experiment,—physicians cannot understand this; ’tis enough for me that Eliza does—I am worn down my dear Girl to a Shadow, & but that I’m certain thou wilt not read this, till I’m restored—thy Yorick would not let the Winds hear his Complaints——4 o’clock—sorrowful meal! for ’twas upon our old dish.—we shall live to eat it, my dear Bramine, with comfort.

8 at night, our dear friend M^rs. James, from the forbodings of a good heart, thinking I was ill; sent her maid to enquire after me—I had alarm’d her on Saturday; & not being with her on Sunday,—her friendship supposed the Condition I was in—She suffers most tenderly for Us, my Eliza!—& we owe her more than all the Sex—or indeed both Sexes, if not, all the world put together—adieu! my sweet Eliza! for this night—thy Yorick is going to waste himself on a restless bed, where he will turn from side to side a thousand times—& dream by Intervals of things terrible & impossible—That Eliza is false to Yorick, or Yorick is false to Eliza.

Ap: 22^d.—rose with utmost difficulty—my Physician order’d me back to bed as soon as I had got a dish of Tea—was bled again; my arm broke loose & I half bled to death in bed before I felt it. O! Eliza! how did thy Bramine mourn the want of thee to tye up his wounds, & comfort his dejected heart—still something bids me hope—and hope, I will—& it shall be the last pleasurable sensation I part with.

4 o’clock. They are making my bed—how shall I be able to continue my Journal in it?—If there remains a chasm here—think Eliza, how ill thy Yorick must have been.—this moment rec^d. a Card from our dear friend, beging me to take [care] of a Life so valuable to my friends—but most so—she adds, to my poor dear Eliza.—not a word from the Newnhams! but they had no such exhortations in their harts, to send thy Bramine—adieu to em!

Ap: 23.—a poor night, and am only able to quit my bed at 4 this afternoon—to say a word to my dear—& fulfill my engagement to her, of letting no day pass over my head without some kind communication with thee—faint resemblance, my dear girl, of how our days are to pass, when one kingdom holds us—visited in bed by 40 friends, in the Course of the Day—is not one warm affectionate call, of that friend, for whom I sustain Life, worth ’em all?—What thinkest thou my Eliza.

Ap: 24.

So ill, I could not write a word all this morning—not so much, as Eliza! farewel to thee;—I’m going——am a little better.

——so shall not depart, as I apprehended—being this morning something better—& my Symptoms become milder, by a tolerable easy night.—and now, if I have strength & Spirits to trail my pen down to the bottom of the page, I have as whimsical a Story to tell you, and as comically dis-astrous as ever befell one of our 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 in catching cold upon James’s pouder, fell, you must know, upon the worst part it could—the most painful, & most dangerous of any in the human Body—It was on this Crisis, I call’d in an able Surgeon & with him an able physician (both my friends) to inspect my disaster—’tis a venerial Case, cried my two Scientifick friends——’tis impossible at least to be that, replied I—for I have had no commerce whatever with the Sex—not even with my wife, added I, these 15 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 Woman—we will not reason ab^t. it, said the Physician, but you must undergo a course of Mercury,—I’ll lose my life first, said I—& 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, & ten times more rather than, submit to be treated as a Sinner, in a point where I had acted like a Saint. Now as the father of mischief w^d. have it, who has no pleasure like that of dishonouring the righteous—it so fell out, That from the moment I dismiss’d my Doctors—my pains began to rage with a violence not to be express’d, or supported—every hour became more intolerable—I was got to bed—cried out & raved the whole night—& was got up so near dead, That my friends insisted upon my sending again for my Physician & Surgeon—I told them upon the word of a man of Strict honour, They were both mistaken as to my case—but tho’ they had reason’d wrong—they might act right—but that sharp as my sufferings were, I felt them not so sharp as the Imputation, w^ch. a venerial treatment of my case, laid me under—They answerd that these taints of the blood laid dormant 20 years—but that they would not reason with me in a matter wherein I was so delicate—but would do all the office for w^ch. they were call’d in—& namely, to put an end to my torment, w^ch. otherwise would put an end to me.—& so have I been compell’d to surrender myself—& thus Eliza is your Yorick, y^r. Bramine—your friend with all his sensibilities, suffering the chastisement of the grossest Sensualist—Is it not a most ridiculous Embarassm^t. as ever Yorick’s Spirit could be involved in—’Tis needless to tell Eliza, that nothing but the purest consciousness of Virtue, could have tempted Eliza’s friend to have told her this Story—Thou art too good my Eliza to love aught but Virtue—& too discerning not to distinguish the open character w^ch. bears it, from the artful & double one w^ch. affects it—This, by the way, w^d. make no bad anecdote in T. Shandy’s Life—however I thought at least it would amuse you, in a country where less Matters serve.—This has taken me three Sittings—it ought to be a good picture—I’m more proud, That it is a true one. In ten Days I shall be able to get out—my room always full of friendly Visitors—& my rapper eternally going with Cards & enquiries after me. I sh^d. be glad of the Testimonies—without the Tax.

Every thing convinces me, Eliza, We shall live to meet again—So—Take care of y^r. health, to add to the comfort of it.

Ap: 25. after a tolerable night, I am able, Eliza, to sit up and hold a discourse with the sweet Picture thou hast left behind thee of thyself, & tell it how much I had dreaded the catastrophe, of never seeing its dear Original more in this world—never did that look of sweet resignation appear so eloquent as now; it has said more to my heart—& cheard it up more effectually above little fears & may be’s—Than all the Lectures of philosophy I have strength to apply to it, in my present Debility of mind and body.—as for the latter—my men of Science, will set it properly agoing again—tho’ upon what principles—the Wise Men of Gotham know as much as they—If they act right—what is it to me, how wrong they think, for finding my machine a much less tormenting one to me than before, I become reconciled to my Situation, and to their Ideas of it——but don’t you pity me, after all, my dearest and my best of friends? I know to what an amount thou wilt shed over me, this tender Tax—&’tis the Consolation springing out of that, of what a good heart it is which pours this friendly balm on mine, That has already, & will for ever heal every evil of my Life. And what is becoming, of my Eliza, all this time!—where is she sailing?—what Sickness or other evils have befallen her? I weep often my dear Girl, for thee my Imagination surrounds them with [^[24]]—What w^d. be the measure of my Sorrow, did I know thou wast distressed?—adieu—adieu—& trust my dear friend—my dear Bramine, that there still wants nothing to kill me in a few days, but the certainty, That thou wast suffering, what I am—& yet I know thou art ill—but when thou returnest back to England, all shall be set right—so heaven waft thee to us upon the wings of Mercy—that is, as speedily as the winds & tides can do thee this friendly office. This is the 7^th. day That I have tasted nothing better than Water gruel—am going, at the solicitation of Hall, to eat of a boild fowl—so he dines with me on it—and a dish of Macaruls—

7 o’clock—I have drank to thy Name Eliza! everlasting peace & happiness (for my Toast) in the first glass of Wine I have adventured to drink. My friend has left me— & I am alone,—like thee in thy solitary Cabin after thy return from a tasteless meal in the round house & like thee I fly to my Journal, to tell thee, I never prized thy friendship so high, or loved thee more—or wish’d so ardently to be a Sharer of all the weights w^ch. Providence has laid upon thy tender frame—Than this moment—when upon taking up my pen, my poor pulse quickend—my pale face glowed—and tears stood ready in my Eyes to fall upon the paper, as I traced the word Eliza. O Eliza! Eliza! ever best & blessed of all thy Sex! blessed in thyself and in thy Virtues—& blessed and endearing to all who know thee—to Me, Eliza, most so; because I know more of thee than any other—This is the true philtre by which Thou hast charm’d me & wilt for ever charm & hold me thine, whilst Virtue & faith hold this world together;’tis the simple Magic, by which I trust, I have won a place in that heart of thine on w^ch. I depend so satisfied, That Time & distance, or change of every thing w^ch. might allarm the little hearts of little men, create no uneasy suspence in mine—It scorns to doubt—& scorns to be doubted—’tis the only exception—where Security is not the parent of Danger.

My Illness will keep me three weeks longer in town.—but a Journey in less time would be hazardous, unless a short one across the Desert w^ch. I should set out upon to morrow, could I carry a Medicine with me which I was sure would prolong one month of y^r. Life—or should it happen——

—but why make Suppositions?—when Situations happen—’tis time enough to shew thee That thy Bramin is the truest & most friendly of mortal Spirits, & capable of doing more for his Eliza, than his pen will suffer him to promise.

Ap: 26. Slept not till three this morning—was in too delicious Society to think of it; for I was all the time with thee besides me, talking over the projess [sic] of our friendship, & turning the world into a thousand shapes to enjoy it. got up much better for the Conversation—found myself improved in body & mind & recruited beyond any thing I look’d for; my Doctors, stroked their beards, & look’d ten per C^t. wiser upon feeling my pulse, & enquiring after my Symptoms—am still to run thro’ a Course of Van Sweeten’s corrosive Mercury, or rather Van Sweeten’s Course of Mercury is to run thro’ me—I shall be sublimated to an etherial Substance by the time my Eliza sees me—she must be sublimated and uncorporated too, to be able to see me—but I was always transparent & a Being easy to be seen thro’, or Eliza had never loved me nor had Eliza been of any other Cast herself could her Bramine have held Communion with her. hear every day from our worthy sentimental friend—who rejoyces to think that the Name of Eliza is still to vibrate upon Yorick’s ear—this, my dear Girl, many who loved me dispair’d off—poor Molly who is all attention to me—& every day brings in the name of poor M^rs. Draper, told me last night, that She and her Mistress had observed, I had never held up my head, since the Day you last dined with me—That I had seldom laughed or smiled—had gone to no Diversions—but twice or thrice at the most, dined out—That they thought I was broken hearted, for she never entered the room or passed by the door, but she heard me sigh heavily—That I neither eat or slept or took pleasure in any Thing as before, except writing——The Observation will draw a sigh Eliza, from thy feeling heart—& yet, so thy heart w^d. wish to have it—’tis fit in truth We suffer equally nor can it be otherwise—when the causes of anguish in two hearts are so proportion’d, as in ours.—; Surely—Surely—Thou art mine Eliza! for dear have have I bought thee!

Ap: 27. Things go better with me, Eliza! and I shall be reestablished soon, except in bodily weakness; not yet being able to rise from thy arm chair, & walk to the other corner of my room, & back to it again without fatigue—I shall double my Journey to morrow, & if the day is warm the day after be got into my Carriage & be transported into Hyde park for the advantage of air and exercise—wast thou but besides me, I could go to Salt hill, I’m sure, & feel the journey short & pleasant.—another Time! * * * * * * * —the present, alas! is not ours. I pore so much on thy Picture—I have it off by heart—dear Girl—oh ’tis sweet!’tis kind!’tis reflecting!’tis affectionate! ’tis——thine my Bramine—I say my matins & Vespers to it—I quiet my Murmurs, by the Spirit which speaks in it—“all will end well my Yorick.”—I declare my dear Bramine I am so secured & wrapt up in this Belief, That I would not part with the Imagination, of how happy I am to be with thee, for all the offers of present Interest or Happiness the whole world could tempt me with; in the loneliest cottage that Love & Humility ever dwelt in, with thee along with me, I could possess more refined Content, Than in the most glittering Court; & with thy Love & fidelity, taste truer joys, my Eliza, & make thee also partake of more, than all the senseless parade of this silly world could compensate to either of us—with this, I bound all my desires & worldly views—what are they worth without Eliza? Jesus! grant me but this, I will deserve it—I will make my Bramine as Happy, as thy goodness wills her—I will be the Instrument of her recompense for the sorrows & disappointments thou has suffer’d her to undergo; & if ever I am false, unkind or un-gentle to her, so let me be dealt with by thy Justice.

9 o’clock, I am preparing to go to bed my dear Girl, & first pray for thee, & then to Idolize thee for two wakeful hours upon my pillow—I shall after that, I find dream all night of thee, for all the day have I done nothing but think of thee—something tells, that thou hast this day, been employed in the same way. good night, fair Soul—& may the sweet God of sleep close gently thy eyelids—& govern & direct thy Slumbers—adieu—adieu, adieu!

Ap: 28. I was not deceived Eliza! by my presentiment that I should find thee out in my dreams; for I have been with thee almost the whole night, alternately soothing Thee, or telling thee my sorrows—I have rose up comforted & strengthened—& found myself so much better, that I orderd my Carriage, to carry me to our mutual friend—Tears ran down her cheeks when she saw how pale & wan I was—never gentle creature sympathized more tenderly—I beseech you, cried the good Soul, not to regard either difficulties or expences, but fly to Eliza directly—I see you will dye without her—save y^rself for her—how shall I look her in the face? What can I say to her, when on her return I have to tell her, That her Yorick is no more!—Tell her my dear friend, said I, That I will meet her in a better world—& that I have left this, because I could not live without her; tell Eliza, my dear friend, added I—That I died broken hearted—and that you were a Witness to it—as I said this, She burst into the most pathetic flood of Tears—that ever kindly Nature shed. You never beheld so affecting a Scene—’twas too much for Nature! oh! she is good—I love her as my Sister!—& could Eliza have been a witness, hers would have melted down to Death & scarse have been brought back, an Extacy so celestial & savouring of another world.—I had like to have fainted, & to that Degree was my heart & soul affected, it was w^th. difficulty I could reach the street door; I have got home, & shall lay all day upon my Sopha—& to morrow morning my dear Girl write again to thee; for I have not strength to drag my pen—

Ap: 29.

I am so ill to day, my dear, I can only tell you so—I wish I was put into a Ship for Bombay—I wish I may otherwise hold out till the hour We might otherwise have met—I have too many evils upon me at once—& yet I will not faint under them—Come!—Come to me soon my Eliza & save me!

Ap: 30. Better to day—but am too much visited & find my strength wasted by the attention I must give to all concern’d for me—I will go Eliza, be it but by ten mile Journeys, home to my thatched Cottage—& there I shall have no respit—for I shall do nothing but think of thee—and burn out this weak Taper of Life by the flame thou hast superadded to it—fare well my dear * * * * —to morrow begins a new month—& I hope to give thee in it, a more sunshiny side of myself—Heaven! how is it with my Eliza—

May 1.

got out into the park to day—Sheba there on Horseback; pass’d twice by her without knowing her—she stop’d the 3^d. time—to ask me how I did—I w^d. not have askd you, Solomon! said She, but y^r. Looks affected me—for you’re half dead I fear—I thank’d Sheba very kindly, but w^thout any emotion but what sprung from gratitude—Love alas! was fled with thee Eliza!—I did not think Sheba could have changed so much in grace & beauty—Thou hadst shrunk poor Sheba away into Nothing, but a good natured girl, without powers or charms—I fear your wife is dead; quoth Sheba—no, you don’t fear it Sheba said I—Upon my word Solomon! I would quarrel with You, was you not so ill—If you knew the cause of my Illness, Sheba, replied I, you w^d. quarrel but the more with me—You lie, Solomon! answerd Sheba, for I know the Cause already—& am so little out of Charity with You upon it—That I give you leave to come & drink Tea with me before you leave Town—you’re a good honest Creature Sheba—no! you Rascal, I am not—but I’m in Love, as much as you can be for y^r. Life—I’m glad of it Sheba! said I—You Lie, said Sheba, & so canter’d away.—O my Eliza, had I ever truely loved another (w^ch. I never did) Thou hast long ago, cut the Root of all Affection in me—& planted & waterd & nourish’d it, to bear fruit only for thyself—Continue to give me proofs I have had and shall preserve the same rights over thee my Eliza! and if I ever murmur at the sufferings of Life after that, Let me be numbered with the ungrateful.—I look now forwards with Impatience for the day thou art to get to Madras—& from thence shall I want to hasten thee to Bombay—where heaven will make all things Conspire to lay the Basis of thy health & future happiness—be true my dear girl, to thy self—& the rights of Self preservation which Nature has given thee—persevere—be firm—be pliant—be placid—be courteous—but still be true to thy self—& never give up y^r. Life,—or suffer the disquieting altercations, or small outrages you may undergo in this momentous point, to weigh a Scruple in the Ballance—Firmness—& fortitude & perseverance gain almost impossibilities—& Skin for Skin, saith Job, nay all that a Man has, will he give for his Life—oh my Eliza! That I could take the Wings of the Morning, & fly to aid thee in this virtuous Struggle. went to Ranelagh at 8 this night, and sat still till ten—came home ill.

May 2^d.

I fear I have relapsed—sent afresh for my Doctor—who has confined me to my sopha—being able neither to walk, stand or sit upright, without aggravating my Symptoms—I’m still to be treated as if I was a Sinner—& in truth have some appearances so strongly implying it, That was I not conscious I had had no Commerce with the Sex these 15 Years, I would decamp to morrow for Montpellier in the South of France, where Maladies of this sort are better treated & all taints more radically driven out of the Blood—than in this Country; but If I continue long ill—I am still determined to repair there—not to undergo a Cure of a distemper I cannot have, but for the bettering my Constitution by a better Climate.—I write this as I lie upon my back—in w^ch. posture I must continue, I fear some days—If I am able—will take up my pen again before night—

4 o’clock.—an hour dedicated to Eliza! for I have dined alone—& ever since the Cloath has been laid, have done nothing but call upon thy dear Name—and ask why ’tis not permitted thou shouldst sit down, & share my Macarel & fowl—there would be enough, said Molly as she placed it upon the Table to have served both You & poor M^rs. Draper—I never bring in the knives & forks, added she, but I think of her—There was no more trouble with you both, than w^th. one of You—I never heard a high or a hasty word from either of You—You were surely made, added Molly, for one another, you are both so kind so quiet & so friendly—Molly furnished me with Sause to my Meat—for I wept my plate full, Eliza! & now I have begun, could shed tears till Supper again—& then go to bed weeping for thy absence till morning. Thou hast bewitch’d me with powers, my dear Girl, from which no power shall unlose me—and if fate can put this Journel of my Love into thy hands, before we meet, I know with what warmth it will inflame the kindest of hearts, to receive me. peace be with thee, my Eliza, till that happy moment!

9 at night. I shall never get possession of myself, Eliza! at this rate—I want to Call off my Thoughts from thee, that I may now & then apply them to some concerns w^ch. require both my attention & genius, but to no purpose—I had a Letter to write to Lord Shelburn—& had got my apparatus in order to begin—when a Map of India coming in my Way—I begun to study the length & dangers of my Eliza’s Voyage to it, and have been amusing & frightening myself by turns, as I traced the path-way of the Earl of Chatham, the whole afternoon—good god! what a voyage for any one!—but for the poor relax’d frame of my tender Bramine to cross the Line twice, & be subject to the Intolerant heats, & the hazards w^ch. must be the consequence of em to such an unsupported Being! O Eliza! ’tis too much—& if thou conquerest these, and all the other difficulties of so tremendous an alienation from thy Country, thy Children & thy friends,’tis the hand of Providence w^ch. watches over thee for most merciful purposes—Let this persuasion, my dear Eliza! stick close to thee in all thy tryals—as it shall in those thy faithful Bramin is put to—till the mark’d hour of deliverance comes. I’m going to sleep upon this religious Elixir—may the Infusion of it distil into the gentlest of hearts—for that Eliza! is thine—sweet, dear, faithful Girl, most kindly does thy Yorick greet thee with the wishes of a good night & of Millions yet to come——

May 3^d. Sunday. What can be the matter with me! Something is wrong, Eliza! in every part of me—I do not gain strength; nor have I the feelings of health returning back to me; even my best moments seem merely the efforts of my mind to get well again, because I cannot reconcile myself to the thoughts of never seeing thee Eliza more.—for something is out of tune in every Chord of me—still with thee to nurse & sooth me, I should soon do well—The want of thee is half my distemper—but not the whole of it—I must see M^rs. James to night, tho’ I know not how to get there—but I shall not sleep, if I don’t talk of you to her—so shall finish this Days Journal on my return—

May 4^th. Directed by M^rs. James how to write Over-Land to thee, my Eliza!—would gladly tear out thus much of my Journal to send to thee—but the Chances are too many against it’s getting to Bombay—or of being deliverd into y^r. own hands——shall write a long long Letter—& trust it to fate & thee. was not able to say three words at M^rs. James, thro’ utter weakness of body & mind; & when I got home—could not get up stairs w^th. Molly’s aid—have rose a little better, my dear girl—& will live for thee—do the same for thy Bramin, I beseech thee. a Line from thee now, in this state of my Dejection,—would be worth a kingdome to me!—

May 4. Writing by way of Vienna & Bussorah My Eliza.—this & Company took up the day.

5^th. writing to Eliza.—& trying l’Extrait de Saturne upon myself.—(a french Nostrum)

6^th. Dined out for the 1^st. time—came home to enjoy a more harmonious evening w^th. my Eliza, than I could expect at Soho Concert [^[25]]—every Thing my dear Girl, has lost its former relish to me—& for thee eternally does it quicken! writing to thee over Land all day.

7. continue poorly, my dear!—but my blood warms every mom^t. I think of our future Scenes—so must grow strong upon the Idea—what shall I do upon the Reality?—O God!—

8^th. employ’d in writing to my Dear all day—& in projecting happiness for her—tho in misery myself. O! I have undergone Eliza!—but the worst is over—(I hope)—so adieu to those Evils, & let me haste the happiness to come.

9^th.—10^th.—& 11^th.—so unaccountably disorder’d—I cannot say more—but that I w. suffer ten times more & with wishes for my Eliza—adieu bless’d Woman!—

12^th. O Eliza! That my weary head was now laid upon thy Lap—(tis all that’s left for it)—or that I had thine, reclining upon my bosome, and there resting all its disquietudes;—my Bramine—the world or Yorick must perish, before that foundation shall fail thee!—I continue poorly—but I turn my Eyes Eastward the oftener, & with more earnestness for it——Great God of Mercy! shorten the Space betwixt us,—Shorten the space of our miseries!

13^th. Could not get the Gen^l. post office to take charge of my Letters to You—so gave thirty shillings to a Merchant to further them to Aleppo & from thence to Bassorah—so you will receive ’em (I hope in god) say by Christmas—Surely ’tis not impossible, but I may be made as happy as my Eliza, by some transcript from her, by that time—If not I shall hope—& hope every week, and every hour of it, for Tidings of Comfort—we taste not of it now, my dear Bramine—but we will make full meals upon it hereafter.—Cards from 7 or 8 of our Grandies to dine with them before I leave Town—shall go like a Lamb to the Slaughter—“Man delights not me—nor Woman”

14. a little better to day—& would look pert, if my heart would but let me—dined w^th. L^d. & Lady Bellasis.—so beset w^th. Company—not a moment to write.

15. Undone with too much Society yesterday,—You scarse can Conceive my dear Eliza what a poor Soul I am—how I shall be got down to Cox only heaven knows—for I am as weak as a Child—You would not like me the worse for it, Eliza, if you was here—My friends like me, the more,—& Swear I shew more true fortitude & eveness of temper in my Suffering than Seneca, or Socrates—I am, my Bramin,[^[26]] resigned.

16. Taken up all day with worldly matters, just as my Eliza was the week before her departure.—breakfasted with Lady Spencer—caught her with the character of y^r. Portrait—caught her passions still more with that of y^rself.—& my Attachment to the most amiable of Beings—drove at night to Ranelagh—staid an hour—returned to my Lodgings, dissatisfied.

17. At Court—every thing in this world seems in Masquerade, but thee dear Woman—and therefore I am sick of all the world but thee—one Evening so spent, as the Saturday’s w^ch. preeceeded our Separation—would sicken all the Conversation of the world—I relish no Converse since—when will the like return?—’tis hidden from us both, for the wisest ends—and the hour will come my Eliza! when We shall be convinced, that every event has been order’d for the best for Us—our fruit is not ripend—the accidents of time & Seasons will ripen every Thing together for Us—a little better to day—or could not have wrote this. dear Bramine rest thy Sweet Soul in peace!

18. Laid sleepless all night, with thinking of the many dangers & sufferings, my dear Girl! that thou art exposed to—from the Voiage & thy sad state of health—but I find I must think no more upon them—I have rose wan and trembling with the Havock they have made upon my nerves—’tis death to me to apprehend for you—I must flatter my Imagination, That every Thing goes well with You—Surely no evil can have befallen you—for if it had—I had felt some monitory sympathetic Shock within me, w^ch. would have spoke like Revelation.—So farewell to all tormenting May be’s in regard to my Eliza—She is well—she thinks of her Yorick w^th. as much Affection and true esteem as ever—and values him as much above the World, as he values his Bramine.

19. Packing up, or rather Molly for me, the whole day—tormenting! had not Molly all the time talk’d of poor M^rs. Draper—& recounted every Visit She had made me, and every repast she had shared with me—how good a Lady!—How sweet a temper!—how beautiful!—how genteel!—how gentle a Carriage—& how soft & engaging a look!—the poor girl is bewitch’d with us both—infinitely interested in our Story, tho’ She knows nothing of it but from her penetration and Conjectures.—She says however,’tis Impossible not to be in Love with her—In heart-felt truth, Eliza! I’m of Molly’s opinion.

20. Taking Leave of all the Town, before my departure to morrow.

21. detaind by Lord & Lady Spencer who had made a party to dine & sup on my Acc^t. Impatient to set out for my Solitude—there the Mind, Eliza! gains strength, & learns to lean upon herself—and seeks refuge in its own Constancy & Virtue—in the world it seeks or accepts of a few treacherous supports—the feign’d Compassion of one—the flattery of a second—the Civilities of a third—the friendship of a fourth—they all deceive—& bring the Mind back to where mine is retreating—that is Eliza! to itself—to thee who art my second self, to retirement, reflection & Books—when The Stream of Things, dear Bramine, Brings Us both together to this Haven—will not your heart take up its rest for ever? & will not y^r. head Leave the world to those who can make a better thing of it—if there are any who know how.—Heaven take thee Eliza! under it’s Wing—adieu! adieu—

22^d.

Left Bond Street & London w^t. it, this Morning—What a Creature I am! my heart has ached this week to get away—& still was ready to bleed in quiting a Place where my Connection with my dear dear Eliza began—Adieu to it! till I am summon’d up to the Downs by a Message, to fly to her—for I think I shall not be able to support Town without you—& w^d. chuse rather to sit solitary here till the end of the next Summer—to be made happy altogether—then seek for happiness—or even suppose I can have it, but in Eliza’s Society.

23^d.[^[27]] bear my Journey badly—ill—& dispirited all the Way—staid two days on the road at the A-Bishops of Yorks—shewd his Grace & his Lady and Sister y^r. portrait—w^th. a short but interesting Story of my friendship for the Original—kindly nursed & honourd both—arrived at my Thatchd Cottage the 28^th. of May.

29^th. & 30^th.—confined to my bed—so emaciated, and unlike what I was, I could scarse be angry with thee Eliza, if thou Coulds not remember me, did heaven send me across thy way—Alas! poor Yorick!—“remember thee! Pale Ghost—remember thee—“whilst Memory holds a seat in this distracted World—Remember thee—Yes from the Table of her Memory,” shall just Eliza wipe away all trivial men—& leave a throne for Yorick—adieu dear constant Girl—adieu—adieu—& Remember my Truth and eternal fidelity—Remember how I Love—remember what I suffer.—Thou art mine Eliza by Purchace—had I not earn’d thee with a bitter price.

31.

Going this day upon a long course of Corrosive Mercury—w^ch. in itself, is deadly poyson, but given in a certain preparation, not very dangerous—I was forced to give it up in Town, from the terrible Cholicks both in Stomach & Bowels—but the Faculty thrust it down my Throat again—These Gentry have got it into their Nodelles, That mine is an Ecclesiastic Rheum as the french call it—god help em! I submit as my Uncle Toby did, in drinking Water, upon the wound he rec^d. in his Groin—Merely for quietness sake.

June 1.

The Faculty, my dear Eliza! have mistaken my Case—why not y^rs.? I wish I could fly to you & attend you but one month as a physician—You’ll Languish & dye where you are,—(if not by the climate)—most certainly by their Ignorance of y^r. Case, & the unskilful Treatment you must be a martyr to in such a place as Bombay.—I’m Languishing here myself with every Aid & help—& tho’ I shall conquer it—yet have had a cruel Struggle—w^d. my dear friend, I could ease y^rs., either by my Advice—my attention—my Labour—my purse—They are all at y^r. Service, such as they are—and that you know Eliza—or my friendship for you is not worth a rush.

June 2^d.

This morning surpriz’d with a Letter from my Lydia—that She and her Mama, are coming to pay me a Visit—but on Condition I promise not to detain them in England beyond next April—when, they purpose, by my Consent, to retire into France, & establish themselves for Life—To all which I have freely given my parole of Honour—& so shall have them with me for the Summer—from Oct^r. to April—they take Lodgings in York—when they Leave me for good & all I suppose.

☞——Every thing for the best! Eliza. This unexpected visit, is neither a visit of friendship or form—but ’tis a visit, such as I know you will never make me,—of pure Interest—to pillage what they can from me. In the first place to sell a small estate I have of sixty p^ds. a year—& lay out the purchase money in joint annuitys for them in the french Funds; by this they will obtain 200 p^ds. a year, to be continued to the longer Liver—and as it rids me of all future care—& moreover transfers their Income to the Kingdom where they purpose to live—I’m truely acquiescent—tho’ I lose the Contingency of surviving them—but ’tis no matter—I shall have enough—& a hundred or two hundred Pounds for Eliza when ever She will honour me with putting her hand into my Purse——In the main time, I am not sorry for this Visit, as every Thing will be finally settled between us by it—only as their Annuity will be too strait—I shall engage to remit them a 100 Guineas a year more, during my Wife’s Life—& then, I will think, Eliza, of living for myself & the Being I love as much. But I shall be pillaged in a hundred small Item’s by them—w^ch. I have a Spirit above saying, no—to; as Provisions of all sorts of Linnens—for house use—Body use—printed Linnens for Gowns—Mazareens of Teas—Plate, (all I have, but 6 Silver Spoons)—In short I shall be pluck’d bare—all but of y^r. Portrait & Snuff Box & y^r. other dear Presents—& the neat furniture of my thatched Palace—& upon these I set up Stock again, Eliza. What say you, Eliza! shall we join our little capitals together?—will M^r. Draper give us leave?—he may safely—if y^r. Virtue & Honour are only concerned,—’twould be safe in Yoricks hands, as in a Brothers—I w^d. not wish M^r. Draper to allow you above half I allow M^rs. Sterne—Our Capital would be too great, & tempt us from the Society of poor Cordelia—who begins to wish for you.

By this time, I trust you have doubled the Cape of good hope—& sat down to y^r. writing Drawer; & look’d in Yoricks face, as you took out y^r. Journal; to tell him so—I hope he seems to smile as kindly upon you Eliza, as ever—y^r. Attachment & Love for me, will make him do so to eternity—if ever he sh^d. change his Air, Eliza!—I charge you catechize your own Heart—oh! twil never happen!

June 3^d.—Cannot write my Travels, or give one half hours close attention to them, upon Thy Acc^t. my dearest friend—Yet write I must, & what to do with You, whilst I write—I declare I know not—I want to have you ever before my Imagination—& cannot keep you out of my heart or head—In short thou enterst my Library Eliza! (as thou one day shalt) without tapping—or sending for—by thy own Right of ever being close to thy Bramine—now I must shut you out sometimes—or meet you Eliza! with an empty purse upon the Beach—pity my entanglements from other passions—my Wife with me every moment of the Summer—think w^t. restraint upon a Fancy that should Sport & be in all points at its ease—O had I, my dear Bramine this Summer, to soften—& modulate my feelings—to enrich my fancy, & fill my heart brim full with bounty—my Book w^d. be worth the reading—

It will be by stealth if I am able to go on with my Journal at all—It will have many Interruptions—& Heyho’s! most sentimentally utter’d—Thou must take it as it pleases God.—as thou must take the Writer—eternal Blessings be about You Eliza! I am a little better, & now find I shall be set right in all points—my only anxiety is about You—I want to prescribe for you My Eliza—for I think I understand y^r. Case better than all the Faculty. adieu—adieu.

June 4.

Hussy!—I have employ’d a full hour upon y^r. sweet sentimental Picture—and a couple of hours upon yourself—& with as much kind friendship, as the hour You left me—I deny it—Time lessens no Affections w^ch. honour & merit have planted—I w^d. give more, and hazard more now for your happiness than in any one period, since I first learn’d to esteem you—is it so with thee my friend? has absence weakened my Interest—has time worn out any Impression—or is Yoricks name less Musical in Eliza’s ears?—my heart smites me, for asking the question—’tis Treason ag^st. thee Eliza and Truth—Ye are dear Sisters, and y^r. Brother Bramin Can never live to see a Separation amongst Us.—What a similitude in our Trials whilst asunder!—Providence has order’d every Step better, than we could have order’d them,—for the particular good we wish each other—This you will comment upon & find the Sense of without my explanation.

I wish this Summer & Winter w^th. all I am to go through with in them, in business & Labour & Sorrow, well over—I have much to compose—& much to discompose me—have my Wife’s projects—& my own Views arising out of them, to harmonize and turn to account—I have Millions of heart aches to suffer & reason with—& in all this Storm of Passions, I have but one small Anchor, Eliza! to keep this weak Vessel of mine from perishing—I trust all I have to it—as I trust Heaven, which cannot leave me, without a fault, to perish.—may the same just Heaven my Eliza, be that eternal Canopy w^ch. shall shelter thy head from evil till we meet—Adieu—adieu—adieu.

June 5.

I sit down to write this day, in good earnest—so read Eliza! quietly besides me—I’ll not give you a Look—except one of kindness—dear Girl! if thou lookest so bewitching once more—I’ll turn thee out of my Study—You may bid me defiance, Eliza.—You cannot conceive how much & how universally I’m pitied, upon the Score of this unexpected Visit from france—my friends think it will kill me—If I find myself in danger I’ll fly to you to Bombay—will M^r. Draper receive me?—he ought—but he will never know what reasons make it his Interest and Duty—We must leave all all to that Being who is infinitely removed above all Straitness of heart ... & is a friend to the friendly, as well as to the friendless.

June 6.—am quite alone in the depth of that sweet Recess, I have so often described to You—’tis sweet in itself—but You never come across me—but the perspective brightens up—& every Tree & Hill & Vale & Ruin ab^t. me—smiles as if you was amidst ’em—delusive moments!—how pensive a price do I pay for you—fancy sustains the Vision whilst She has strength—but Eliza! Eliza is not with me!—I sit down upon the first Hillock Solitary as a sequester’d Bramin—I wake from my delusion to a thousand Disquietudes, which many talk of—my Eliza!—but few feel—then weary my Spirit with thinking, plotting, & projecting—& when I’ve brought my System to my mind—am only Doubly miserable, That I cannot execute it—

Thus—Thus my dear Bramine are we lost at present in this tempest—Some Haven of rest will open to us assuredly—God made us not for Misery! and Ruin—he has orderd all our Steps—& influenced our Attachments for what is worthy of them—It must end well—Eliza!—

June 7

I have this week finish’d a sweet little apartment which all the time it was doing, I flatter’d the most delicious of Ideas, in thinking I was making it for You—’Tis a neat little simple elegant room, overlook’d only by the Sun—just big enough to hold a Sopha; for us—a Table, four Chairs, a Bureau, & a Book case—They are to be all y^rs., Room & all—& there Eliza! shall I enter ten times a day to give thee Testimonies of my Devotion—Wast thou this moment sat down, it w^d. be the sweetest of earthly Tabernacles—I shall enrich it, from time to time, for thee—till Fate lets me lead thee, by the hand Into it—& then it can want no Ornament.—’tis a little oblong room—with a large Sash at the end—a little elegant fireplace—w^th. as much room to dine around it, as in Bond street—But in sweetness & Simplicity; & silence beyond any thing—oh my Eliza!—I shall see thee surely Goddesse of this Temple,—and the most sovereign one, of all I have—& of all the powers heaven has trusted me with—They were lent me, Eliza! only for thee—& for thee my dear Girl shall be kept & employ’d.—You know what rights You have over me.—wish to heaven I could Convey the Grant more amply than I have done—but ’tis the same—’tis register’d where it will longest last—& that is in the feeling & most sincere of human hearts—You know I mean this reciprocally—& whenever I mention the Word Fidelity & Truth,—in Speaking of y^r. Reliance on mine—I always Imply the same Reliance upon the same Virtues in my Eliza.—I love thee Eliza! & will love thee for ever—Adieu.—

June 8.

Begin to recover, and sensibly to gain strength every day—and have such an appetite as I have not had for some Years—I prophecy I shall be the better, for the very Accident which has occasioned my Illness—& that the Medicines & Regimen I have submitted to will make a thorough Regeneration of me, and y^t. I shall have more health and strength, than I have enjoy’d these ten Years—Send me such an Acc^t. of thyself Eliza, by the first sweet Gale—but ’tis impossible You sh^d. from Bombay—twil be as fatal to You, as it has been to thousands of y^r. Sex—England & Retirement in it, can only save you—Come!—Come away—

June 9^th. I keep a post chaise & a couple of fine horses, & take the Air every day in it—I go out—& return to my Cottage Eliza! alone—’tis melancholly, what sh^d. be matter of enjoyment; & the more so for that reason—I have a thousand things to remark & say as I roll along—but I want you to say them to—I could some times be wise—& often Witty—but I feel it a reproach to be the latter whilst Eliza is so far from hearing me—& what is Wisdom to a foolish weak heart like mine! Tis like the Song of Melody to a broken Spirit—You must teach me fortitude my dear Bramine—for with all the tender qualities w^ch. make you the most precious of Women—& most wanting of all other Women of a kind of protector—yet you have a passive kind of sweet Courage w^ch. bears you up—more than any one Virtue I can summon up in my own Case—We were made with Tempers for each other Eliza! and you are bless’d with such a certain turn of Mind & reflection—that if Self love does not blind me—I resemble no Being in the world so nearly as I do you—do you wonder then I have such friendship for you?—for my own part, I sh^d. not be astonished, Eliza, if you was to declare “You was up to the ears in Love with Me.”

June 10^th.

You are stretching over now in the Trade Winds from the Cape to Madrass—(I hope)—but I know it not, some friendly Ship you possibly have met w^th., & I never read an Acc^t. of an India Man arrived—but I expect that it is the Messenger of the news my heart is upon the rack for.—I calculate, That you will arrive at Bombay by the beginning of October—by February, I shall surely hear from you thence—but from Madrass sooner.—I expect you Eliza in person, by September—& shall scarse go to London till March—for what have I to do there, when (except printing my Books) I have no Interest or Passion to gratify—I shall return in June to Coxwould—& there wait for the glad Tidings of y^r. arrival in the Downs—won’t You write to me Eliza? by the first Boat? would not you wish to be greeted by y^r. Yorick upon the Beech?—or be met by him to hand you out of y^r. postchaise, to pay him for the Anguish he underwent, in handing you into it?—I know your answers—my Spirit is with You. farewel dear friend—

June 11.

I am every day negociating to sell my little Estate besides me—to send the money into France to purchace peace to myself—& a certainty of never having it interrupted by M^rs. Sterne—who when She is sensible I have given her all I can part with—will be at rest herself—Indeed her plan to purchace annuities in france—is a pledge of Security to me—That She will live her days out there—otherwise She could have no end in transporting this two thousand pounds out of England—nor w^d. I consent but upon that plan—but I may be at rest!—if my imagination will but let me—Hall says ’tis no matter where she lives; If we are but separate,’tis as good as if the Ocean rolled between us—& so I should argue to another Man—but,’tis an Idea w^ch. won’t do so well for me—& tho’ nonsensical enough—Yet I shall be most at rest when there is that Bar between Us—was I never so sure, I sh^d. never be interrupted by her, in England—but I may be at rest I say, on that head—for they have left all their Cloaths & plate and Linen behind them in france—& have joined in the most earnest Entreaty, That they may return & fix in france—to w^ch. I have give my word & honour—You will be bound with me Eliza! I hope, for performance of my promise—I never yet broke it, in cases where Interest or pleasure could have tempted me,—and shall hardly do it now, when tempted only by misery.—In Truth Eliza! thou art the Object to w^ch. every act of mine is directed—You interfere in every Project—I rise—I go to sleep with this on my Brain—how will my dear Bramine approve of this?—w^ch. way will it conduce to make her happy? and how will it be a proof of my affection to her? are all the Enquiries I make—y^r. Honour, y^r. Conduct, y^r. Truth & regard for my esteem—I know will equally direct every Step—& movement of y^r. Desires—& with that Assurance, is it, my dear Girl, That I sustain Life.—But when will those Sweet eyes of thine, run over these Declarations?—how—& with whom are they to be entrusted; to be conveyed to You?—unless M^rs. James’s friendship to us, finds some expedient—I must wait—till the first evening I’m with You—when I shall present You w^th. them as a better Picture of me, than Cosway could do for You …—have been dismally ill all day—owing to my course of Medicines w^ch. are too strong & forcing for this gawsy Constitution of mine—I mend with them however—good God! how is it with You?——

June 12. I have return’d from a delicious walk of Romance, my Bramine, which I am to tread a thousand times over with You swinging upon my arm—’tis to my Convent—& I have pluckd up a score [of] Bryars by the roots w^ch. grew near the edge of the foot way, that they might not scratch or incommode you—had I been sure of y^r. taking that walk with me the very next day, I could not have been more serious in my employm^t.—dear Enthusiasm?—thou bringst things forward in a moment, w^ch. Time keeps for Ages back—I have you ten times a day besides me—I talk to you Eliza, for hours together—I take y^r. Council—I hear your reasons—I admire you for them!—to this magic of a warm Mind, I owe all that’s worth living for, during this State of our Trial—Every Trinket you gave or exchanged w^th. me has its force—y^r. Picture is Y^rself—all Sentiment, Softness & Truth—It speaks—it listens—’tis concerned—it resignes—Dearest Original! how like unto thee does it seem—& will seem—till thou makest it vanish, by thy presence—I’m but so, so—but advancing in health—to meet you—to nurse you, to nourish you ag^st. you come—for I fear, You will not arrive, but in a State that calls out to Yorick for support—Thou art Mistress, Eliza, of all the powers he has to sooth & protect thee—for thou art Mistress of his heart; his affections; and his reason—& beyond that, except a paltry purse, he has nothing worth giving thee—.

June 13.

This has been a year of presents to me—my Bramine—How many presents have I rec^d. from You in the first place?—L^d. Spencer has loaded me with a grand Ecritoire of 40 Guineas—I am to receive this week a fourty Guinea-present of a gold Snuff Box, as fine as Paris can fabricate one with an Inscription on it, more valuable, than the Box itself—I have a present of a portrait, (which by the by I have immortalized in my Sentimental Journey) worth them both—I say nothing of a gold Stock buccle & Buttons—tho’ I rate them above rubies, because they were Consecrated by the hand of Friendship, as She fitted them to me.—I have a present of the Sculptures upon poor Ovid’s Tomb, who died in Exile, tho’ he wrote so well upon the Art of Love—These are in six beautiful Pictures executed on Marble at Rome—& these Eliza, I keep sacred as Ornaments for y^r. Cabinet, on Condition I hang them up.—and last of all, I have had a present, Eliza! this Year, of a Heart so finely set—with such rich materials—& Workmanship—That Nature must have had the chief hand in it—If I am able to keep it—I shall be a rich Man—If I lose it—I shall be poor indeed—so poor! I shall stand begging at y^r. gates.—But what can all these presents portend—That it will turn out a fortunate earnest, of what is to be given me hereafter.

June 14.

I want you to comfort me my dear Bramine—& reconcile my mind to 3 months misery—some days I think lightly of it—on others—my heart sinks down to the earth—but ’tis the last Trial of conjugal Misery—& I wish it was to begin this moment, That it might run its period the faster—for sitting as I do, expecting sorrow—is suffering it—I am going to Hall to be philosophizd with for a week or ten Days on this point—but one hour with you would calm me more & furnish me with stronger Supports under this weight upon my Spirits, than all the world put together—Heaven! to what distressful Encountres hast thou thought fit to expose me—& was it not, that thou hast bless’d me with a chearfulness of disposition—& thrown an object in my way, That is to render that Sun Shine perpetual—Thy dealings with me, would be a mystery.

June 15—from morning to night every mom^t. of this day held in Bondage at my friend L^d. ffauconberg’s—so have but a moment left to close the day, as I do every one—with wishing thee a sweet nights rest—would I was at the feet of y^r. Bed fanning breezes to You, in y^r. Slumbers—Mark!—you will dream of me this night—& if it is not recorded in your Journal—I’ll say, you could not recollect it the day following—adieu.—

June 16.

My Chaise is so large—so high—so long—so wide—so Crawford’s-like, That I am building a coach house on purpose for it—do you dislike it for this gigantick size?—now I remember, I heard you once say—You hated a small post Chaise—w^ch. you must know determined my Choice to this—because I hope to make you a present of it—& if you are squeamish I shall be as squeamish as You, & return you all y^r. presents,—but one—w^ch. I cannot part with—and what that is—I defy you to guess. I have bought a milch Asse this afternoon—& purpose to live by Suction, to save the expences of houskeeping—& have a Score or two guineas in my purse, next

June 17.

I have brought y^r. name Eliza! and Picture into my work [^[28]]—where they will remain—when You & I are at rest for ever—Some Annotator or explainer of my works in this place will take occasion, to speak of the Friendship w^ch. subsisted so long & faithfully betwixt Yorick & the Lady he speaks of—Her Name he will tell the world was Draper—a Native of India—married there to a gentleman in the India Service of that Name—who brought her over to England for the recovery of her health in the Year 65—where She continued to April the Year 1767. It was ab^t. three months before her Return to India, That our Author’s acquaintance & hers began. M^rs. Draper had a great thirst for knowledge—was handsome—genteel—engaging—and of such gentle dispositions & so enlightened an understanding,—That Yorick (whether he made much opposition is not known) from an acquaintance—soon became her Admirer—they caught fire, at each other at the same time—& they w^d. often say, without reserve to the world, & without any Idea of saying wrong in it, That their Affections for each other were unbounded—M^r. Draper dying in the Year * * * * * This Lady return’d to England & Yorick the Year after becoming a Widower—They were married—& retiring to one of his Livings in Yorkshire, where was a most romantic Situation—they lived & died happily—and are spoke of with honour in the parish to this day—

June 18.

How do you like the History, of this couple, Eliza?—is it to your mind?—or shall it be written better some sentimental Evening after your return—’tis a rough sketch—but I could make it a pretty picture, as the outlines are just—we’ll put our heads together & try what we can do. This last Sheet has put it out of my power, ever to send you this Journal to India—I had been more guarded—but that You have often told me, ’twas in vain to think of writing by Ships w^ch. sail in March,—as you hoped to be upon y^r. return again by their arrival at Bombay—If I can write a Letter I will—but this Journal must be put into Eliza’s hands by Yorick only—God grant you to read it soon.—

June 19.

I never was so well and alert, as I find myself this day—tho’ with a face as pale & clear as a Lady after her Lying in. Yet you never saw me so Young by 5 Years—& If you do not leave Bombay soon—You’ll find me as young as Y^rself—at this rate of going on——Summon’d from home—adieu.

June 20.

I think my dear Bramine—That nature is turn’d upside down—for Wives go to visit Husbands, at greater perils & take longer journies to pay them this Civility now a days out of ill Will—than good—Mine is flying post a Journey of a thousand Miles—with as many miles to go back—merely to see how I do, & whether I am fat or lean—& how far are you going to see y^r. Helpmate—and at such hazards to Y^r. Life, as few Wives’ best affections w^d. be able to surmount—But Duty & Submission Eliza govern thee—by what impulses my Rib is bent towards me—I have told you—& yet I w^d. to God, Draper but rec^d. & treated you with half the courtesy & good nature—I wish you was with him—for the same reason I wish my Wife at Coxwould—That She might the sooner depart in peace—She is ill—of a Diarhea which she has from a weakness on her bowels ever since her paralitic Stroke—Travelling post in hot weather, is not the best remedy for her—but my girl says—she is determined to venture—She wrote me word in Winter, She w^d. not leave france, till her end approach’d—surely this journey is not prophetic! but twould invert the order of Things on the other side of this Leaf—and what is to be on the next Leaf—The Fates, Eliza only can tell us—rest satisfied.

June 21.

have left off all medicines—not caring to tear my frame to pieces with ’em—as I feel perfectly well.—set out for Crasy Castle to morrow morning—where I stay ten days—take my Sentimental Voyage—and this Journal with me, as certain as the two first Wheels of my Chariot—I cannot go on without them.—I long to see y^rs.—I shall read it a thousand times over If I get it before y^r. arrival—What w^d. I now give for it—tho’ I know there are circumstances in it, That will make my heart bleed & waste within me—but if all blows over—’tis enough—we will not recount our Sorrows, but to shed tears of Joy over them—O Eliza! Eliza! Heaven nor any Being it created, never so possessed a Man’s heart—as thou possessest mine—use it kindly—Hussy—that is, eternally be true to it.

June 22. Ive been as far as York to day with no Soul with me in my Chase, but y^r. Picture—for it has a Soul I think—or something like one which has talk’d to me, & been the best Company I ever took a Journey with (always excepting a Journey I once took with a friend of y^rs. to Salt hill, & Enfield Wash—The pleasure I had in those Journies, have left Impressions upon my Mind, which will last my Life—You may tell her as much when You see her—she will not take it ill—I set out early to morrow morning to see M^r. Hall—but take my Journal along with me.

June 24^th.

As pleasant a Journey as I am capable of taking Eliza! without thee—Thou shalt take it with me when time & tide serve hereafter, & every other Journey w^ch. ever gave me pleasure, shall be rolled over again with thee besides me—Amo’s Vale shall look gay again upon Eliza’s Visit—and the Companion of her Journey, will grow young again as he sits upon her Banks with Eliza seated besides him—I have this and a thousand little parties of pleasure—& systems of living out of the common high road of Life, hourly working in my fancy for you—there wants only the Dramatis Personæ for the performance—the play is wrote—the Scenes are painted—& the Curtain ready to be drawn up.—the whole Piece waits for thee, my Eliza—

June 25.—In a course of continual visits & Invitations here—Bombay-Lascelles dined here to day (his Wife yesterday brought to bed)—(he is a poor sorry soul!) but has taken a house two miles from Crasy Castle—What a Stupid, selfish, unsentimental set of Beings are the Bulk of our Sex! by Heaven! not one man out of 50, informd with feelings—or endow’d either with heads or hearts able to possess & fill the mind—of such a Being as thee,—with one Vibration like its own—I never see or converse with one of my Sex—but I give this point a reflection—how w^d. such a creature please my Bramine? I assure thee Eliza I have not been able to find one, whom I thought could please You—the turn of Sentiment, with w^ch. I left y^r. Character possess’d—must improve, hourly upon You—Truth, fidelity, honour & Love mix’d up with Delicacy, garrantee one another—and a taste so improved as y^rs, by so delicious fare, can never degenerate—I shall find you, my Bramine, if possible, more valuable & lovely than when you first caught my esteem and kindness for You—and tho’ I see not this change—I give you so much Credit for it—that at this moment, my heart glowes more warmly as I think of you—& I find myself more your Husband than contracts can make us—I stay here till the 29^th.—had intended a longer Stay—but much company & Dissipation rob me of the only comfort my mind takes, w^ch. is in retirement, where I can think of You Eliza! and enjoy you quietly & without Interruption—’tis the way We must expect all that is to be had of real enjoyment in this vile world—which being miserable itself—seems so confederated ag^st. the happiness of the Happy, that they are forced to secure it in private—Vanity must still be had;—& that, Eliza! every thing w^th. it, w^ch. Yorick’s sense, or generosity has to furnish to one he loves so much as thee—need I tell thee—Thou wilt be as much a Mistress of—as thou art eternally of thy Yorick—adieu—adieu—

June 26—eleven at night—out all the day—dined with a large Party—shewd y^r. Picture from the fullness of my heart—highly admired—alas! said I did you but see the Original!—good night.—

June 27.

Ten in the morning, with my Snuff open at the Top of this sheet,—& your gentle sweet face opposite to mine, & saying “what I write will be cordially read”—possibly you may be precisely engaged at this very hour, the same way—and telling me some interesting Story ab^t. y^r. health, y^r. sufferings—y^r. heart aches—and other Sensations w^ch. friendship—absence & uncertainty create within you. for my own part, my dear Eliza, I am a prey to every thing in its turn—& was it not for that sweet clew of hope w^ch. is perpetual opening me a way which is to lead me to thee thro’ all this Labyrinth—was it not for this, my Eliza! how could I find rest for this bewilderd heart of mine?—I sh^d. wait for you till September came—& if you did not arrive with it—sh^d. sicken & die—but I will live for thee—so count me Immortal—3 India Men arrived within ten days—will none of ’em bring me Tidings of You?—but I am foolish—but ever thine—my dear, dear Bramine.

June 28.

O what a tormenting night have my dreams led me ab^t. You Eliza—M^rs. Draper a Widow!—with a hand at Liberty to give!—and gave it to another!—She told me—I must acquiesce—it could not be otherwise. Acquiese! cried I, waking in agonies—God be prais’d cried I—’tis a dream—fell asleep after—dreamd You was married to the Captain of the Ship—I waked in a fever—but ’twas the Fever in my blood which brought on this painful chain of Ideas—for I am ill to day—& for want of more cheary Ideas, I torment my Eliza with these—whose Sensibility will suffer, if Yorick could dream but of her Infidelity! & I suffer Eliza in my turn, & think my self at pres^t. little better than an old woman or a Dreamer of Dreams in the Scripture Language—I am going to ride myself into better health & better fancies with Hall—whose Castle lying near the Sea—We have a Beach as even as a mirrour of 5 miles in Length before it, where we daily run races in our Chaises; with one wheel in the Sea, & the other in the Sand—O Eliza, w^th. w^t. fresh ardour & impatience when I’m viewing the element, do I sigh for thy return—But I need no memento’s of my Destitution & misery for want of thee—I carry them ab^t. me,—& shall not lay them down—(for I worship & I do Idolize these tender sorrows) till I meet thee upon the Beech & present the handkerchiefs staind with blood w^ch. broke out from my heart upon y^r. departure—This token of what I felt at that Crisis, Eliza, shall never, never be wash’d out. Adieu my dear Wife—you are still mine—notwithstanding all the Dreams & Dreamers in the World.—M^r. Lascells dined w^th. us—Mem^d. I have to tell you a Conversation—I will not write it—

June 29. am got home from Halls—to Coxwould—O ’tis a delicious retreat! both from its beauty, & air of Solitude; & so sweetly does every thing ab^t it invite y^r. mind to rest from its Labours and be at peace with itself & the world—That ’tis the only place, Eliza, I could live in at this juncture—I hope one day, You will like it as much as y^r. Bramine—It shall be decorated & made more worthy of You—by the time fate encourages me to look for you—I have made you a sweet Sitting Room (as I told You) already—and am projecting a good Bed-Chamber adjoining it, with a pretty dressing room for You, which connects them together—& when they are finish’d, will be as sweet a set of romantic apartments, as You ever beheld—the Sleeping room will be very large—The dressing room, thro’ w^ch. You pass into y^r. Temple, will be little—but Big enough to hold a dressing Table—a couple of chairs, with room for y^r. Nymph to stand at her ease both behind and on either side of you—w^th. spare Room to hang a dozen petticoats—gowns, &c—& Shelves for as many Bandboxes—y^r. little Temple I have described—and what it will hold—but if it ever it holds You & I, my Eliza—the Room will not be too little for us—but We shall be too big for the Room.—

June 30.—’Tis now a quarter of a year (wanting 3 days) since You sail’d from the Downs—in one month more—You will be (I trust) at Madras—& there you will stay I suppose 2 long long months, before you set out for Bombay—’Tis there I shall want to hear from you,—most impatiently—because the most interesting Letters must come from Eliza when she is there—at present, I can hear of y^r. health, & tho’ that of all Acc^ts. affects me most—yet still I have hopes taking their Rise from that—& those are—What Impression you can make upon M^r. Draper, towards setting you at Liberty—& leaving you to pursue the best measures for y^r. preservation—and these are points, I w^d. go to Aleppo, to know certainty [^[29]]: I have been possess’d all day & night with an opinion, That Draper will change his behaviour totally towards you—That he will grow friendly & caressing—and as he knows y^r. nature is easily to be won with gentleness, he will practice it to turn you from y^r. purpose of quitting him—In short when it comes to the point of y^r. going from him to England—it will have so much the face, if not the reality, of an alienation on y^r. side from India for ever, as a place you cannot live at—that he will part with You by no means, he can prevent—You will be cajolled my dear Eliza thus out of y^r. Life—but what serves it to write this, unless means can be found for You to read it—If you come not—I will take the Safest Cautions I can to have it got to You—& risk every thing, rather than You should not know how much I think of You—& how much stronger hold you have got of me, than ever.—Dillon has obtain’d his fair Indian—& has this post wrote a kind Letter of enquiry after Yorick and his Bramine—he is a good Soul—& interests himself much in our fate—I have wrote him a whole Sheet [^[30]] of paper ab^t. us—it ought to have been copied into this Journal—but the uncertainty of y^r. ever reading it, makes me omit that, with a thousand other things, which when we meet, shall beguile us of many a long winters night.—those precious Nights!—my Eliza! You rate them as high as I do—& look back upon the manner the hours glided over our heads in them, with the same Interest & Delight as the Man you spent them with—They are all that remains to us—except the Expectation of their return—the Space between us is a dismal Void—full of doubts & suspence—Heaven & its kindest Spirits, my dear rest over y^r. thoughts by day—& free them from all disturbance at night adieu—adieu Eliza!—I have got over this Month—so fare wel to it, & the Sorrows it has brought with it—the next month, I prophecy will be worse.

July 1.—But who can foretell what a month may produce—Eliza—I have no less than seven different chances—not one of w^ch. is improbable—and any one of [’em] would set me much at Liberty—& some of ’em render me compleatly happy—as they w^d. facilitate & open the road to thee—what these chances are I leave thee to conjecture, my Eliza—some of them You cannot divine—tho’ I once hinted them to You—but those are pecuniary chances arising out of my Prebend—& so not likely to stick in thy brain—nor could they occupy mine a moment, but on thy acc^t. … I hope before I meet thee Eliza on the Beach, to have every thing plan’d; that depends on me properly—& for what depends upon him who orders every Event for us, to him I leave & trust it—We shall be happy at last I know—’tis the Corner Stone of all my Castles—&’tis all I bargain for. I am perfectly recovered—or more than recover’d—for never did I feel such Indications of health or Strength & promptness of mind—notwithstanding the Cloud hanging over me of a Visit—& all its tormenting consequences—Hall has wrote an affecting little poem upon it—the next time I see him, I will get it, & transcribe it in this Journal, for You.... He has persuaded me to trust her with no more than fifteen hundred pounds into Franc[e]—twil purchase 150 p^ds. a year—& to let the rest come annually from myself—the advice is wise enough, If I can get her off with it—I’ll summon up the Husband a little (if I can)—& keep the 500 p^ds. remaining for emergencies—who knows, Eliza, what sort of Emergencies may cry out for it—I conceive some—& you Eliza are not backward in Conception—so may conceive others. I wish I was in Arno’s Vale!—

July 2^d.—But I am in the Vale of Coxwould & wish You saw in how princely a manner I live in it—’tis a Land of Plenty—I sit down alone to Venison, fish or wild foul—or a couple of fouls—with curds, and strawberrys & cream, (and all the simple clean plenty w^ch. a rich Vally can produce,—with a Bottle of wine on my right hand (as in Bond street) to drink y^r. health—I have a hundred hens & chickens ab^t my yard—and not a parishoner catches a hare a rabbit or a Trout—but he brings it as an offering—In short ’tis a golden Vally—& will be the golden Age when You govern the rural feast, my Bramine, & are the Mistress of my table & spread it with elegancy and that natural grace & bounty w^th. w^ch. heaven has distinguish’d You.…

—Time goes on slowly—every thing stands still—hours seem days & days seem Years whilst you lengthen the Distance between us—from Madras to Bombay—I shall think it shortening—and then desire & expectation will be upon the rack again—come—come—

July 3^d.

Hail! Hail! my dear Eliza—I steal something every day from my sentimental Journey—to obey a more sentimental impulse in writing to you—& giving you the present Picture of myself—my wishes—my Love, my sincerity—my hopes—my fears—tell me, have I varied in any one Lineament, from the first sitting—to this last—have I been less warm—less tender and affectionate than you expected or could have wish’d me in any one of ’em—or, however varied in the expressions of what I was & what I felt, have I not still presented the same air and face towards thee?—take it as a Sample of what I ever shall be—My dear Bramine—& that is—such as my honour, my Engagements & promisses & desires have fix’d me—I want You to be on the other side of my little table, to hear how sweetly y^r. Voice will be in Unison to all this—I want to hear what You have to say to y^r. Yorick upon this Text.—what heavenly Consolation w^d. drop from y^r. Lips—& how pathetically you w^d. enforce y^r. Truth & Love upon my heart to free it from every Aching doubt—Doubt! did I say—but I have none—and as soon w^d I doubt the Scripture I have preach’d on—as question thy promisses or suppose one Thought in thy heart during thy absence from me, unworthy of my Eliza—for if thou art false, my Bramine—the whole world—and Nature itself are lyars—and I will trust to nothing on this side of heaven—but turn aside from all Commerce with expectation, & go quietly on my way alone towards a State where no disappointments can follow me—you are grieved when I talk thus; it implies what does not exist in either of us—so cross it out if thou wilt—or leave it as a part of the picture of a heart that again Languishes for Possession—and is disturbed at every Idea of its uncertainty—So heaven bless thee—& ballance thy passions better than I have power to regulate mine—farewel my dear Girl—I sit in dread of to morrow’s post which is to bring me an acc^t. when Madame is to arrive.——

July 4^th. Hear nothing of her—so am tortured from post to post, for I want to know certainly the day & hour of this Judgment—She is moreover ill, as my Lydia writes me word—& I’m impatient to know whether ’tis that—or what other Cause detains her, & keeps me in this vile state of Ignorance—I’m pitied by every Soul in proportion as her Character is detested—& her Errand known—She is coming, every one says, to flea poor Yorick or stay him—& I am spirited up by every friend I have to sell my Life dear & fight valiantly in defence both of my property & Life—Now my Maxim, Eliza, is quietly [sic] in three [^[31]]—“Spare my Life, and take all I have[”]—If she is not content to decamp with that—One Kingdome shall not hold us—for If she will not betake herself to France—I will but these, I verlily [sic] believe my fears & nothing more—for she will be as impatient to quit England—as I could with her—but of this—you will know more, before I have gone thro’ this month’s Journal.—I get 2000 pounds for my Estate—that is, I had the offer this morning of it—& think ’tis enough.—when that is gone—I will begin saving for thee—but in Saving myself for thee, That & every other kind Act is implied.—get on slowly with my Work—but my head is too full of other Matters—yet will I finish it before I see London—for I am of too scrupulous honour to break faith with the world—great Authors make no scruple of it—but if they are great Authors—I’m sure they are little Men.—& I’m sure also of another Point w^ch. concerns y^rself—& that is Eliza, that You shall never find me one hair breadth a less Man than you [^[32]] —farewell—I love thee eternally—

July 5. Two letters from the South of France by this post, by which by some fatality, I find not one of my Letters have got to them this month—This gives me concern—because it has the aspect of an unseasonable unkindness in me—to take no notice of what has the appearance at least of a Civility in desiring to pay me a Visit—my daughter besides has not deserved ill of me—& tho’ her mother has, I w^d. not ungenerously take that Opportunity, which would most overwhelm her, to give any mark of my resentment—I have besides long since forgiven her—& am the more inclined now as she proposes a plan, by which I shall never more be disquieted—in these 2 last, she renews her request to have leave to live where she has transfer’d her fortune—& purposes, with my leave she says, to end her days in the South of France—to all which I have just been writing her a Letter of Consolation & good will—& to crown my professions, intreat her to take post with my girl to be here time enough to enjoy York races—& so having done my duty to them—I continue writing, to do it to thee Eliza who art the Woman of my heart, & for whom I am ordering & planning this, & every thing else—be assured my Bramine that ere every thing is ripe for our Drama, I shall work hard to fit out & decorate a little Theatre for us to act on—but not before a crouded house—no Eliza—it shall be as secluded as the elysian fields—retirement is the nurse of Love and kindness—& I will Woo & caress thee in it in such sort, that every thicket & grotto we pass by shall solicit the remembrance of the mutual pledges We have exchanged of Affection with one another—oh! these expectations—make me sigh as I recite them—& many a heart-felt Interjection! do they cost me, as I saunter alone in the tracks we are to tread together hereafter—still I think thy heart is with me—& whilst I think so, I prefer it to all the Society this world can offer—&’tis in truth my dear owing to this—that tho I’ve rec^d. half a dozen Letters to press me to join my friends at Scarborough—that Ive found pretences not to quit You here—and sacrifice the many sweet occasions I have of giving my thoughts up to You—, for Company I cannot rellish since I have tasted my dear Girl, the sweets of thine.—

July 6.

Three long Months and three long days are passed & gone, since my Eliza sighed on taking her Leave of Albions Cliffs, & of all in Albion, which was dear to her—How oft have I smarted at the Idea, of that last longing Look by w^ch. thou badest adieu to all thy heart sufferd at that dismal Crisis—’twas the Separation of Soul & Body—& equal to nothing but what passes on that tremendous Moment.—& like it in one Consequence, that thou art in another world; where I w^d. give a world to follow thee, or hear even an Acc^t. of thee—for this I shall write in a few days to our dear friend M^rs. James—she possibly may have heard a single Syllable or two ab^t. You—but it cannot be; the same must have been directed towards Yoricks ear, to whom you w^d. have wrote the Name of Eliza, had there been no time for more. I w^d almost now compound w^th. Fate—& was I sure Eliza only breathd—I w^d. thank heaven & acquiesce. I kiss your Picture—your Shaul—& every trinket I exchanged with You—every day I live—alas! I shall soon be debarrd of that—in a fortnight I must lock them up & clap my seal & y^rs. upon them in the most secret Cabinet of my Bureau—You may divine the reason, Eliza! adieu—adieu!

July 7.

—But not Yet—for I will find means to write to you every night whilst my people are here—if I sit up till midnight, till they are asleep.—I should not dare to face you, if I was worse than my word in the smallest Item—& this Journal I promised You Eliza should be kept without a chasm of a day in it—& had I my time to myself & nothing to do but gratify my propensity—I sh^d. write from sun rise to sun set to thee—But a Book to write—a Wife to receive & make Treaties with—an estate to sell—a Parish to superintend—and a disquieted heart perpetually to reason with, are eternal calls upon me—& yet I have you more in my mind than ever—and in proportion as I am thus torn from y^r. embraces—I cling the closer to the Idea of you. Your Figure is ever before my eyes—the sound of y^r. voice vibrates with its sweetest tones the live long day in my ear—I can see & hear nothing but my Eliza, remember this, when you think my Journal too short & compare it not with thine, w^ch. tho’ it will exceed it in length, can do no more than equal it in Love and truth of esteem—for esteem thee I do beyond all the powers of eloquence to tell thee how much—& I love thee my dear Girl, & prefer thy Love, to me more than the whole world—

night—have not eat or drunk all day thro’ vexation of heart at a couple of ungrateful unfeeling Letters from that Quarter, from whence, had it pleased God, I should have look’d for all my Comforts—but he has will’d they sh^d. come from the east—& he knows how I am satisfyed with all his Dispensations—but with none, my dear Bramine, so much as this—with w^ch. Cordial upon my Spirits—I go to bed, in hopes of seeing thee in my Dreams.

July 8^th.

—eating my fowl, and my trouts & my cream & my strawberries, as melancholly as a Cat; for want of you—by the by, I have got one which sits quietly besides me, purring all day to my sorrows—& looking up gravely from time to time in my face, as if she knew my Situation.—how soothable my heart is Eliza, when such little things sooth it! for in some pathetic sinkings I feel even some support from this poor Cat—I attend to her purrings—& think they harmonize me—they are pianissimo at least, & do not disturb me.—poor Yorick! to be driven, w^th. all his sensibilities, to these resources—all powerful Eliza, that has had this Magic^l. authority over him; to bend him thus to the dust—But I’ll have my revenge, Hussy!

July 9. I have been all day making a sweet Pavilion in a retired Corner of my garden,—but my Partner & Companion & friend for whom I make it, is fled from me, & when she return to me again, Heaven who first brought us together, best knows—when that hour is foreknown what a Paradise will I plant for thee—till then I walk as Adam did whilst there was no help-meet found for it, and could almost wish a days Sleep would come upon me till that Moment When I can say as he did—“Behold the Woman Thou has given me for Wife.” She shall be call’d La Bramine. Indeed Indeed Eliza! my Life will be little better than a dream, till we approach nearer to each other—I live scarse conscious of my existence—or as if I wanted a vital part; & could not live above a few hours—& yet I live, & live, & live on, for thy Sake, and the sake of thy truth to me; which I measure by my own,—& I fight ag^st. every evil and every danger, that I may be able to support & shelter thee from danger and evil also.—upon my word, dear Girl, thou owest me much—but ’tis cruel to dun thee when thou art not in a condition to pay—I think Eliza has not run off in her Yoricks debt—

July 10.

I cannot suffer you to be longer upon the Water—in 10 days time, You shall be at Madrass—the element roles in my head as much as y^rs., & I am sick at the sight & smell of it—for all this, my Eliza, I feel in Imagination & so strongly I can bear it no longer—on the 20^th. therefore Ins^t. I begin to write to you as a terrestrial Being—I must deceive myself—& think so I will notwithstanding all that Lascelles has told me—but there is no truth in him.—I have just kiss’d y^r. picture—even that sooths many an anxiety—I have found out the Body is too little for the head—it shall not be rectified, till I sit by the Original, & direct the Painter’s Pencil and that done, will take a Scamper to Enfield & see y^r. dear children—if You tire by the Way, there are one or two places to rest at.—I never stand out. God bless thee—I am thine as ever

July 11.

Sooth me—calm me—pour thy healing Balm Eliza, into the sorest of hearts—I’m pierced with the Ingratitude and unquiet Spirit of a restless unreasonable Wife whom neither gentleness or generosity can conquer—She has now entered upon a new plan of waging War with me, a thousand miles—thrice a week this last month, has the quietest man under heaven been outraged by her Letters—I have offer’d to give her every Shilling I was worth except my preferment, to be let alone & left in peace by her—Bad Woman! nothing must now purchace this, unless I borrow 400 p^ds. to give her & carry into france—more—I w^d. perish first, my Eliza! ’ere I would give her a shilling of another man’s, w^ch. I must do if I give her a shill^g. more than I am worth.—How I now feel the want of thee! my dear Bramine—my generous unworldly honest creature—I shall die for want of thee for a thousand reasons—every emergency & every Sorrow each day brings along with it—tells me what a Treasure I am bereft off,—whilst I want thy friendship & Love to keep my head up sinking—Gods will be done, but I think she will send me to my grave.—She will now keep me in torture till the end of Sept^r.—& writes me word to day—She will delay her Journey two Months beyond her 1^st. Intention—it keeps me in eternal suspence all the while—for she will come unawars at last upon me—& then adieu to the dear sweets of my retirement.

How cruelly are our Lots drawn, my dear—both made for happiness—& neither of us made to taste it! In feeling so acutely for my own disapp^tment I drop blood for thine, I call thee in to my Aid—& thou wantest mine as much—Were we together we sh^d. recover—but never, never till then nor by any other Recipe.—

July 12.

Am ill all day with the Impressions of Yesterday’s account.—can neither eat or drink or sit still & write or read—I walk like a disturbed Spirit ab^t. my Garden—calling upon heaven & thee,—to come to my Succour—could’st Thou but write one word to me, it would be worth half the world to me—my friends write me millions—& every one invites me to flee from my Solitude & come to them—I obey the commands of my friend Hall who has sent over on purpose to fetch me—or he will come himself for me—so I set off to morrow morning to take Sanctuary in Crasy Castle—The news papers have sent me there already by putting in the following paragraph

“We hear from Yorkshire, That Skelton Castle is the present Rendevouz, of the most brilliant Wits of the Age—the admired Author of Tristram—M^r. Garrick &c beening [sic] there; & M^r. Coleman & many other men of Wit & Learning being every day expected”—when I get there, w^ch. will be to morrow night, my Eliza will hear from her Yorick—her Yorick—who loves her more than ever.

July 13. Skelton Castle. Your picture has gone round the Table after supper—& y^r. health after it, my invaluable friend!—even the Ladies, who hate grace in another, seemed struck with it in You—but Alas! you are as a dead Person—& Justice (as in all such Cases) is paid you in course—when thou returnest it will be rendered more sparingly—but I’ll make up all deficiences—by honouring You more than ever Woman was honourd by man—every good Quality That ever good heart possess’d—thou possessest my dear Girl; & so sovereignly does thy temper & sweet sociability, which harmonize all thy other properties make me thine, that whilst thou art true to thyself and thy Bramin—he thinks thee worth a world—& w^d. give a World was he master of it, for the undisturbed possession of thee—Time and Chance are busy throwing this Die for me—a fortunate Cast, or two, at the most, makes our fortune—it gives us each other—& then for the World, I will not give a pinch of Snuff.—Do take care of thyself—keep this prospect before thy eyes—have a view to it in all y^r. Transactions, Eliza,—In a word Remember You are mine—and stand answerable for all you say & do to me—I govern myself by the same Rule—& such a History of myself can I lay before you as shall create no blushes, but those of pleasure—’tis midnight—& so sweet Sleep to thee the remaining hours of it. I am more thine, my dear Eliza! than ever—but that cannot be—

July 14.

dining & feasting all day at M^r. Turner’s—his Lady a fine Woman herself, in love w^th. your picture—O my dear Lady, cried I, did you but know the Original—but what is she to you, Tristram—nothing; but that I am in Love with her—et cætera——said She—no I have given over dashes—replied I——I verily think my Eliza I shall get this Picture set, so as to wear it, as I first purposed—ab^t. my neck—I do not like the place ’tis in—it shall be nearer my heart—Thou art ever in its centre—good night—

July 15—From home. (Skelton Castle) from 8 in the morning till late at Supper—I seldom have put thee off, my dear Girl—& yet to morrow will be as bad—

July 16.

for M^r. Hall has this Day left his Crasy Castle to come and sojourn with me at Shandy Hall for a few days—for so they have long christend our retired Cottage—we are just arrived at it & whilst he is admiring the premisses—I have stole away to converse a few minutes with thee, and in thy own dressing room—for I make every thing thine & call it so, before hand, that thou art to be mistress of hereafter. This Hereafter, Eliza, is but a melancholly term—but the Certainty of its coming to us, brightens it up—pray do not forget my prophecy in the Dedication of the Almanack—I have the utmost faith in it myself—but by what impulse my mind was struck with 3 Years—heaven whom I believe it’s author, best knows—but I shall see y^r. face before—but that I leave to You—& to the Influence such a Being must have over all inferior ones—We are going to dine with the Arch Bishop [^[33]] to morrow—& from thence to Harrogate for three days, whilst thou dear Soul art pent up in sultry Nastiness—without Variety or change of face or Conversation—Thou shalt have enough of both when I cater for thy happiness Eliza—& if an Affectionate husband & 400 p^ds. a year in a sweeter Vally than that of Jehosophat will do—less thou shalt never have—but I hope more—& were it millions ’tis the same—twould be laid at thy feet—Hall is come in in raptures with every thing—& so I shut up my Journal for to day & to morrow for I shall not be able to open it where I go—adieu my dear Girl—

18—was yesterday all the day with our A. Bishop—this good Prelate who is one of our most refined Wits & the most of a gentleman of our order—oppresses me with his kindness—he shews in his treatment of me, what he told me upon taking my Leave—that he loves me, & has a high Value for me—his Chaplains tell me, he is perpetually talking of me—& has such an opinion of my head & heart that he begs to stand Godfather for my next Literary production—so has done me the hon^r. of putting his name in a List which I am most proud of because my Eliza’s name is in it. I have just a moment to scrawl this to thee, being at York—where I want to be employed in taking you a little house, where the prophet may be accommodated with a “Chamber in the Wall apart with a stool & a Candlestick”—where his Soul can be at rest from the distractions of the world, & lean only upon his kind hostesse. & repose all his Cares, & melt them along with hers on her sympathetic bosom.

July 19. Harrogate Spaws.—drinking the waters here till the 26^th.—to no effect, but a cold dislike of every one of your sex—I did nothing, but make comparisons betwixt thee my Eliza, & every woman I saw and talk’d to—thou hast made me so unfit for every one else—than [^[34]] I am thine as much from necessity, as Love—I am thine by a thousand sweet ties, the least of which shall never be relax’d—be assured my dear Bramine of this—& repay me in so doing, the Confidence I repose in thee—y^r. absence, y^r. distresses, your sufferings; your conflicts, all make me rely but the more upon that fund in you, w^ch. is able to sustain so much weight—Providence I know will relieve you from one part of it—and it shall be the pleasure of my days to ease, my dear friend of the other—I Love thee Eliza, more than the heart of Man ever loved Woman’s—I even love thee more than I did, the day thou badest me Farewell—Farewell!—Farewell! to thee again—I’m going from hence to York Races.—

July 27. arrived at York.—where I had not been 2 hours before My heart was overset with a pleasure, w^ch. beggard every other, that fate could give me—save thyself—It was thy dear Packets from Iago—I cannot give vent to all the emotions I felt even before I opend them—for I knew thy hand—& my seal—w^ch. was only in thy possession—O ’tis from my Eliza, said I.—I instantly shut the door of my Bed-chamber, & orderd myself to be denied—& spent the whole evening, and till dinner the next day, in reading over and over again the most interesting Acc^t.—& the most endearing one that ever tried the tenderness of man—I read & wept—and wept and read till I was blind—then grew sick, & went to bed—& in an hour call’d again for the Candle—to read it once more—as for my dear Girls pains & her dangers I cannot write ab^t. them—because I cannot write my feelings or express them any how to my mind—O Eliza! but I will talk them over with thee with a sympathy that shall woo thee, so much better than I have ever done—That we will both be gainers in the end—I’ll love thee for the dangers thou hast past—and thy Affection shall go hand in hand w^th. me, because I’ll pity thee—as no man ever pitied Woman—but Love like mine is never satisfied—else y^r. 2^d. Letter from Iago—is a Letter so warm, so simple, so tender! I defy the world to produce such another—by all that’s kind & gracious! I will entreat thee Eliza so kindly—that thou shalt say, I merit much of it—nay all—for my merit to thee, is my truth.

I now want to have this week of nonsensical Festivity over—that I may get back, with my picture w^ch. I ever carry ab^t. me—to my retreat and to Cordelia—when the days of our Afflictions are over, I oft amuse my fancy, w^th. an Idea, that thou wilt come down to me by Stealth, & hearing where I have walk’d out to—surprize me some sweet Shiney night at Cordelia’s grave, & catch me in thy Arms over it—O my Bramin! my Bramin!——

July 31—am tired to death with the hurrying pleasures of these Races—I want still & silent ones—so return home to morrow, in search of them—I shall find them as I sit contemplating over thy passive picture; sweet Shadow! of what is to come! for ’tis all I can now grasp—first and best of woman kind! remember me, as I remember thee—’tis asking a great deal my Bramine!—but I cannot be satisfied with less—farewell—fare—happy till fate will let me cherish thee myself.—O my Eliza! thou writest to me with an Angels pen—& thou wouldst win me by thy Letters, had I never seen thy face or known thy heart.

Aug^st. 1. what a sad Story thou hast told me of thy Sufferings & Despondences from S^t. Iago, till thy meeting w^th. the Dutch Ship—’twas a sympathy above Tears—I trembled every Nerve as I went from line to line—& every moment the Acc^t. comes across me—I suffer all I felt, over & over again—will providence suffer all this anguish without end—& without pity?—“it no can be”—I am tried my dear Bramine in the furnace of Affliction as much as thou—by the time we meet, We shall be fit only for each other—& should cast away upon any other Harbour.

Aug^st. 2. my wife uses me most unmercifully—every Soul advises me to fly from her—but where can I fly If I fly not to thee? The Bishop of Cork & Ross [^[35]] has made me great offers in Ireland—but I will take no step without thee—& till heaven opens us some track—He is the best of feeling tender hearted men—knows our Story—sends You his Blessing—and says if the Ship you return in touches at Cork (w^ch. many India men do)—he will take you to his palace, till he can send for me to join You—he only hopes, he says, to join us together for ever—but more of this good man, and his attachment to me—hereafter and of and [sic] couple of Ladies in the family &c.—&c.

Aug^t. 3. I have had an offer of exchanging two pieces of preferment I hold here (but sweet Cordelia’s Parish is not one of ’em) for a living of 350 p^ds. a year in Surry [^[36]] ab^t. 30 miles from London—& retaining Coxwould & my Prebendaryship—w^ch. are half as much more—the Country also is sweet—but I will not—I cannot take any step unless I had thee my Eliza for whose sake I live, to consult with—& till the road is open for me as my heart wishes to advance—with thy sweet light Burden in my Arms, I could get up fast the hill of preferment, if I chose it—but without thee I feel Lifeless—and if a Mitre was offer’d me, I would not have it, till I could have thee too, to make it sit easy upon my brow—I want kindly to smooth thine, & not only wipe away thy tears but dry up the Source of them for ever—

Aug^st. 4. Hurried backwards & forwards ab^t. the arrival of Madame, this whole week—& then farewel I fear to this journal—till I get up to London—& can pursue it as I wish—at present all I can write would be but the History of my miserable feelings—She will be ever present—& if I take up my pen for thee—something will jarr within me as I do it—that I must lay it down again—I will give you one gen^l. Acc^t. of all my sufferings together—but not in Journals—I shall set my wounds a-bleeding every day afresh by it—& the Story cannot be too short—so worthiest best, kindest & affec^te. of Souls farewell—every Moment will I have thee present—& sooth my sufferings with the looks my fancy shall cloath thee in—Thou shalt lye down & rise up with me—ab^t. my bed & ab^t. my paths, & shalt see out all my Ways.—adieu—adieu—& remember one eternal truth, My dear Bramine, w^ch. is not the worse, because I have told it thee a thousand times before—That I am thine—& thine only, & for ever.

L. Sterne.

[Postscript.]

Nov: 1^st. All my dearest Eliza has turned out more favourable than my hopes—M^rs. S.—& my dear Girl have been 2 Months with me and they have this day left me to go to spend the Winter at York, after having settled every thing to their hearts content—M^rs. Sterne retires into france, whence she purposes not to stir, till her death.—& never, has she vow’d, will give me another sorrowful or discontented hour—I have conquerd her, as I w^d. every one else, by humanity & Generosity—& she leaves me, more than half in Love w^th. me—She goes into the South of france, her health being insupportable in England—& her age, as she now confesses ten Years more, than I thought being on the edge of sixty—so God bless—& make the remainder of her Life happy—in order to w^ch. I am to remit her three hundred guineas a year—& give my dear Girl two thousand p^ds.—w^th. w^ch. all Joy, I agree to,—but ’tis to be sunk into an annuity in the french Loans—

—And now Eliza! Let me talk to thee—But What can I say, What can I write—But the Yearnings of heart wasted with looking & wishing for thy Return—Return—Return! my dear Eliza! May heaven smooth the Way for thee to send thee safely to us, & joy for Ever.

ORIGINAL LETTERS
OF
LAURENCE STERNE.

ORIGINAL LETTERS
OF
LAURENCE STERNE
TO
DANIEL DRAPER, ESQ.

[Coxwould, 1767?]

I OWN it, Sir, that the writing a letter to a gentleman I have not the honour to be known to—a letter likewise upon no kind of business (in the ideas of the world) is a little out of the common course of things—but I’m so myself, and the impulse which makes me take up my pen is out of the common way too, for it arises from the honest pain I should feel in having so great esteem and friendship as I bear for Mrs. Draper—if I did not wish to hope and extend it to Mr. Draper also. I am really, dear sir, in love with your wife; but ’tis a love you would honour me for, for ’tis so like that I bear my own daughter, who is a good creature, that I scarce distinguish a difference betwixt it—that moment I had would have been the last.

I wish it had been in my power to have been of true use to Mrs. Draper at this distance from her best protector. I have bestowed a great deal of pains (or rather, I should say, pleasure) upon her head—her heart needs none—and her head as little as any daughter of Eve’s, and indeed less than any it has been my fate to converse with for some years. I wish I could make myself of any service to Mrs. D. whilst she is in India, and I in the world—for worldly affairs I could be of none.

I wish you, dear sir, many years’ happiness. ’Tis a part of my Litany, to pray for her health and life. She is too good to be lost, and I would out of pure zeal take a pilgrimage to Mecca to seek a medicine.[^[37]]

Commodore James, by Sir Joshua Reynolds.