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, wch. dictated the acct. of Corpl. 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 Mrs. 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: 22d.—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 recd. 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!