LETTER I. To Miſs L—.

YES! I will ſteal from the world, and not a babbling tongue ſhall tell where I am—Echo ſhall not ſo much as whiſper my hiding place—ſuffer thy imagination to paint it as a little ſun-gilt cottage on the ſide of a ro⯑mantic hill—doſt thou think I will [28] leave love and friendſhip behind me? No! they ſhall be my companions in ſolitude, for they will ſit down, and riſe up with me in the amiable form of my L.—we will be as merry, and as innocent as our firſt parents in Paradiſe, before the arch fiend entered that undeſcribable ſcene.

The kindeſt affections will have room to ſhoot and expand in our re⯑tirement, and produce ſuch fruit, as madneſs, and envy, and ambition have always killed in the bud.—Let the human tempeſt and hurricane rage at a diſtance, the deſolation is beyond the horizon of peace.—My L. has [29] ſeen a Polyanthus blow in December—ſome friendly wall has ſheltered it from the biting wind.—No planetary influence ſhall reach us, but that which preſides and cheriſhes the ſweeteſt flowers.—God preſerve us, how delightful this proſpect in idea! We will build, and we will plant, in our own way—ſimplicity ſhall not be tortured by art—we will learn of nature how to live—ſhe ſhall be our alchy⯑miſt, to mingle all the good of life into one ſalubrious draught.—The gloomy family of care and diſtruſt ſhall be baniſhed from our dwelling, guarded by thy kind and tutelar deity—we will ſing our choral ſongs of [30] gratitude, and rejoice to the end of our pilgrimage.

Adieu, my L. Return to one who languiſhes for thy ſociety.

LETTER II. To the ſame.

YOU bid me tell you, my dear L. how I bore your departure for S—, and whether the valley where D'Eſtella ſtands retains ſtill its looks—or, if I think the roſes or jeſſamines ſmell as ſweet, as when you left it—Alas! every thing has now loſt its reliſh, and look! The hour you left D'Eſtella I took to my bed.—I was worn out with fevers of all kinds, but moſt by that fever of the heart with which thou knoweſt well I have been waſting [32] theſe two years—and ſhall continue waſting 'till you quit S—. The good Miſs S—, from the forebodings of the beſt of hearts, thinking I was ill, inſiſted upon my going to her.—What can be the cauſe, my dear L. that I never have been able to ſee the face of this mutual friend, but I feel my⯑ſelf rent to pieces? She made me ſtay an hour with her, and in that ſhort ſpace I burſt into tears a dozen differ⯑ent times—and in ſuch affectionate guſts of paſſion that ſhe was con⯑ſtrained to leave the room, and ſym⯑pathize in her dreſſing room—I have been weeping for you both, ſaid ſhe, in a tone of the ſweeteſt pity—for [33] poor L's heart I have long known it—her anguiſh is as ſharp as yours—her heart as tender—her conſtancy as great—her virtues as heroic—Heaven brought you not together to be tor⯑mented. I could only anſwer her with a kind look, and a heavy ſigh—and return'd home to your lodgings (which I have hired 'till your return) to reſign myſelf to miſery—Fanny had prepared me a ſupper—ſhe is all at⯑tention to me—but I ſat over it with tears; a bitter ſauce, my L. but I could eat it with no other—for the moment ſhe began to ſpread my little table, my heart fainted within me.—One ſolitary plate, one knife, one [34] fork, one glaſs!—I gave a thouſand penſive, penetrating looks at the chair thou hadſt ſo often graced, in thoſe quiet, and ſentimental repaſts—then laid down my knife, and fork, and took out my handkerchief, and clapped it acroſs my face, and wept like a child.—I do ſo this very moment, my L. for as I take up my pen my poor pulſe quickens, my pale face glows, and tears are trickling down upon the paper, as I trace the word L—. O thou! bleſſed in thyſelf, and in thy virtues—bleſſed to all that know thee—to me moſt ſo, becauſe more do I know of thee than all thy ſex.—This is the philtre, my L. by which thou [35] haſt charmed me, and by which thou wilt hold me thine whilſt virtue and faith hold this world together.—This, my friend, is the plain and ſimple magick by which I told Miſs — I have won a place in that heart of thine, on which I depend ſo ſatisfied, that time, or diſtance, or change of every thing which might alarm the hearts of little men, create no uneaſy ſuſpence in mine—Waſt thou to ſtay in S— theſe ſeven years, thy friend, though he would grieve, ſcorns to doubt, or to be doubted—'tis the only exception where ſecurity is not the parent of danger.—I told you poor Fanny was all attention to me ſince [36] your departure—contrives every day bringing in the name of L. She told me laſt night (upon giving me ſome hartſhorn) ſhe had obſerved my ill⯑neſs began the very day of your de⯑parture for S—; that I had never held up my head, had ſeldom, or ſcarce ever ſmiled, had fled from all ſociety—that ſhe verily believed I was broken-hearted, for ſhe had never entered the room, or paſſed by the door, but ſhe heard me ſigh heavily—that I neither eat, or ſlept, or took pleaſure in any thing as before;—judge then, my L. can the valley look ſo well—or the roſes and jeſ⯑ſamines ſmell ſo ſweet as heretofore? [37] Ah me!—But adieu—the veſper bell calls me from thee to my God!

LETTER III. To the ſame.

BEFORE now my L. has lodged an indictment againſt me in the high court of Friendſhip—I plead guilty to the charge, and intirely ſubmit to the mercy of that amiable tribunal.—Let this mitigate my puniſhment, if it will not expiate my tranſgreſſion—do not ſay that I ſhall offend again in the ſame manner, though a too eaſy par⯑don ſometimes occaſions a repetition of the ſame fault.—A miſer ſays, though I do no good with my money [39] to-day, to-morrow ſhall be marked with ſome deed of beneficence.—The Libertine ſays, let me enjoy this week in forbidden and luxurious pleaſures, and the next I will dedicate to ſerious thought and reflection.—The Gameſter ſays, let me have one more chance with the dice and I will never touch them more.—The Knave of every profeſſion wiſhes to obtain but inde⯑pendency, and he will become an honeſt man.—The Female Coquette triumphs in tormenting her inamorato, for fear, after marriage, he ſhould not pity her.

[40]Thy apparition of the fifth inſtant, (for letters may almoſt be called ſo) proved more welcome as I did not expect it. Oh! my L—, thou art kind indeed to make an apology for me, and thou never wilt aſſuredly repent of one act of kindneſs—for being thy debtor, I will pay thee with intereſt.—Why does my L. complain of the deſertion of friends?—Where does the human being live that will not join in this complaint?—It is a common obſervation, and perhaps too true, that married people ſeldom extend their regards beyond their own fire⯑ſide.—There is ſuch a thing as parſi⯑mony in eſteem, as well as money— [41] yet as the one coſts nothing, it might be beſtowed with more liberality.—We cannot gather grapes from thorns, ſo we muſt not expect kind attach⯑ments from perſons who are wholly folded up in ſelfiſh ſchemes.—I do not know whether I moſt deſpiſe, or pity ſuch characters—nature never made an unkind creature—ill uſage, and bad habits, have deformed a fair and lovely creation.

My L!—thou art ſurrounded by all the melancholy gloom of winter; wert thou alone, the retirement would be agreeable.—Diſappointed ambition might envy ſuch a retreat, and diſap⯑pointed [42] love would ſeek it out.—Crouded towns, and buſy ſocieties, may delight the unthinking, and the gay—but ſolitude is the beſt nurſe of wiſdom.—Methinks I ſee my con⯑templative girl now in the garden, watching the gradual approaches of ſpring.—Do'ſt not thou mark with delight the firſt vernal buds? the ſnow-drop, and primroſe, theſe early and welcome viſitors, ſpring beneath thy feet.—Flora and Pomona already conſider thee as their handmaid; and in a little time will load thee with their ſweeteſt bleſſing.—The feathered race are all thy own, and with them, untaught harmony will ſoon begin to [43] cheer thy morning and evening walks.—Sweet as this may be, return—re⯑turn—the birds of Yorkſhire will tune their pipes, and ſing as melodiouſly as thoſe of Staffordſhire.

Adieu, my beloved L. thine too much for my peace,

LETTER IV. To the ſame.

I HAVE offended her whom I ſo tenderly love!—what could tempt me to it! but if a beggar was to knock at thy gate, wouldſt thou not open the door and be melted with compaſ⯑ſion.—I know thou wouldſt, for Pity has erected a temple in thy boſom.—Sweeteſt, and beſt of all human paſ⯑ſions! let thy web of tenderneſs cover the penſive form of affliction, and ſoften the darkeſt ſhades of miſery! I have re-conſidered this apology, and, alas! [45] what will it accompliſh? Arguments, however finely ſpun, can never change the nature of things—very true—ſo a truce with them.

I have loſt a very valuable friend by a ſad accident, and what is worſe, he has left a widow and five young children to lament this ſudden ſtroke.—If real uſefulneſs and integrity of heart, could have ſecured him from this, his friends would not now be mourning his untimely fate.—Theſe dark and ſeemingly cruel diſpenſations of Provi⯑dence, often make the beſt of human hearts complain.—Who can paint the diſtreſs of an affectionate mother, [46] made a widow in a moment, weeping in bitterneſs over a numerous, helpleſs, and fatherleſs offspring?—God! theſe are thy chaſtiſements, and require (hard taſk!) a pious acquieſcence.

Forgive me this digreſſion, and al⯑low me to drop a tear over a departed friend; and what is more excellent, an honeſt man. My L! thou wilt feel all that kindneſs can inſpire in the death of—The event was ſudden, and thy gentle ſpirit would be more alarmed on that account.—But my L. thou haſt leſs to lament, as old age was creeping on, and her period of doing good, and being uſeful, was [47] nearly over.—At ſixty years of age the tenement gets faſt out of repair, and the lodger with anxiety thinks of a diſcharge.—In ſuch a ſituation the poet might well ſay‘"The ſoul uneaſy, &c."’

My L. talks of leaving the country—may a kind angel guide thy ſteps hither.—Solitude at length grows tire⯑ſome.—Thou ſayeſt thou wilt quit the place with regret—I think ſo too.—Does not ſomething uneaſy mingle with the very reflection of leaving it? It is like parting with an old friend, whoſe temper and company one has long been acquainted with.—I think [48] I ſee you looking twenty times a day at the houſe—almoſt counting every brick and pane of glaſs, and telling them at the ſame time with a ſigh, you are going to leave them.—Oh happy modification of matter! they will remain inſenſible of thy loſs.—But how wilt thou be able to part with thy garden?—The recollection of ſo many pleaſing walks muſt have endeared it to you. The trees, the ſhrubs, the flowers, which thou reared with thy own hands—will they not droop and fade away ſooner upon thy departure.—Who will be the ſucceſſor to nurſe them in thy abſence.—Thou wilt leave thy name upon the myrtle⯑tree.—If [49] trees, and ſhrubs, and flow⯑ers, could compoſe an elegy, I ſhould expect a very plaintive one upon this ſubject.

Adieu, adieu. Believe me ever, ever thine,

LETTER V. To S— C—, Eſq.

I HAVE been in ſuch a continual hurry ſince the moment I arrived here—what with my books, and what with viſiters, and viſitings, that it was not in my power ſooner to ſit down and acknowledge the favour of your obliging letter; and to thank you for the moſt friendly motives which led you to write it: I am not much in pain upon what gives my kind friends at Stillington ſo much [51] on the chapter of Noſes—becauſe, as the principal ſatire throughout that part is levelled at thoſe learned block⯑heads who, in all ages, have waſted their time and much learning upon points as fooliſh—it ſhifts off the idea of what you fear, to another point—and 'tis thought here very good—'twill paſs muſter—I mean not with all—no—no! I ſhall be attacked and pelted, either from cellars or garrets, write what I will—and beſides, muſt expect to have a party againſt me of many hundreds—who either do not—or will not laugh.—'Tis enough if I divide the world;—at leaſt I will reſt contented with it.—I wiſh you was [52] here to ſee what changes of looks and political reaſoning, have taken place in every company, and coffee-houſe ſince laſt year; we ſhall be ſoon Pruſſians and Anti-Pruſſians, B—'s and Anti-B—s, and thoſe diſtinc⯑tions will juſt do as well as Whig and Tory—and for aught I know ſerve the ſame ends.—The K. ſeems reſolved to bring all things back to their original principles, and to ſtop the torrent of corruption and lazineſs.—He riſes every morning at ſix to do buſineſs—rides out at eight to a minute, returns at nine to give himſelf up to his people.—By perſiſting, 'tis thought he will oblige [53] his M.......s and dependants, to diſ⯑patch affairs with him many hours ſooner than of late—and 'tis much to be queſtion'd whether they will not be enabled to wait upon him ſooner by being free'd from long levees of their own, and applications; which will in all likelyhood be transferr'd from them directly to himſelf—the preſent ſyſtem being to remove that Phalanx of great people, which ſtood betwixt the throne and the ſubjects, and ſuffer them to have immediate acceſs without the intervention of a caball—(this is the language of others): however the K. gives every thing himſelf, knows every thing, and weighs every thing ma⯑turely, [54] and then is inflexible—this puts old ſtagers off their game—how it will end we are all in the dark.

'Tis fear'd the war is quite over in Germany; never was known ſuch havock amongſt troops—I was told yeſterday by a Colonel, from Ger⯑many, that out of two battalions of nine hundred men, to which he be⯑long'd, but ſeventy-one left!—P.... F... has ſent word, 'tis ſaid, that he muſt have forty-thouſand men directly ſent to take the field—and with pro⯑viſions for them too, for he can but ſubſiſt them for a fortnight—I hope this will find you all got to York—I [55] beg my compliments to the amiable Mrs. Croft, &c. &c.

Tho' I purpoſed going firſt to Golden-Square, yet fate has thus long diſpoſed of me—ſo I have never been able to ſet a foot towards that quarter.

LETTER VI. To the ſame.

I HAVE juſt time to acknowledge the favour of yours, but not to get the two prints you mention—which ſhall be ſent you by next poſt—I have bought them, and lent them to Miſs Gilbert, but will aſſuredly ſend for them and encloſe them to you:—I will take care to get your pictures well copied, and at a moderate price. And if I can be of further uſe, I beſeech you to employ [57] me; and from time to time will ſend you an account of whatever may be worth tranſmitting.—The ſtream now ſets in ſtrong againſt the German war. Loud complaints of — — — making a trade of the war, &c. &c. much expected from Ld. G—'s evidence to theſe matters, who is ex⯑pected every hour;—the K. wins every day upon the people, ſhews himſelf much at the play, (but at no opera) rides out with his bro⯑thers every morning, half an hour after ſeven, till nine—returns with them—ſpends an hour with them at breakfaſt, and chat—and then ſits [58] down to buſineſs. I never dined at home once ſince I arrived—am four⯑teen dinners deep engaged juſt now, and fear matters will be worſe with me in that point than better.—As to the main points in view, at which you hint—all I can ſay is, that I ſee my way, and unleſs Old Nick throws the dice—ſhall, in due time, come off winner.—Triſtram will be out the twentieth—there is a great rout made about him before he enters the ſtage—whether this will be of uſe or no, I can't ſay—ſome wits of the firſt mag⯑nitude here, both as to wit and ſtation, engage me ſucceſs—time will ſhew— [59] Adieu, dear Sir! and with my com⯑pliments to Mrs. Croft, &c.

LETTER VII. To the ſame.

I THIS moment received the favour of your kind letter.—The letter in the Ladies Magazine about me, was wrote by the noted Dr. H—, who wrote the Inſpector, and undertakes that magazine—the people of York are very uncharitable to ſuppoſe any man ſo groſs a beaſt as to pen ſuch a cha⯑racter of himſelf.—In this great town no ſoul ever ſuſpected it, for a thouſand [61] reaſons—could they ſuppoſe I ſhould be ſuch a fool as to fall foul upon Dr. W—n, my beſt friend, by repre⯑ſenting him ſo weak a man—or by tel⯑ling ſuch a lye of him—as his giving me a purſe, to buy off his tutorſhip for Triſtram!—or I ſhould be fool enough to own I had taken his purſe for that purpoſe!

You muſt know there is a quarrel between Dr. H— and Dr. M—y, who was the phyſician meant at Mr. C— S—'s, and Dr. H— has changed the place on purpoſe to give M—y a lick.—Now that con⯑verſation, (tho' perhaps true) yet hap⯑pen'd [62] at another place, and with another phyſician; which I have contradicted in this city for the ho⯑nour of my friend M—y, all which ſhews the abſurdity of York credulity, and nonſenſe. Beſides the account is full of falſhoods—firſt with regard to the place of my birth, which was at C—, in Ireland—the ſtory of a hundred pounds to Mrs. W—, not true, or of a penſion promiſed; the merit of which I diſclaim'd—and indeed there are ſo many other things ſo un⯑true, and unlikely to come from me, that the worſt enemy I have here never had a ſuſpicion—and to end all Dr. H— owns the paper.

[63]I ſhall be down before May is out—I preach before the Judges on Sun⯑day—my ſermons come out on Thurſ⯑day after—and I purpoſe the Monday at furtheſt after that to ſet out for York—I have bought a pair of horſes for that purpoſe—my beſt reſpects to your Lady—

P.S. I beg pardon for this haſty ſcrawl, having juſt come from a Con⯑cert where the D.. of Y... perform'd—I have received great notice from him, and laſt week had the honour of ſupping with him.

LETTER VIII. To the ſame.

SINCE I had the favour of your obliging letter, nothing has hap⯑pened, or been ſaid one day, which has not been contradicted the next; ſo having little certain to write, I have forbore writing at all, in hopes every day of ſomething worth filling up a letter. We had the greateſt expectations yeſterday that ever were [66] raiſed, of a pitched battle in the H— of C—, wherein Mr. P— was to have entered and thrown down the gaunt⯑let, in defence of the German war.—There never was ſo full a houſe—the gallery full to the top—I was there all the day—when, lo! a political fit of the gout ſeized the great combat⯑tant—he entered not the liſts—B... got up, and begged the houſe, as he ſaw not his right honourable friend there, to put off the debate—it could not be done; ſo B... roſe up, and made a moſt long, paſſionate, inco⯑herent ſpeech, in defence of the Ger⯑manick war—but very ſevere upon the unfrugal manner it was carried [67] on—in which he addreſſed himſelf principally to the C— of the E—, and laid him on terribly.—It ſeems the chancery of Hanover had laid out 350,000 pounds, on account, and brought in our treaſury debtor—and the grand debate was, for an honeſt examination of the particulars of this extravagant account, and for vouchers to authenticate it.—L... anſwered B... very rationally, and coolly—Lord N. ſpoke long—Sir F. D— maintained the German war was moſt pernicious—Mr. C—, of Surry, ſpoke well againſt the ac⯑count, with ſome others—L. B—n at laſt got up, and ſpoke half an hour [68] with great plainneſs, and temper—explained a great many hidden ſprings relating to theſe accounts, in favour of the late K.—and told two or three converſations which had paſſed between the K. and himſelf, relative to theſe expences—which caſt great honour upon the K's character. This was with regard to the money the K. had ſecretly furniſhed out of his pocket to leſſen the account of the Hanover-ſcore brought us to diſcharge.

B—d and B—n abuſed all who ſought for peace, and joined in the cry for it; and B—d added, that the reaſons of wiſhing a peace [69] now, were the ſame as at the peace of Utretch—that the people behind the curtain could not both maintain the war and their places too, ſo were for making another ſacrifice of the nation, to their own intereſts.—After all—the cry for a peace is ſo general, that it will certainly end in one. Now for myſelf.—

One half of the town abuſe my book as bitterly, as the other half cry it up to the ſkies—the beſt is, they abuſe and buy it, and at ſuch a rate, that we are going on with a ſecond edition, as faſt as poſſible.

[70]I am going down for a day or two with Mr. Spencer, to Wimbleton; on Wedneſday there is to be a grand aſſembly at Lady N—. I have en⯑quired every where about Stephen's affair, and can hear nothing—My friend, Mr. Charles T—, will be now ſecretary of war—he bid me wiſh him joy of it, though not in poſſeſ⯑ſion.—I will aſk him—and depend, my moſt worthy friend, that you ſhall not be ignorant of what I learn from him—believe me ever, ever,

LETTER IX. To the ſame.

A STRAIN which I got in my wriſt by a terrible fall, prevented my acknowledging the favour of your obliging letter. I went yeſterday morn⯑ing to breakfaſt with Mr. V—, who is a kind of right-hand man to the ſecretary, on purpoſe to enquire about the propriety, or feaſibility, of doing what you wiſh me—and he has [72] told me an anecdote which, had you been here, would, I think, have made it wiſer to have deferred ſpeaking about the affair a month hence than now; it is this—You muſt know that the numbers of officers who have left their regiments in Germany, for the pleaſures of the town, have been a long topic for merriment; as you ſee them in St. James's Coffee-houſe, and the park, every hour, enquiring, open mouth, how things go on in Germany, and what news?—when they ſhould have been there to have fur⯑niſhed news themſelves—but the worſt part has been, that many of them have left their brother officers on their [73] duty, and in all the fatigues of it, and have come with no end but to make friends, to be put unfairly over the heads of thoſe who were left riſk⯑ing their lives.—In this attempt there have been ſome but too ſucceſsful, which has juſtly raiſed ill-blood and complaints from the officers who ſtaid behind—the upſhot has been, that they have every ſoul been ordered off, and woe be to him ('tis ſaid) who ſhall be found liſtening. Now juſt to mention our friend's caſe whilſt this cry is on foot, I think would be doing more hurt than good, but if you think otherwiſe, I will go with all my heart and mention it to Mr. [74] T..., for to do more I am too in⯑conſiderable a perſon to pretend to. You made me and my friends here very merry with the accounts current at York, of my being forbid the court—but they do not conſider what a conſiderable perſon they make of me, when they ſuppoſe either my going, or my not going there, is a point that ever enters the K's head—and for thoſe about him, I have the honour either to ſtand ſo perſonally well known to them; or to be ſo well repreſented by thoſe of the firſt rank, as to fear no accident of that kind.

[75]I thank God (B...'s excepted) I have never yet made a friend, or connection I have forfeited, or done ought to forfeit—but on the contrary, my true character is bet⯑ter underſtood, and where I had one friend laſt year, who did me honour, I have three now.—If my enemies knew that by this rage of abuſe, and ill will, they were effec⯑tually ſerving the intereſts both of myſelf, and works, they would be more quiet—but it has been the fate of my betters, who have found, that the way to fame, is like the way to heaven—through much tribulation—and till I ſhall have the honour to be [76] as much mal-treated as Rabelais, and Swift were, I muſt continue humble; for I have not filled up the meaſure of half their perſecutions.

The court is turning topſy-turvy. Lord B..e, le premier—Lord T..t to be groom of the chambers in room of the D... of R....d—Lord H...x to Ireland—Sir F. D...d in T...'s place—P..t ſeems un⯑moved—a peace inevitable—Stocks riſe—the peers this moment kiſſing hands, &c. &c. (this week may be be chriſtened the kiſs-hands week) for a hundred changes will happen in conſequence of theſe. Pray preſent [77] my compliments to Mrs. C... and all friends, and believe me, with the greateſt fidelity,

P.S. Is it not ſtrange that Lord T...t ſhould have power to remove the Duke of R...d.

Pray when you have read this, ſend the news to Mrs. Sterne.

LETTER X. To the ſame.

I RETURN you ten thouſand thanks for the favour of your letter—and the account you give me of my wife and girl.—I ſaw Mr. Ch—y to⯑night a Ranelagh, who tells me you have inoculated my friend Bobby.—I heartily wiſh him well through, and hope in God all goes right.

On Monday we ſet out with a grand retinue of Lord Rockingham's (in [79] whoſe ſuite I move) for Windſor—they have contracted for fourteen hundred pounds for the dinner, to ſome general undertaker, of which the K. has bargained to pay one third. Lord G— S—, was laſt Satur⯑day at the opera, ſome ſay with great effrontery—others with great dejection.

I have little news to add.—There is a ſhilling pamphlet wrote againſt Triſtram.—I wiſh they would write a hundred ſuch.

Mrs. Sterne ſays her purſe is light; will you, dear Sir, be ſo good as to [80] pay her ten guineas, and I will reckon with you when I have the pleaſure of meeting you.—My beſt compliments to Mrs. C. and all friends.—Believe me, dear Sir, your obliged and faith⯑ful

LETTER XI. To Mrs. F—.

YOUR kind enquiries after my health, deſerve my beſt thanks.—What can give one more pleaſure than the good wiſhes of thoſe we value?—I am ſorry you give ſo bad an account of your own health, but hope you will find benefit from tar-water—it has been of infinite ſervice to me.—I ſuppoſe, my good lady, by [82] what you ſay in your letter, ‘"that I am buſy writing an extraordinary book,"’ that your intelligence comes from York—the fountain-head of chit-chat news—and—no matter.—Now for your deſire of knowing the reaſon of my turning author? why truly I am tired of employing my brains for other people's advantage.—'Tis a fooliſh ſacrifice I have made for ſome years to an ungrateful perſon.—I depend much upon the candour of the publick, but I ſhall not pick out a jury to try the merit of my book amongſt *******, and—till you read my Triſtram, do not, like ſome people, condemn it.—Laugh I am [83] ſure you will at ſome paſſages.—I have hired a ſmall houſe in the Mins⯑ter Yard for my wife, and daughter—the latter is to begin dancing, &c. if I cannot leave her a fortune, I will at leaſt give her an education.—As I ſhall publiſh my works very ſoon, I ſhall be in town by March, and ſhall have the pleaſure of meeting with you.—All your friends are well, and ever hold you in the ſame eſtimation that your ſincere friend does.

Adieu, dear lady, believe me, with every wiſh for your happineſs, your moſt faithful, &c.

LETTER XII. To Dr. ******.

—DE mortuis nil niſi bonum, is a maxim which you have ſo often of late urged in converſation, and in your letters, (but in your laſt eſpeci⯑ally) with ſuch ſeriouſneſs, and ſeverity againſt me, as the ſuppoſed tranſgreſ⯑ſor of the rule;—that you have made me at length as ſerious and ſevere as yourſelf:—but that the humours you have ſtirred up might not work too [85] potently within me, I have waited four days to cool myſelf, before I would ſet pen to paper to anſwer you, ‘"de mortuis nil niſi bonum."’ I de⯑clare I have conſidered the wiſdom, and foundation of it over and over again, as diſpaſſionately and charitably as a good Chriſtian can, and, after all, I can find nothing in it, or make more of it, than a nonſenſical lullaby of ſome nurſe, put into Latin by ſome pedant, to be chanted by ſome hypo⯑crite to the end of the world, for the conſolation of departing lechers.—'Tis, I own, Latin; and I think that is all the weight it has—for, in plain Engliſh, 'tis a looſe and futile poſition [86] below a diſpute—‘"you are not to ſpeak any thing of the dead, but what is good."’ Why ſo?—Who ſays ſo?—neither reaſon or ſcripture.—Inſpired authors have done otherwiſe—and reaſon and common ſenſe tell me, that if the characters of paſt ages and men are to be drawn at all, they are to be drawn like themſelves; that is, with their excellencies, and with their foi⯑bles—and it is as much a piece of juſtice to the world, and to virtue too, to do the one, as the other.—The rule⯑ing paſſion et les egarements du coeur, are the very things which mark, and diſtinguiſh a man's character;—in which I would as ſoon leave out a [87] man's head as his hobby-horſe.—How⯑ever, if like the poor devil of a painter, we muſt conform to this pious canon, de mortuis, &c. which I own has a ſpice of piety in the ſound of it, and be obliged to paint both our angels and our devils out of the ſame pot—I then infer that our Sydenhams, and Sangrados, our Lucretias,—and Maſ⯑ſalinas, our Sommers, and our Bo⯑lingbrokes—are alike entitled to ſta⯑tues, and all the hiſtorians, or ſatiriſts who have ſaid otherwiſe ſince they de⯑parted this life, from Salluſt, to S—e, are guilty of the crimes you charge me with, "cowardice and injuſtice."

[88]But why cowardice? ‘"becauſe 'tis not courage to attack a dead man who can't defend himſelf."’—But why do you doctors of the faculty attack ſuch a one with your inciſion knife? Oh! for the good of the living.—'Tis my plea.—But I have ſomething more to ſay in my behalf—and it is this—I am not guilty of the charge—tho' de⯑fenſible. I have not cut up Doctor Kunaſtrokius at all—I have juſt ſcratch'd him—and that ſcarce ſkin⯑deep.—I do him firſt all honour—ſpeak of Kunaſtrokius as a great man—(be he who he will) and then moſt diſtantly hint at a drole foible in his character—and that not firſt reported [89] (to the few who can even underſtand the hint) by me—but known before by every chamber-maid and footman within the bills of mortality—but Kunaſtrokius, you ſay, was a great man—'tis that very circumſtance which makes the pleaſantry—for I could name at this inſtant a ſcore of honeſt gentlemen who might have done the very thing which Kunaſtrokius did, and ſeen no joke in it at all—as to the failing of Kunſtrokius, which you ſay can only be imputed to his friends as a misfortune—I ſee nothing like a misfortune in it to any friend or re⯑lation of Kunaſtrokius—that Kuna⯑ſtrokius [90] upon occaſions ſhould ſit with ******* and ******* —I have put theſe ſtars not to hurt your worſhip's delicacy—If Kunaſtro⯑kius after all is too ſacred a charactter to be even ſmiled at, (which is all I have done) he has had better luck than his betters:—In the ſame page (without imputation of cowardice) I have ſaid as much of a man of twice his wiſdom—and that is Solomon, of whom I have made the ſame remark ‘"That they were both great men’—and like all mortal men had each their ruling paſſion.

[91]—The conſolation you give me, ‘"That my book however will be read enough to anſwer my deſign of raiſing a tax upon the public"’—is very unconſolatory—to ſay nothing how very mortifying! by h—n! an author is worſe treated than a com⯑mon ***** at this rate—‘"You will get a penny by your ſins, and that's enough."’—Upon this chapter let me comment.—That I propoſed laying the world under contribution when I ſet pen to paper—is what I own, and I ſuppoſe I may be allow'd to have that view in my head in common with every other writer, to make my labour of advantage to myſelf.

[92]Do not you do the ſame? but I beg I may add, that whatever views I had of that kind, I had other views—the firſt of which was, the hopes of doing the world good by ridiculing what I thought deſerving of it—or of diſſervice to ſound learning, &c.—how I have ſucceeded my book muſt ſhew—and this I leave entirely to the world—but not to that little world of your acquaintance, whoſe opinion, and ſen⯑timents you call the general opinion of the beſt judges without exception, who all affirm (you ſay) that my book cannot be put into the hands of any woman of character. (I hope you except widows, doctor—for they are [93] not all ſo ſqueamiſh—but I am told they are all really of my party in return for ſome good offices done their in⯑tereſts in the 176th page of my ſecond volume) But for the chaſte married, and chaſte unmarried part of the ſex—they muſt not read my book! Heaven forbid the ſtock of chaſtity ſhould be leſſen'd by the life and opinions of Triſtram Shandy—yes, his opinions—it would certainly debauch 'em! God take them under his protection in this fiery trial, and ſend us plenty of Duenas to watch the workings of their humours, 'till they have ſafely got thro' the whole work.—If this will not be ſufficient, may we have plenty [94] of Sangrados to pour in plenty of cold water, till this terrible fermenta⯑tion is over—as for the nummum in loculo, which you mention to me a ſe⯑cond time, I fear you think me very poor, or in debt—I thank God tho' I don't abound—that I have enough for a clean ſhirt every day—and a mutton chop—and my contentment with this, has thus far (and I hope ever will) put me above ſtooping an inch for it, for—eſtate.—Curſe on it, I like it not to that degree, nor envy (you may be ſure) any man who kneels in the dirt for it—ſo that howſoever I may fall ſhort of the ends propoſed in commencing author—I enter this [95] proteſt, firſt that my end was honeſt, and ſecondly, that I wrote not be fed, but to be famous. I am much obliged to Mr. Garrick for his very favourable opinion—but why, dear Sir, had he done better in finding fault with it than in commending it? to humble me? an author is not ſo ſoon humbled as you imagine—no, but to make the book better by caſtrations—that is ſtill ſub judice, and I can aſſure you upon this chapter, that the very paſſages, and deſcriptions you propoſe, that I ſhould ſacrifice in my ſecond edi⯑tion, are what are beſt reliſh'd by men of wit, and ſome others whom I eſteem as ſound criticks—ſo that upon [96] the whole, I am ſtill kept up, if not above fear, at leaſt above deſpair, and have ſeen enough to ſhew me the folly of an attempt of caſtrating my book to the prudiſh humours of particulars. I believe the ſhort cut would be to publiſh this letter at the beginning of the third volume, as an apology for the firſt and ſecond. I was ſorry to find a cenſure upon the inſincerity of ſome of my friends—I have no reaſon myſelf to reproach any one man—my friends have continued in the ſame opinions of my books which they firſt gave me of it—many indeed have [97] thought better of 'em, by conſidering them more; few worſe.

LETTER XIII. To the B— of G—.

NOT knowing where to ſend two ſets of my Sermons, I could think of no better expedient, than to order them into Mr. Berrenger's hands, who has promiſed me that he will wait upon your Lordſhip with them, the firſt moment he hears you are in town. The trueſt and humbleſt thanks I [99] return to your Lordſhip for the gene⯑roſity of your protection, and advice to me; by making a good uſe of the one, I will hope to deſerve the other; I wiſh your Lordſhip all the health and happineſs in this world, for I am

P.S. I am juſt ſitting down to go on with Triſtram, &c.—the ſcribblers uſe me ill, but they have uſed my betters much worſe, for which may God forgive them.

LETTER XIV. To the Rev. Mr. STERNE.

I HAVE your favour of the 9th Inſtant, and am glad to underſtand, you are got ſafe home, and employ'd again in your proper ſtudies and amuſe⯑ments. You have it in your power to make that, which is an amuſement to yourſelf and others, uſeful to both: at leaſt, you ſhould above all things, beware of its becoming hurtful to either, by any violations of [101] decency and good manners; but I have already taken ſuch repeated li⯑berties of adviſing you on that head, that to ſay more would be needleſs, or perhaps unacceptable.

Whoever is, in any way, well re⯑ceived by the public, is ſure to be annoy'd by that peſt of the public, profligate ſcribblers. This is the com⯑mon lot of ſucceſsful adventurers; but ſuch have often a worſe evil to ſtruggle with, I mean the over-offi⯑ciouſneſs of their indiſcreet friends. There are two Odes, as they are call'd, printed by Dodſley. Whoever was the author, he appears to be a [102] monſter of impiety and lewdneſs—yet ſuch is the malignity of the ſcrib⯑blers, ſome have given them to your friend Hall; and others, which is ſtill more impoſſible, to yourſelf; tho' the firſt Ode has the inſolence to place you both in a mean and a ridiculous light. But this might ariſe from a tale equally groundleſs and maglignant, that you had ſhewn them to your ac⯑quaintances in M. S. before they were given to the public. Nor was their being printed by Dodſley the likelieſt means of diſcrediting the calumny.

About this time, another, under the maſk of friendſhip, pretended to draw [103] your character, which was ſince pub⯑liſhed in a Female Magazine, (for dul⯑neſs, who often has as great a hand as the devil, in deforming God's works of the creation, has made them, it ſeems, male and female) and from thence it was transformed into a Chronicle. Pray have you read it, or do you know its author?

But of all theſe things, I dare ſay Mr. Garrick, whoſe prudence is equal to his honeſty or his talents, has re⯑monſtrated to you with the freedom of a friend. He knows the inconſtancy of what is called the Public, towards all, even the beſt intentioned, of thoſe [104] who contribute to its pleaſure, or amuſement. He (as every man of honour and diſcretion would) has availed himſelf of the public favour, to regulate the taſte, and, in his proper ſtation, to reform the manners of the faſhionable world; while by a well judged oeconomy, he has provided againſt the temptations of a mean and ſervile dependency, on the follies and vices of the great.

In a word, be aſſured, there is no one more ſincerely wiſhes your welfare and happineſs, than,

LETTER XIV. To my Witty Widow, Mrs. F—.

WHEN a man's brains are as dry as a ſqueez'd Orange—and he feels he has no more conceit in him than a Mallet, 'tis in vain to think of ſitting down, and writing a letter to a lady of your wit, unleſs in the honeſt John-Trot-Stile of, yours of the 15th inſtant came ſafe to hand, &c. which, by the bye, looks like a letter of buſineſs; and you know very well, from the firſt [106] letter I had the honour to write to you, I am a man of no buſineſs at all. This vile plight I found my genius in, was the reaſon I have told Mr. —, I would not write to you till the next poſt—hopeing, by that time to get ſome ſmall recruit, at leaſt of vivacity, if not wit, to ſet out with;—but upon ſecond thoughts, thinking a bad letter in ſeaſon—to be better than a good one, out of it—this ſcrawl is the con⯑ſequence, which, if you will burn the moment you get it—I promiſe to ſend you a fine ſet eſſay in the ſtile of your female epiſtolizers, cut and trim'd at all points.—God defend me from ſuch, who never yet knew what it was to [107] ſay or write one premeditated word in my whole life—for this reaſon I ſend you with pleaſure, becauſe wrote with the careleſs irregularity of an eaſy heart.—Who told you Garrick wrote the medley for Beard?—'Twas wrote in his houſe, however, and be⯑fore I left town.—I deny it—I was not loſt two days before I left town.—I was loſt all the time I was there, and never found till I got to this Shandy caſtle of mine.—Next winter I intend to ſojourn amongſt you with more de⯑corum, and will neither be loſt or found any where.

[108]Now I wiſh to God, I was at your elbow—I have juſt finiſhed one volume of Shandy, and I want to read it to ſome one who I know can taſte and reliſh humour—this by the way, is a little impudent in me—for I take the thing for granted, which their high mightineſſes the world have yet to de⯑termine—but I mean no ſuch thing—I could wiſh only to have your opinion—ſhall I, in truth, give you mine?—I dare not—but I will; provided you keep it to yourſelf—know then, that I think there is more laughable humour,—with equal degree of Cervantick ſatire—if not more than in the laſt—but we are bad judges of the merit of our children.

[109]I return you a thouſand thanks for your friendly congratulations upon my habitation—and I will take care, you ſhall never wiſh me but well, for I am, madam,

P.S. I have wrote this ſo vilely and ſo precipitately, I fear you muſt carry it to a decypherer—I beg you'll do me the honour to write—otherwiſe [110] you draw me in, inſtead of Mr. — drawing you into a ſcrape—for I ſhould ſorrow to have a taſte of ſo agreeable a correſpondent—and no more.

Adieu.

LETTER XV. To Lady —.

I RETURN to my new habitation, fully determined to write as hard as can be, and thank you moſt cordially, my dear lady, for your letter of con⯑gratulation upon my Lord Faucon⯑berg's having preſented me with the curacy of this place—though your congratulation comes ſomewhat of the lateſt, as I have been poſſeſſed of it ſome time.—I hope I have been of ſome ſervice to his Lordſhip, and he [112] has ſufficiently requited me.—'Tis ſeventy guineas a year in my pocket, though worth a hundred—but it obliges me to have a curate to officiate at Sutton and Stillington.—'Tis within a mile of his Lordſhip's ſeat, and park. 'Tis a very agreeable ride out in the chaiſe, I purchaſed for my wife.—Lyd has a poney which ſhe delights in.—Whilſt they take theſe diverſions, I am ſcribbling away at my Triſtram. Theſe two volumes are, I think, the beſt.—I ſhall write as long as I live, 'tis, in fact, my hobby-horſe: and ſo much am I delighted with my uncle Toby's imaginary character, that I am become an enthuſiaſt.—My Lydia [113] helps to copy for me—and my wife knits and liſtens as I read her chap⯑ters.—The coronation of his Majeſty (whom God preſerve!) has coſt me the value of an Ox, which is to be roaſted whole in the middle of the town, and my pariſhioners will, I ſuppoſe, be very merry upon the occaſion.—You will then be in town—and feaſt your eyes with a ſight, which 'tis to be hoped will not be in either of our powers to ſee again—for in point of age we have about twenty years the ſtart of his Majeſty.—And now, my dear friend, I muſt finiſh this—and with every wiſh for your hap⯑pineſs conclude myſelf your moſt ſin⯑cere well-wiſher and friend,

LETTER XVI. To J— H— S—, Eſq.

I REJOICE you are in London—reſt you there in peace; here 'tis the devil.—You was a good prophet.—I wiſh myſelf back again, as you told me I ſhould—but not becauſe a thin death-doing peſtiferous north-eaſt wind blows in a line directly from crazy-caſtle turret full upon me in this cuckoldly retreat, (for I value the north-eaſt wind and all its powers [115] not a ſtraw)—but the tranſition from rapid motion to abſolute reſt was too violent.—I ſhould have walked about the ſtreets of York ten days, as a proper medium to have paſſed thro', before I entered upon my reſt.—I ſtaid but a moment, and I have been here but a few, to ſatisfy me I have not managed my miſeries like a wiſe man—and if God, for my conſolation under them, had not poured forth the ſpirit of Shandeiſm into me, which will not ſuffer me to think two moments upon any grave ſubject, I would elſe, juſt now lay down and die—die—and yet, in half an hour's time, I'll lay a guinea, I ſhall be as merry as a [116] monkey—and as miſchievous too, and forget it all—ſo that this is but a copy of the preſent train running croſs my brain.—And ſo you think this curſed ſtupid—but that, my dear H. depends much upon the quotâ horâ of your ſhabby clock, if the pointer of it is in any quarter between ten in the morning or four in the afternoon—I give it up—or if the day is obſcured by dark engendering clouds of either wet or dry weather, I am ſtill loſt—but who knows but it may be five—and the day as fine a day as ever ſhone upon the earth ſince the deſtruction of Sodom—and peradventure your honour may have got a good hearty [117] dinner to-day, and eat and drank your intellectuals into a placiduliſh and a blanduliſh amalgama—to bear non⯑ſenſe, ſo much for that.

'Tis as cold and churliſh juſt now, as (if God had not pleaſed it to be ſo) it ought to have been in bleak Decem⯑ber, and therefore I am glad you are where you are, and where (I repeat it again) I wiſh I was alſo—Curſe of poverty, and abſence from thoſe we love!—they are two great evils which embitter all things—and yet with the firſt I am not haunted much.—As to matrimony, I ſhould be a beaſt to rail at it, for my wife is eaſy—but the [118] world is not—and had I ſtaid from her a ſecond longer it would have been a burning ſhame—elſe ſhe declares her⯑ſelf happier without me—but not in anger is this declaration made—but in pure ſober good-ſenſe, built on ſound experience—ſhe hopes you will be able to ſtrike a bargain for me before this time twelvemonth, to lead a bear round Europe: and from this hopes from you, I verily believe it is, that you are ſo high in her favour at preſent—She ſwears you are a fellow of wit, though humourous; a funny jolly ſoul, though ſomewhat ſplenetic; and (bating the love of women) as honeſt as gold—how do you like the [119] ſimile?—Oh, Lord! now are you going to Ranelagh to-night, and I am ſitting, ſorrowful as the prophet was when the voice cried out to him and ſaid, ‘"What do'ſt thou here, Elijah?"’—'Tis well the ſpirit does not make the ſame at Coxwold—for unleſs for the few ſheep left me to take care of, in this wilderneſs, I might as well, nay better, be at Mecca—When we find we can by a ſhifting of places, run away from ourſelves, what think you of a jaunt there, before we finally pay a viſit to the vale of Jehoſophat—As ill a fame as we have, I truſt I ſhall one day or other ſee you face to face—ſo tell the two colonels, if they [120] love good company, to live righteouſly and ſoberly as you do, and then they will have no doubts or dangers within, or without them—preſent my beſt and warmeſt wiſhes to them, and adviſe the eldeſt to prop up his ſpirits, and get a rich dowager before the concluſion of the peace—why will not the advice ſuit both, par nobile fratrum?

To-morrow morning, (if Heaven permit) I begin the fifth volume of Shandy—I care not a curſe for the critics—I'll load my vehicle with what goods he ſends me, and they may take 'em off my hands, or let them alone—I am very valourous—and 'tis in pro⯑portion [121] as we retire from the world and ſee it in its true dimenſions, that we deſpiſe it—no bad rant!—God above bleſs you! You know I am

What few remain of the Demoniacs, greet—and write me a letter, if you are able, as fooliſh as this.

LETTER XVII. To D— G—, Eſq.

THINK not that becauſe I have been a fortnight in this metropolis without writing to you, that there⯑fore I have not had you and Mrs. G. a hundred times in my head and heart—heart! yes, yes, ſay you—but I muſt not waſte paper in badinage this poſt, whatever I do the next. [123] Well! here I am, my friend, as much improved in my health for the time, as ever your friendſhip could wiſh, or at leaſt your faith give credit to—by the bye I am ſomewhat worſe in my intellectuals, for my head is turned round with what I ſee, and the un⯑expected honours I have met with here. Triſtram was almoſt as much known here as in London, at leaſt among your men of condition and learning, and has got me introduced into ſo many circles ('tis comme a Londres.) I have juſt now a fortnight's dinners and ſuppers upon my hands—My ap⯑plication to the Count de Choiſuiel goes on ſwimmingly, for not only Mr. [124] Pelletiere, (who, by the bye, ſends ten thouſand civilities to you, and Mrs. G.) has undertaken my affair, but the Count de Limbourgh—the Baron d'Holbach, has offered any ſecurity for the inoffenſiveneſs of my behaviour in France—'tis more, you rogue! than you will do—This Baron is one of the moſt learned noblemen here, the great protector of wits, and the Scavans who are no wits—keeps open houſe three days a week—his houſe, is now, as yours was to me, my own—he lives at great ex⯑pence—'Twas an odd incident when I was introduced to the Count de Biſſie, which I was at his deſire—I [125] found him reading Triſtram—this grandee does me great honours, and gives me leave to go a private way through his apartments into the palais royal, to view the Duke of Orleans' collections, every day I have time—I have been at the doc⯑tors of Sorbonne—I hope in a fort⯑night to break through, or rather from the delights of this place, which in the ſcavoir vivre, exceed all the places, I believe, in this ſection of the globe—

I am going, when this letter is wrote, with Mr. Fox, and Mr. Maccart⯑ny to Verſailles—the next morning I [126] wait upon Monſr. Titon, in company with Mr. Maccartny, who is known to him, to deliver your commands. I have bought you the pamphlet up⯑on theatrical, or rather tragical de⯑clamation—I have bought another in verſe, worth reading, and you will receive them, with what I can pick up this week, by a ſervant of Mr. Hodges, who he is ſending back to England.

I was laſt night with Mr. Fox to ſee Madle. Clairon, in Iphigene—ſhe is extremely great—would to God you had one or two like her—what a luxury, to ſee you with one of ſuch [127] powers in the ſame intereſting ſcene—but 'tis too much—Ah! Preville! thou art Mercury himſelf—By virtue of taking a couple of boxes, we have beſpoke this week the Frenchman in London, in which Preville is to ſend us home to ſupper, all happy—I mean about fifteen or ſixteen Engliſh of diſtinction, who are now here, and live well with each other.

I am under great obligations to Mr. Pitt, who has behaved in every reſpect to me like a man of good breeding, and good nature—In a poſt or two I will write again—Foley is an honeſt ſoul—I could write ſix volumes of [128] what has paſſed comically in this great ſcene, ſince theſe laſt fourteen days—but more of this hereafter—We are all going into mourning; nor you, nor Mrs. G. would know me, if you met me in my remiſe—bleſs you both! Service to Mrs. Denis. Adieu, adieu.

LETTER XVIII. To Lady D—.

YOUR Ladyſhip's kind enquiries after my health is indeed kind, and of a piece with the reſt of your character. Indeed I am very ill, having broke a veſſel in my lungs—hard writing in the ſummer, together with preaching, which I have not ſtrength for, is ever fatal to me—but I cannot avoid the latter yet, and the former is too pleaſurable to be given up—I believe [130] I ſhall try if the ſouth of France will not be of ſervice to me—his G. of Y. has moſt humanely given me the per⯑miſſion for a year of two—I ſhall ſet off with great hopes of its efficacy, and ſhall write to my wife and daughter to come and join me at Paris, elſe my ſtay could not be ſo long—‘"Le Fever's ſtory has beguiled your ladyſhip of your tears,"’ and the thought of the accuſing ſpirit flying up heaven's chancery with the oath, you are kind enough to ſay is ſublime—my friend, Mr. Garrick, thinks ſo too, and I am moſt vain of his approbation—your ladyſhip's opinion adds not a little to my vanity.

[131]I wiſh I had time to take a little excurſion to Bath, were it only to thank you for all the obliging things you ſay in your letter—but 'tis im⯑poſſible—accept at leaſt my warmeſt thanks—If I could tempt my friend, Mr. H. to come to France, I ſhould be truly happy—If I can be of any ſervice to you at Paris, command him who is, and ever will be,

LETTER XIX. To J— H— S—, Eſq.

I SYMPATHIZED for, or with you, on the detail you give me of your late agitations—and would willingly have taken my horſe, and trotted to the oracle to have enquired into the etymology of all your ſufferings, had I not been aſſured, that all that evacu⯑ation of bilious matter, with all that [133] abdomical motion attending it (both which are equal to a month's purga⯑tion and exerciſe) will have left you better than it found you—Need one go to D— to be told that all kind of mild, (mark, I am going to talk more fooliſhly than your apothecary) open⯑ing, ſaponacious, dirty-ſhirt, ſud-waſhing liquors are proper for you, and conſequently all ſtyptical pota⯑tions, death and deſtruction—if you had not ſhut up your gall-ducts by theſe, the glauber ſalts could not have hurt—as it was, 'twas like a match to the gunpowder, by raiſing a freſh combuſtion, as all phyſic does at firſt, ſo that you have been let off—nitre, [134] brimſtone, and charcoal, (which is blackneſs itſelf) all at one blaſt—'twas well the piece did not burſt, for I think it underwent great violence, and, as it is proof, will, I hope, do much ſervice in this militating world—Panty is miſtaken, I quarrel with no one.—There was that coxcomb of — in the houſe, who loſt temper with me for no reaſon upon earth but that I could not fall down and worſhip a brazen image of learning and eloquence, which he ſet up to the perſecution of all true believers—I ſat down upon his altar, and whiſtled in the time of his divine ſervice—and broke down his carved work, and [135] kicked his incenſe pot to the D—, ſo he retreated, ſed non ſine telle in corde ſuo.—I have wrote a clerum, whether I ſhall take my doctor's de⯑grees or no—I am much in doubt, but I trow not.—I go on with Triſ⯑tram—I have bought ſeven hundred books at a purchaſe dog cheap—and many good—and I have been a week getting them ſet up in my beſt room here—why do not you tranſport yours to town, but I talk like a fool.—This will juſt catch you at your ſpaw—I wiſh you incolumem apud Londi⯑num—do you go there for good and all—or ill?—I am, dear couſin,

LETTER XX. To D. G—, Eſq.

THIS will be put into your hands by Doctor Shippen, a phyſician, who has been here ſome time with Miſs Poyntz, and is this moment ſetting off for your metropolis, ſo I ſnatch the opportunity of writing to you and my kind friend Mrs. G.—I ſee nothing like her here, and yet I have been in⯑troduced [137] to one half of their beſt Goddeſſes, and in a month more ſhall be admitted to the ſhrines of the other half—but I neither worſhip—or fall (much) upon my knees before them; but on the contrary, have converted many unto Shandeiſm—for be it known I Shandy it away fifty times more than I was ever wont, talk more non⯑ſenſe than ever you heard me talk in your days—and to all ſorts of people. Qui le diable eſt ce homme là—ſaid Choiſeul, t'other day—ce Chevalier Shandy—You'll think me as vain as a devil, was I to tell you the reſt of the dialogue—whether the bearer knows it or no, I know not—'Twill ſerve up [138] after ſupper, in Southampton-ſtreet, amongſt other ſmall diſhes, after the fatigues of Richard the IIId—O God! they have nothing here, which gives the nerves ſo ſmart a blow, as thoſe great characters in the hands of G—! but I forgot I am writing to the man himſelf—The devil take (as he will) theſe tranſports of enthuſiaſm! apro⯑pos—the whole City of Paris is be⯑witch'd with the comic opera, and if it was not for the affairs of the Jeſuits, which takes up one half of our talk, the comic opera would have it all—It is a tragical nuiſance in all companies as it is, and was it not for ſome ſudden ſtarts and daſhes—of Shandeiſm, which [139] now and then either breaks the thread, or entangles it ſo, that the devil him⯑ſelf would be puzzled in winding it off—I ſhould die a martyr—this by the way I never will—

I ſend you over ſome of theſe comic operas by the bearer, with the Sallon, a ſatire—The French comedy, I ſeldom viſit it—they act ſcarce any thing but tragedies—and the Clairon is great, and Mad^lle. Dumeſnil, in ſome places, ſtill greater than her—yet I cannot bear preaching—I fancy I got a ſurfeit of it in my younger days.—There is a tragedy to be damn'd to⯑night—peace be with it, and the gentle [140] brain which made it! I have ten thou⯑ſand things to tell you, I cannot write—I do a thouſand things which cut no figure, but in the doing—and as in London, I have the honour of having done and ſaid a thouſand things I never did or dream'd of—and yet I dream abundantly—If the devil ſtood behind me in the ſhape of a courier, I could not write faſter than I do, having five letters more to diſpatch by the ſame Gentleman; he is going into another ſection of the globe, and when he has ſeen you, he will depart in peace.

The Duke of Orleans has ſuffered my portrait to be added to the number [141] of ſome odd men in his collection; and a gentleman who lives with him has taken it moſt expreſſively, at full length—I purpoſe to obtain an etching of it, and to ſend it you—your prayer for me of roſy health, is heard—If I ſtay here for three or four months, I ſhall return more than reinſtated. My love to Mrs. G.

LETTER XXI. To the ſame.

I SNATCH the occaſion of Mr. Wilcox (the late Biſhop of Roche⯑ſter's ſon) leaving this place for Eng⯑land, to write to you, and I incloſe it to Hall, who will put it into your hand, poſſibly behind the ſcenes. I hear no news of you, or your empire, I would have ſaid kingdom—but here every thing is hyperbolized—and if [143] a woman is but ſimply pleaſed—'tis Je ſuis charmeé—and if ſhe is charmed 'tis nothing leſs, than that ſhe is ravi-ſh'd—and when ravi-ſh'd, (which may happen) there is nothing left for her but to fly to the other world for a metaphor, and ſwear, qu'elle etoit toute exiaſieé—which mode of ſpeaking, is, by the bye, here creep⯑ing into uſe, and there is ſcarce a woman who underſtands the bon ton, but is ſeven times in a day in down⯑right extaſy—that is, the devil's in her—by a ſmall miſtake of one world for the other—Now, where am I got?

[144]I have been theſe two days reading a tragedy, given me by a lady of talents, to read and conjecture if it would do for you—'Tis from the plan of Diderot, and poſſibly half a tranſ⯑lation of it—The Natural Son, or, the Triumph Virtue, in five acts—It has too much ſentiment in it, (at leaſt for me) the ſpeeches too long, and ſavour too much of preaching—this may be a ſecond reaſon, it is not to my taſte—'Tis all love, love, love, throughout, without much ſeparation in the character; ſo I fear it would not do for your ſtage, and perhaps for the very reaſon which recommend it to a French one.—After a vile ſuſ⯑penſion [145] of three weeks—we are be⯑ginning with our comedies and operas again—yours I hear never flouriſhed more—here the comic actors were never ſo low—the tragedians hold up their heads—in all ſenſes. I have known one little man ſupport the the⯑atrical world, like a David Atlas, upon his ſhoulders, but Preville can't do half as much here, though Mad. Clairon ſtands by him, and ſets her back to his—ſhe is very great, however, and highly improved ſince you ſaw her—ſhe alſo ſupports her dignity at table, and has her public day every Thurſ⯑day, when ſhe gives to eat, (as they ſay here) to all that are hungry and dry.

[146]You are much talked of here, and much expected as ſoon as the peace will let you—theſe two laſt days you have happened to engroſs the whole converſation at two great houſes where I was at dinner—'Tis the greateſt problem in nature, in this meridian, that one and the ſame man ſhould poſſeſs ſuch tragic and comic powers, and in ſuch an equilibrio, as to divide the world for which of the two nature intended him.

Crebillion has made a convention with me, which, if he is not too lazy, will be no bad perſiflage—as ſoon as I get to Thoulouſe he has agreed to [147] write me an expoſtulatry letter upon the indecorums of T. Shandy—which is to be anſwered by recrimi⯑nation upon the liberties in his own works—theſe are to be printed together—Crebillion againſt Sterne—Sterne againſt Crebillion—the copy to be ſold, and the money equally divided—This is good Swiſs-policy.

I am recovered greatly, and if I could ſpend one whole winter at Tou⯑louſe, I ſhould be fortified, in my inner man, beyond all danger of re⯑lapſing.—A ſad aſthma my daughter has been martyr'd with theſe three winters, but moſtly this laſt, makes [148] it, I fear, neceſſary ſhe ſhould try the laſt remedy of a warmer and ſofter air, ſo I am going this week to Ver⯑ſailles, to wait upon Count Choiſeul to ſolicit paſſports for them—If this ſyſtem takes place, they join me here—and after a month's ſtay we all de⯑camp for the ſouth of France—if not, I ſhall ſee you in June next. Mr. Fox, and Mr. Macartny, having left Paris, I live altogether in French families—I laugh 'till I cry, and in the ſame tender moments cry 'till I laugh. I Shandy it more than ever, and verily do believe, that by mere Shandeiſm ſublimated by a laughter-loving peo⯑ple, I fence as much againſt infirmi⯑ties, [149] as I do by the benefit of air and climate. Adieu, dear G. preſent ten thouſand of my beſt reſpects and wiſhes to and for my friend Mrs. G.—had ſhe been laſt night upon the Tulleries, ſhe would have annihilated a thouſand French goddeſſes, in one ſingle turn.

LETTER XXII. To Mrs. S—, York.

IT is a thouſand to one that this reaches you before you have ſet out—However I take the chance—you will receive one wrote laſt night, the mo⯑ment you get to Mr. E. and to wiſh you joy of your arrival in town—to that letter which you will find in town, I have nothing to add that I can think on—for I have almoſt drain'd my [151] brains dry upon the ſubject.—For God ſake riſe early and gallop away in the cool—and always ſee that you have not forgot your baggage in changing poſt-chaiſes—You will find good tea upon the road from York to Dover—only bring a little to carry you from Calais to Paris—give the Cuſtom-Houſe officers what I told you—at Calais give more, if you have much Scotch ſnuff—but as to⯑bacco is good here, you had beſt bring a Scotch mill and make it your⯑ſelf, that is, order your valet to manu⯑facture it—'twill keep him out of miſchief.—I would adviſe you to take three days in coming up, for fear of [152] heating yourſelves—See that they do not give you a bad vehicle, when a better is in the yard, but you will look ſharp—drink ſmall Rheniſh to keep you cool, (that is if you like it.) Live well and deny yourſelves nothing your hearts wiſh. So God in heav'n proſper and go along with you—kiſs my Lydia, and believe me both af⯑fectionately,

LETTER XXIII. To the ſame.

THERE have no mails arrived here 'till this morning, for three poſts, ſo I expected with great impatience a letter from you and Lydia—and lo! it is arrived. You are as buſy as Throp's wife, and by the time you receive this, you will be buſier ſtill—I have exhauſted all my ideas about your journey—and what is needful [154] for you to do before and during it—ſo I write only to tell you I am well—Mr. Colebrooks, the miniſter of Swiſſerland's ſecretary, I got this morning to write a letter for you to the governor of the Cuſtom-Houſe-Office, at Calais—it ſhall be ſent you next poſt.—You muſt be cautious about Scotch ſnuff—take half a pound in your pocket, and make Lyd do the ſame. 'Tis well I bought you a chaiſe—there is no getting one in Paris now, but at an enormous price—for they are all ſent to the army, and ſuch a one as yours we have not been able to match for forty guineas; for a friend of mine who is going from [155] hence to Italy—the weather was never known to ſet in ſo hot, as it has done the latter end of this month, ſo he and his party are to get into his chaiſes by four in the morning, and travel 'till nine—and not ſtir out again till ſix; but I hope this ſevere heat will abate by the time you come here—however I beg of you once more to take ſpecial care of heating your blood in travel⯑ling and come tout doucement, when you find the heat too much—I ſhall look impatiently for intelligence from you, and hope to hear all goes well; that you conquer all difficulties, that you have received your paſs-port, my picture, &c. Write and tell me [156] ſomething of every thing. I long to ſee you both, you may be aſſured, my dear wife and child, after ſo long a ſeparation—and write me a line directly, that I may have all the notice you can give me, that I may have apartments ready and fit for you when you arrive.—For my own part I ſhall continue writing to you a fortnight longer—preſent my reſpects to all friends—you have bid Mr. C. get my viſitations at P. done for me, &c. &c. If any offers are made about the incloſure at Raſcal, they muſt be en⯑cloſed to me—nothing that is fairly propoſed ſhall ſtand ſtill on my ſcore. Do all for the beſt, as He who guides [157] all things, will I hope do for us—ſo heav'n preſerve you both—believe me

Love to my Lydia—I have bought her a gold watch to preſent to her when ſhe comes.

LETTER XXIV. To the ſame.

I KEEP my promiſe and write to you again—I am ſorry the bureau muſt be open'd for the deeds—but you will ſee it done—I imagine you are con⯑vinced of the neceſſity of bringing three hundred pounds in your pocket—if you conſider, Lydia muſt have two ſlight negligees—you will want a new gown or two—as for painted linens [159] buy them in town, they will be more admired becauſe Engliſh than French.—Mrs. H. writes me word that I am miſtaken about buying ſilk cheaper at Toulouſe, than Paris, that ſhe adviſes you to buy what you want here—where they are very beautiful and cheap, as well as blonds, gauzes, &c.—theſe I ſay will all coſt you ſixty gui⯑neas—and you muſt have them—for in this country nothing muſt be ſpared for the back—and if you dine on an onion, and lay in a garret ſeven ſtories high, you muſt not betray it in your cloaths, according to which you are well or ill look'd on. When we are got to Toulouſe, we muſt begin to turn [160] the penny, and we may, (if you do not game much) live very cheap—I think that expreſſion will divert you—and now God knows I have not a wiſh but for your health, comfort, and ſafe arrival here—write to me every other poſt, that I may know how you go on—you will be in raptures with your chariot—Mr. R. a gentleman of fortune, who is going to Italy, and has ſeen it, has offered me thirty guineas for my bargain.—You will wonder all the way, how I am to find room in it for a third—to eaſe you of this wonder, 'tis by what the coach-makers here call a cave, which is a ſecond bottom added [161] to that you ſet your feet upon which lets the perſon (who ſits over-againſt you) down with his knees to your ancles, and by which you have all more room—and what is more, leſs heat—becauſe his head does not inter⯑cept the ſore-glaſs little or nothing—Lyd and I will enjoy this by turns; ſometimes I ſhall take a bidet—(a little poſt horſe) and ſcamper before—at other times I ſhall ſit in freſco upon the arm-chair without doors, and one way or other will do very well.—I am under infinite obligations to Mr. Thornhil, for accommodating me thus, and ſo genteely, for 'tis like making a preſent of it.—Mr. T— [162] will ſend you an order to receive it at Calais—and now, my dear girls, have I forgot any thing?

A week or ten days will enable you to ſee every thing—and ſo long you muſt ſtay to reſt your bones.

LETTER XXV. To the ſame.

HAVING an opportunity of writing by a friend who is ſetting out this morning for London, I write again, in caſe the two laſt letters I have wrote this week to you ſhould be be detained by contrary winds at Calais—I have wrote to Mr. E—, by the ſame hand, to thank him for his kindneſs to you in the handſomeſt [164] manner I could—and have told him, his good heart, and his wife's, have made them overlook the trouble of having you at his houſe, but that if he takes you apartments near him they will have occaſion ſtill enough left to ſhew their friendſhip to us—I have begged him to aſſiſt you, and ſtand by you as if he was in my place with regard to the ſale of the Shandys—and then the copy-right—Mark to keep theſe things diſtinct in your head—but Becket I have ever found to be a man of probity, and I dare ſay you will have very little trouble in finiſhing matters with him—and I would rather wiſh you to treat with him than with [165] another man—but whoever buys the fifth and ſixth volumes of Shandy's, muſt have the nay-ſay of the ſeventh and eighth.—I wiſh, when you come here, in caſe the weather is too hot to travel, you could think it pleaſant to go to the Spaw for four or ſix weeks, where we ſhould live for half the money we ſhould ſpend at Paris—after that we ſhould take the ſweeteſt ſeaſon of the vintage to go to the ſouth of France—but we will put our heads together, and you ſhall juſt do as you pleaſe in this, and in every thing which depends on me—for I am a being perfectly contented, when others are pleaſed—to bear and forbear will [166] ever be my maxim—only I fear the heats through a journey of five hun⯑dred miles for you, and my Lydia, more than for myſelf.—Do not forget the watch chains—bring a couple for a gentleman's watch likewiſe, we ſhall lie under great obligations to the Abbé M. and muſt make him ſuch a ſmall acknowledgement; according to my way of flouriſhing, 'twill be a preſent worth a kingdom to him—They have bad pins, and vile needles here—bring for yourſelf, and ſome for preſents—as alſo a ſtrong bottle-ſkrew, for whatever Scrub we may hire as butler, coachman, &c. to uncork us our Frontiniac—You will [167] find a letter for you at the Lyon D'Ar⯑gent—Send for your chaiſe into the court-yard, and ſee all is tight—Buy a chain at Calais ſtrong enough not to be cut off, and let your portman⯑teau be tied on the forepart of your chaiſe for fear of a dog's trick—ſo God bleſs you both, and remember me to my Lydia,

LETTER XXVI. To the ſame.

PROBABLY you will receive another letter with this, by the ſame poſt, if ſo read this the laſt—It will be the laſt you can poſſibly receive at York, for I hope it will catch you juſt as you are upon the wing—if that ſhould happen, I ſuppoſe in courſe you have executed the contents of it, in all things which relate to pecuniary [169] matters, and when theſe are ſettled to your mind, you will have got thro' your laſt difficulty—every thing elſe will be a ſtep of pleaſure, and by the time you have got half a dozen ſtages you will ſet up your pipes and ſing Te Deum together, as you whiſk it along.—Deſire Mr. C— to ſend me a proper letter of attorney by you, he will receive it back by return of poſt. You have done every thing well with regard to our Sutton and Stillington affairs, and left things in the beſt channel—if I was not ſure you muſt have long ſince got my pic⯑ture, garnets, &c. I would write and ſcold Mr. T— abominably—he put [170] them in Becket's hands to be for⯑warded by the ſtage coach to you as ſoon as he got to town.—I long to hear from you, and that all my letters and things are come ſafe to you, and then you will ſay that I have not been a bad lad—for you will find I have been writing continually as I wiſhed you to do—Bring your ſilver coffee-pot, 'twill ſerve both to give water, le⯑monade, and orjead—to ſay nothing of coffee and chocolate, which, by the bye, is both cheap and good at Tou⯑louſe, like other things—I had like to have forgot a moſt neceſſary thing, there are no copper tea-kettles to be had in France, and we ſhall find ſuch [171] a thing the moſt comfortable utenſil in the houſe—buy a good ſtrong one, which will hold two quarts—a diſh of tea will be of comfort to us in our journey ſouth—I have a bronze tea-pot, which we will carry alſo, as China cannot be brought over from Eng⯑land, we muſt make up a villainous party-coloured tea equipage to regale ourſelves, and our Engliſh friends whilſt we are at Toulouſe—I hope you have got your bill from Becket.—There is a good natured kind of a trader I have juſt heard of, at Mr. Foley's, who they think will be coming off from England to France, with horſes, the latter end of June. He happened [172] to come over with a lady, who is ſiſter to Mr. Foley's partner, and I have got her to write a letter to him in London, this poſt, to beg he will ſeek you out at Mr. E—'s, and in caſe a cartel ſhip does not go off before he goes, to take you under his care. He was infinitely friendly in the ſame office laſt year to the lady who now writes to him, and nurſed her on ſhip-board, and de⯑fended her by land with great good⯑will.—Do not ſay I forget you, or whatever can be conducive to your eaſe of mind, in this journey—I wiſh I was with you to do theſe offices my⯑ſelf, and to ſtrew roſes on your way— [173] but I ſhall have time and occaſion to ſhew you I am not wanting—Now, my dears, once more pluck up your ſpirits—truſt in God—in me—and in your⯑ſelves—with this, was you put to it, you would encounter all theſe difficul⯑ties ten times told—Write inſtantly, and tell me you triumph over all fears; tell me Lydia is better, and a help⯑mate to you—You ſay ſhe grows like me—let her ſhew me ſhe does ſo in her comtempt of ſmall dangers, and fighting againſt the apprehenſions of them, which is better ſtill. As I will not have F.'s ſhare of the books, you will inform him ſo—Give my love to Mr. Fothergill, and to thoſe true [174] friends which Envy has ſpared me—and for the reſt, laiſſés paſſer—You will find I ſpeak French tolerably—but I only wiſh to be underſtood.—You will ſoon ſpeak better; a month's play with a French Demoiſelle will make Lyd chatter it like a magpye. Mrs. — underſtood not a word of it when ſhe got here, and writes me word ſhe begins to prate a pace—you will do the ſame in a fortnight—Dear Beſs, I have a thouſand wiſhes, but have a hope for every one of them—You ſhall chant the ſame jubilate, my dears, ſo God bleſs you. My duty [175] to Lydia, which implies my love too. Adieu, believe me

Memorandum: Bring watch-chains, tea-kettle, knives, cookery book, &c.

You will ſmile at this laſt article—ſo adieu—At Dover the Croſs Keys, at Calais at the Lyon D'Argent—the maſter a Turk in grain.