July 3d.
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 yr. Voice will be in Unison to all this—I want to hear what You have to say to yr. Yorick upon this Text.—what heavenly Consolation wd. drop from yr. Lips—& how pathetically you wd. enforce yr. Truth & Love upon my heart to free it from every Aching doubt—Doubt! did I say—but I have none—and as soon wd 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 acct. when Madame is to arrive.——
July 4th. 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 wch. concerns yrself—& 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 wd. 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 recd. 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 wch. 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 wd. give a world to follow thee, or hear even an Acct. of thee—for this I shall write in a few days to our dear friend Mrs. James—she possibly may have heard a single Syllable or two abt. You—but it cannot be; the same must have been directed towards Yoricks ear, to whom you wd. have wrote the Name of Eliza, had there been no time for more. I wd almost now compound wth. Fate—& was I sure Eliza only breathd—I wd. 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 & yrs. 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 shd. 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 yr. embraces—I cling the closer to the Idea of you. Your Figure is ever before my eyes—the sound of yr. 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, wch. 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—