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 abt it invite yr. 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 yr. 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’ wch. You pass into yr. Temple, will be little—but Big enough to hold a dressing Table—a couple of chairs, with room for yr. Nymph to stand at her ease both behind and on either side of you—wth. spare Room to hang a dozen petticoats—gowns, &c—& Shelves for as many Bandboxes—yr. 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 yr. health, & tho’ that of all Accts. affects me most—yet still I have hopes taking their Rise from that—& those are—What Impression you can make upon Mr. Draper, towards setting you at Liberty—& leaving you to pursue the best measures for yr. preservation—and these are points, I wd. 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 yr. nature is easily to be won with gentleness, he will practice it to turn you from yr. purpose of quitting him—In short when it comes to the point of yr. going from him to England—it will have so much the face, if not the reality, of an alienation on yr. 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 yr. 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 abt. us—it ought to have been copied into this Journal—but the uncertainty of yr. 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 yr. 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 wch. is improbable—and any one of [’em] would set me much at Liberty—& some of ’em render me compleatly happy—as they wd. 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 acct. … 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 pds. 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 pds. 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 2d.—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 wch. a rich Vally can produce,—with a Bottle of wine on my right hand (as in Bond street) to drink yr. health—I have a hundred hens & chickens abt 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 wth. wch. 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—