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 honr. 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 26th.—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—yr. absence, yr. distresses, your sufferings; your conflicts, all make me rely but the more upon that fund in you, wch. 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, wch. 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—wch. 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 Acct.—& 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 abt. 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 wth. me, because I’ll pity thee—as no man ever pitied Woman—but Love like mine is never satisfied—else yr. 2d. 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 wch. I ever carry abt. me—to my retreat and to Cordelia—when the days of our Afflictions are over, I oft amuse my fancy, wth. 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.
Augst. 1. what a sad Story thou hast told me of thy Sufferings & Despondences from St. Iago, till thy meeting wth. the Dutch Ship—’twas a sympathy above Tears—I trembled every Nerve as I went from line to line—& every moment the Acct. 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.