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 pds. to give her & carry into france—more—I wd. perish first, my Eliza! ’ere I would give her a shilling of another man’s, wch. I must do if I give her a shillg. 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 Septr.—& writes me word to day—She will delay her Journey two Months beyond her 1st. 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 disapptment I drop blood for thine, I call thee in to my Aid—& thou wantest mine as much—Were we together we shd. 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 abt. 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—Mr. Garrick &c beening [sic] there; & Mr. Coleman & many other men of Wit & Learning being every day expected”—when I get there, wch. will be to morrow night, my Eliza will hear from her Yorick—her Yorick—who loves her more than ever.