LETTERS FROM YORICK TO ELIZA.
LONDON. Printed for W. JOHNSTON, No. 16, LUDGATE-STREET. MDCCLXXIII.
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LORD APSLEY, Lord high Chancellor of England.
[]THE Editor of the following letters, is ſo far from hav⯑ing taſted your Lordſhip's boun⯑ty, that he is, and perhaps ever muſt remain, a ſtranger to your perſon, conſequently, no adulation is to be apprehended from him— [] He leaves it to the weak and op⯑preſſed, the widow and orphan, to proclaim your Lordſhip's virtues in your public capacity; that which he would celebrate is of a private nature, namely, your filial affection, which is ſo con⯑ſpicuous, that he flatters himſelf a volume of letters, written by ſuch a perſon as Mr. Sterne, on which your noble father is placed in a light ſo truly amiable, can⯑not fail of engaging your Lord⯑ſhip's gracious acceptance and pro⯑tection—In this hope, and upon this foundation, he preſumes to [] dedicate theſe papers to your Lord⯑ſhip, and to have the honour of ſubſcribing himſelf,
PREFACE.
[1]THE foul and infamous traf⯑fic, between diſhoneſt book⯑ſellers and profligate ſcribblers, which has ſubſiſted for more than a century, has juſtly brought poſt⯑humous publications under ſuſpi⯑cion, in England, France, and more eſpecially in Holland: miniſ⯑ters of ſtate in every European court, great generals, royal miſ⯑treſſes, authors of eſtabliſhed repu⯑tation, in a word, all ſuch as have [2] had the misfortune to advance themſelves to eminence, have been obliged to leave behind them par⯑cels of letters, and other memoirs, of the moſt ſecret and important tranſactions of their times, in which every fact, beyond the infor⯑mation of a news-paper or coffee⯑houſe chat is ſo faithfully miſrepre⯑ſented, every character delineated with ſuch punctual deviation from the truth, and cauſes and effects which have no poſſible relation, are with ſuch amazing effrontery obtruded upon the public, that it is no wonder if men of ſenſe, who [3] read for inſtruction as well as en⯑tertainment, generally condemn them in the lump, never, or very rarely, affording them the honour of a peruſal—The publiſher of theſe letters, however, has not the ſmall⯑eſt apprehenſion that any part of this well grounded cenſure can fall to his ſhare; he deals not in ſur⯑priſing events to aſtoniſh the rea⯑der, nor in characters (one ex⯑cepted) which have figured on the great theatre of the world; he purpoſely waves all proofs which might be drawn concerning their authenticity, from the character of [4] the gentleman who had the peru⯑ſal of the originals, and, with Eliza's permiſſion, faithfully copied them at Bombay in the Eaſt Indies; from the teſtimony of many reſpectable families in this city, who knew and loved Eliza, careſſed and admired Mr. Sterne, and were well ac⯑quainted with the tender friendſhip between them, from many curi⯑anecdotes in the letters themſelves, any one of which were fully ſuffi⯑cient to authenticate them, and ſubmits his reputation to the taſte and diſcernment of the commoneſt reader, who muſt, in one view, per⯑ceive [5] that theſe letters are genuine, beyond any poſſibility of doubt—As the public is unqueſtionably en⯑titled to every kind of information concerning the characters contained in theſe letters, which conſiſts with the duties of humanity and a good citizen, that is, a minute acquaint⯑ance with thoſe of whom honour⯑able mention is made, or the pub⯑liſher is furniſhed with authorities to vindicate from Mr. Sterne's cen⯑ſures, which, as a man of warm temper and lively imagination, he was perhaps ſometimes hurried into without due reflection, he per⯑ſuades [6] himſelf that no party con⯑cerned will or can be offended with this publication, eſpecially if it is conſidered, that without ſuch infor⯑mation it would be cold and unin⯑tereſting; that by publiſhing their merits he cannot be underſtood to intend them any injury, and with⯑out it would himſelf fail in his duty to the public—Eliza, the lady to whom theſe letters are ad⯑dreſſed, is Mrs. Elizabeth Draper, wife of Daniel Draper, Eſq. coun⯑ſellor at Bombay, and at preſent chief of the Engliſh factory at Su⯑rat, a gentleman very highly re⯑ſpected [7] in that quarter of the globe—She is by birth an Eaſt Indian; but the circumſtance of being born in the country not proving ſuffi⯑cient to defend her delicate frame againſt the heats of that burning climate, ſhe came to England for the recovery of her health, when by accident ſhe became acquainted with Mr. Sterne. He immedi⯑ately diſcovered in her a mind ſo congenial with his own, ſo enligh⯑tened, ſo refined, and ſo tender, that their mutual attraction preſent⯑ly joined them in the cloſeſt union that purity could poſſibly admit of; [8] he loved her as his friend, and prid⯑ed in her as his pupil; all her con⯑cerns became preſently his; her health, her circumſtances, her re⯑putation, her children were his; his fortune, his time, his country were at her diſpoſal, ſo far as the ſacrifice of all or any of theſe might in his opinion contribute to her real happineſs. If it is aſked whether the glowing heat of Mr. Sterne's affection never tranſported him to a flight beyond the limits of pure platoniſm, the publiſher will not take upon him abſolutely to de⯑ny it; but this he thinks ſo far from [9] leaving any ſtain upon that gentle⯑man's memory, that it perhaps in⯑cludes his faireſt encomium, ſince to cheriſh the ſeeds of piety and chaſtity in a heart which the paſ⯑ſions are intereſted to corrupt, muſt be allowed to be the nobleſt effort of a ſoul, fraught and fortified with the juſteſt ſentiments of Religion and Virtue—Mr. and Mrs. James, ſo frequently and honourably men⯑tioned in theſe letters, are the wor⯑thy heads of an opulent family in this city; their character is too well eſtabliſhed to need the aid of the publiſher in ſecuring the eſti⯑mation [10] they ſo well deſerve and univerſally poſſeſs, yet he cannot reſtrain one obſervation; that to have been reſpected and beloved by Mr. Sterne and Mrs. Draper is no inconſiderable teſtimony of their merit, and ſuch as it cannot be diſ⯑pleaſing to them to ſee publiſhed to the world—Miſs Light, now Mrs. Stratton, is on all accounts a very amiable young lady—She was acci⯑dentally a paſſenger in the ſame ſhip with Eliza, and inſtantly en⯑gaged her friendſhip and eſteem, but being mentioned in one of Mrs. Draper's letters to Mr. Sterne, in [11] ſomewhat of a comparative manner with herſelf, his partiality for her, as ſhe modeſtly expreſſed it, took the alarm, and betrayed him into ſome expreſſions, the coarſeneſs of which cannot be excuſed. Mrs. Draper declares, that this lady was entirely unknown to him, and in⯑finitely ſuperior to his idea of her: ſhe has been lately married to George Stratton, Eſq. Counſellor at Madraſs—The manner in which Mr. Sterne's acquaintance with the celebrated Lord Bathurſt, the friend and companion of Addiſon, Swift, Pope, Steele, and all the fineſt wits of the laſt age, commenced, [12] cannot fail to attract the attention of the curious reader: here that great man is ſocial and unreſerved, unſhackled with that ſedulity in ſupporting a feigned character which expoſes moſt of his rank to the contempt of wiſe men, and the ri⯑dicule of their valets de chambre; here he appears the ſame as in his hours of feſtivity and happineſs with Swift and Addiſon, ſuperior to forms and ceremonies, and, in his eighty-fifth year, abounding in wit, vivacity and humanity: me⯑thinks the pleaſure of ſuch a gen⯑tleman's acquaintance reſembles that of converſing with ſuperior [13] beings; but it is not fit to dwell longer on this pleaſing topic, leaſt it ſhould anticipate the reader's pleaſure in peruſing the letter itſelf: one remark however it ſuggeſts, which may be uſeful to old men in general, to wit, that it appears, by his lordſhip's example, the ſour contracted ſpirit obſervable in old age, is not ſpecifically an effect of years, altho' they are commonly pleaded in it's excuſe. Old men would therefore do well to correct this odious quality in themſelves; or, if that muſt not be, to invent a better apology for it—It is very much to be lamented, that Eliza's [14] modeſty was invincible to all the publiſher's endeavours to obtain her anſwers to theſe letters: her wit, penetration and judgment, her hap⯑pineſs in the epiſtolary ſtile, ſo rap⯑turouſly commended by Mr. Sterne, could not fail to furniſh a rich en⯑tertainment for the public. The publiſher could not help telling her, that he wiſhed to God ſhe really was poſſeſſed of that vanity with which ſhe was charged; to which ſhe replied, that ſhe was ſo far from acquitting herſelf of vanity, that ſhe ſuſpected that to be the cauſe why ſhe could not prevail on her⯑ſelf to ſubmit her letters to the [15] public eye; for altho' Mr. Sterne was partial to every thing of her's, ſhe could not hope that the world would be ſo too: with this anſwer he was oblig'd to be contented; yet cannot reflect without deep con⯑cern, that this elegant accompliſh⯑ment, ſo peculiarly adapted to the refined and delicate underſtandings of ladies, ſhould be yet ſo rare that we can boaſt of only one lady Wortley Montague among us, and that Eliza in particular could not be prevailed on to follow the example of that admired Lady—The reader will remark, that theſe letters have various ſignatures, ſometimes he [16] ſigns Sterne, ſometimes Yorick, and to one or two he ſigns her Bramin; altho' it is pretty gene⯑rally known who the Bramins are, yet leaſt any body ſhould be at a loſs, it may not be amiſs to obſerve, that the principal caſt or tribe a⯑mong the idolatrous Indians are the Bramins, and out of the chief claſs of this caſt come the prieſts, ſo fa⯑mous for their auſterities, and the ſhocking torments, and frequently death, they voluntarily expoſe them⯑ſelves to, on a religious account: now, as Mr. Sterne was a clergy⯑man, and Eliza an Indian by birth, it was cuſtomary with her to call [17] him her Bramin, which he accord⯑ingly, in his pleaſant moods, uſes as a ſignature—It remains only, to take ſome little notice of the fa⯑mily marked with aſteriſks, on whom Mr. Sterne has thought pro⯑per to ſhed the bittereſt gall of his pen; it is however evident, even from ſome paſſages in the letters themſelves, that Mrs. Draper could not be eaſily prevailed on to ſee this family in the ſame odious light in which they appeared to her, perhaps over zealous, friend. He, in the heat, or I may ſay, hurry of his affection, might have accepted ſuſpicious cir⯑cumſtances as real evidences of [18] guilt, or liſtened too unguardedly to the inſinuations of their enemies: be that as it may, as the publiſher is not furniſhed with ſufficient au⯑thorities to exculpate them, he chuſes to drop the ungrateful ſub⯑ject, heartily wiſhing, that this family may not only be innocent of the ſhocking treachery with which they are charged, but may be able to make their innocence appear clearly to the world, otherwiſe that no perſon may be induſtrious enough to diſcover and make known their name.
ELIZA will receive my books with this, the ſummons came all hot from the heart; I wiſh that cou'd give them any title to be offered to yours: the others came from the head; I am more indifferent about their reception—
I know not how it comes, but I am half in love with you—I ought to be wholly ſo; for I never valued (or ſaw more good qualities to value) or [2] thought more of one of your ſex, than of you—So adieu.
I Cannot reſt Eliza, tho' I ſhall call on you at half paſt twelve, till I know how you do—may thy dear face ſmile as thou riſeſt, like the ſun of this morning! I was much griev'd to hear of your alarming indiſpoſition yeſter⯑day; and diſappointed too at not being let in—Remember, my dear, ‘"that a friend has the ſame right as a phyſician"’ the etiquettes of this town (you'll ſay) ſay otherwiſe; no matter, delicacy and propriety do not always conſiſt in obſerving their frigid doc⯑trines—I am going out to breakfaſt, but ſhall be at my lodgings by ele⯑ven, when I hope to read a ſingle [4] line under thy own hand, that thou art better, and will be glad to ſee,
I Got thy letter laſt night, Eliza, on my return from Lord Bathurſt's, where I din'd; and where I was heard (as I talk'd of thee for an hour with⯑out intermiſſion) with ſo much plea⯑ſure and attention, that the good old Lord toaſted your health three ſeveral times; and tho' he is now in his eighty-fifth year, ſays he hopes to live long enough to be introduced as a friend, to my fair Indian diſciple; and to ſee her eclipſe all other Na⯑bobeſſes as much in wealth, as ſhe already does in exterior and (what is far better) in interior merit—I hope ſo too.
[6] This nobleman is an old friend of mine. You know he was always the protector of men of wit and genius, and had thoſe of the laſt century, Addiſon, Steele, Pope, Swift, Prior, &c. &c. always at his table.—
The manner in which his notice of me began, was ſingular, as it was polite: he came up to me one day, as I was at the Princeſs of Wales's court—‘"I want to know you, Mr. S [...]ne; but it is fit you ſhould alſo know who it is that wiſhes this plea⯑ſure. You have heard, continued he, of an old Lord Bathurſt, of whom your Pope's and Swift's have ſung and ſpoken ſo much: I have liv'd my life [7] with genius's of that caſt, but have ſurviv'd them; and deſpairing ever to find their equals, 'tis ſome years ſince I clos'd my accounts, and ſhut up my books, with thoughts of never opening them again: But you have kindled a deſire in me to open them once more before I die, which I now do—ſo go home and dine with me."’
This nobleman, I ſay, is a prodigy! for at eighty five he has all the wit and promptneſs of a man of thirty—a diſpoſition to be pleaſed, and a power to pleaſe others, beyond what⯑ever I knew; added to which, a man of learning, courteſy and feeling.—
[8] He heard me talk of thee, Eliza, with uncommon ſatisfaction, for there was only a third perſon, and of ſenſi⯑bility, with us—and a moſt ſentimen⯑tal afternoon, till nine o'clock, have we paſs'd! But thou, Eliza, was the ſtar that conducted and enlighten'd the diſcourſe! and when I talk'd not of thee, ſtill didſt thou fill my mind, and warm ev'ry thought I utter'd! for I am not aſham'd to acknowledge, I greatly miſs thee—beſt of all good girls! the ſufferings I have ſuſtain'd all night on account of thine, Eliza, are beyond my power of words—aſ⯑ſuredly does heaven give ſtrength pro⯑portion'd to the weight he lays upon us—Thou haſt been bow'd down, my [9] child, with every burthen that ſorrow of heart and pain of body cou'd inflict on a poor being—and ſtill thou tell'ſt me that thou art beginning to get eaſe, thy fever gone—thy ſickneſs, the pain in thy ſide vaniſhing alſo—
May every evil ſo vaniſh, that thwarts Eliza's happineſs, or but a⯑wakens her fears for a moment—Fear nothing, my dear, hope every thing; and the balm of this paſſion will ſhed it's influence on thy health, and make thee enjoy a ſpring of youth and chearfulneſs, more than thou haſt hardly yet taſted—
[10] And ſo thou haſt fix'd thy Bramin's portrait over thy writing deſk, and will conſult it in all doubts and diffi⯑culties; grateful good girl! Yorick ſmiles contentedly over all thou doſt, his picture does not do juſtice to his own complacency—
Thy ſweet little plan and diſtribu⯑tion of thy time, how worthy of thee!
Indeed, Eliza, thou leaveſt one no⯑thing to direct thee in, thou leaveſt me nothing to require, nothing to aſk, but a continuance of that conduct which won my eſteem, and has made me thy friend for ever.
[11] May the roſes come quick back to thy check, and the rubies to thy lips! but truſt my declaration, Eliza, that thy huſband (if he is the good feeling man I wiſh him) will preſs thee to him with more honeſt warmth and affec⯑tion, and kiſs thy pale poor dejected face with more tranſport, than he wou'd be able to do in the beſt bloom of all thy beauty—and ſo he ought.—I pity him.—He muſt have ſtrange feelings, if he knows not the value of ſuch a creature as thou art—
I am glad Miſs Light goes with you, ſhe may relieve you from many anxious moments.
[12] I am glad too, that your ſhipmates are friendly beings—you cou'd leaſt diſpenſe with what is contrary to thy own nature, which is ſoft and gentle, Eliza, it wou'd civilize ſavages; tho' pity were it, thou ſhould'ſt be tainted with the office.—
How canſt thou make apologies for thy laſt letter! 'tis moſt delicious to me, for the very reaſons you ex⯑cuſe it—
Write to me, my child, only ſuch, let them ſpeak the eaſy chearfulneſs of a heart that opens itſelf any how, and every how, to a man you ought to eſ⯑teem and truſt—
[13] Such Eliza, I write to thee, and ſo I ſhou'd ever live with thee, moſt art⯑leſsly, moſt affectionately, if Provi⯑dence permitted thy reſidence in the ſame ſection of the globe. For I am all that honour and inclination can make me.
I Write this Eliza, at Mr. James's, whilſt he is dreſſing, and the dear girl his wife is writing beſide me, to thee—
I got your melancholy billet before we ſat down to dinner; 'tis melan⯑choly indeed my dear, to hear ſo pi⯑teous an account of thy ſickneſs, thou art encompaſs'd with evils enow, with⯑out that additional weight—I fear it will ſink thy poor ſoul, and body with it, paſt recovering—Heaven ſupply thee with fortitude! We have talk'd of nothing but thee, Eliza, and of thy [15] ſweet virtues, and endearing conduct, the whole afternoon.—
Mrs. James and the Bramin have mix'd their tears a hundred times, in ſpeaking of thy hardſhips, thy good⯑neſs, thy graces, 'tis a ſubject that will never end betwixt us—Oh! ſhe is good and friendly!
The *** by heaven are worthleſs; I have heard enough to tremble at the articulation of the name—How cou'd you, Eliza leave them (or ſuffer them to leave you rather) with impreſſions the leaſt favourable? I have told thee enough to plant diſguſt againſt their treachery to thee, to the laſt hour of [16] thy life—yet ſtill thou told'ſt Mrs. James at laſt, that thou believeſt they affectionately loved thee—Her delicacy to my Eliza, and true regard to her eaſe of mind, have ſaved thee from hearing more glaring proofs of their baſeneſs—For God's ſake, write not to them, nor foul thy fair characters with ſuch polluted hearts—They love thee!—What proof?—Is it their ac⯑tions which ſay ſo? or their zeal for thoſe attachments which do thee ho⯑nour, and make thee happy? Or their tenderneſs for thy fame? No, but they weep, and ſay tender things—Adieu to all ſuch for ever.—
[17] Mrs. James's honeſt heart revolts againſt the idea of even returning them one viſit. I honour her, and honour thee for almoſt every act of thy life, but this blind partiality to an unwor⯑thy being.
Forgive my zeal, dear girl, and allow me a right, which ariſes only out of that fund of affection I have and ſhall preſerve for thee, to the hour of my death—
Reflect Eliza, what are my mo⯑tives for perpetually adviſing thee, think whether I can have any which proceed not from the cauſe I have mentioned?
[18] I think you a very deſerving wo⯑man, and that you want nothing but firmneſs, and a better opinion of yourſelf, to be the beſt female charac⯑ter I know.—
I wiſh I cou'd inſpire you with a ſhare of that vanity your enemies lay to your charge (tho' to me it has never been viſible) becauſe I think, in a well turn'd mind, it will produce good effects—
I probably ſhall never ſee you more; yet flatter myſelf you will ſometimes think of me with pleaſure; becauſe you muſt be convinced I love you, and ſo intereſt myſelf in your recti⯑tude, [19] that I had rather hear of any evil befalling you, than your want of reverence for yourſelf—
I had not power to keep this remon⯑ſtrance in my breaſt—tis now out—ſo adieu! Heaven watch over my Eliza.
TO whom ſhou'd Eliza apply in her diſtreſs, but to the friend that loves her; why then, my dear, do you apologize for employing me?
Yorick wou'd be offended, and with reaſon, if you ever ſent commiſ⯑ſions to another, which he cou'd execute—I have been with Zumps—and firſt your piano-forte muſt be tun'd from the braſs middle ſtring of your guitar, which is C.—I have got you a ham⯑mer too, and a pair of pliars to twiſt your wire with; and may every one of them, my dear, vibrate ſweet com⯑fort [21] to thy hopes! I have bought you ten handſome braſs ſcrews to hang your neceſſaries upon: I purchas'd twelve, but ſtole a couple from you, to put up in my own cabin at Coxwauld—I ſhall never hang or take my hat off one of them, but I ſhall think of you—I have bought thee, moreover, a couple of iron ſcrews, which are more to be depended on than braſs, for the globe—
I have wrote alſo to Mr. Abraham Walker, pilot at Deal, to acquaint him that I had diſpatched theſe in a packet directed to his care, which I deſir'd he wou'd ſeek after the mo⯑ment the Deal machine arrives—I [22] have moreover given directions to him, what ſort of an arm chair you wou'd want, and have directed to purchaſe the beſt that Deal cou'd afford, and to take it with the parcel in the firſt boat that went off—Would, I cou'd, Eliza, thus ſupply all thy wants, and all thy wiſhes! it would be a ſtate of happineſs to me—
The journal is as it ſhould be, all but it's contents—
Poor dear, patient being! I do more than pity you, for I think I loſe both firmneſs and philoſophy, as I fi⯑gure to myſelf your diſtreſſes—
[23] Do not think I ſpoke laſt night with too much aſperity of ***; there was a cauſe; and beſides, a good heart ought not to love a bad one, and in⯑deed cannot. But adieu to the ungrate⯑ful ſubject—
I have been this morning to ſee Mrs. James; ſhe loves thee tenderly and unfeignedly; ſhe is alarm'd for thee; ſhe ſays thou lookedſt moſt ill and me⯑lancholy on going away; ſhe pities thee—I ſhall viſit her every Sunday while I am in town—
As this may be my laſt letter, I earneſtly bid thee farewell! may the God of kindneſs be kind to thee, and [24] approve himſelf thy protector now thou art defenceleſs! and for thy daily comfort, bear in thy mind this truth, ‘"That whatever meaſure of ſorrow and diſtreſs is thy portion, it will be repaid to thee in a full meaſure of hap⯑pineſs, by the Being thou haſt wiſely choſen for thy eternal friend’—Farewell, farewell Eliza, while I live count upon me, as the moſt diſintereſted and warm of earthly friends.
I Began a new journal this morning: you ſhall ſee it, for if I live not till your return to England, I will leave it you as a legacy: tis a ſorrow⯑ful page, but I will write chearful ones, and could I write letters to thee, they ſhould be chearful ones too, but few (I fear) will reach thee—however, depend upon receiving ſomething of the kindly every poſt, till thou waveſt thy hand, and bidſt me write no more—Tell me how you are, and what ſort of fortitude heaven inſpires thee with. How are your accommodations my dear? [26] —is all right?—ſcribble away any thing and every thing to me. Depend upon ſeeing me at Deal with the James's, ſhould you be detain'd there by contrary winds. Indeed, Eliza, I ſhould with pleaſure fly to you, could I be the means of rendring you any ſervice, or doing you any kindneſs—
‘"Gracious and merciful God, con⯑ſider the anguiſh of a poor girl, ſtrengthen and preſerve her, in all the ſhocks her frame muſt be expos'd to, ſhe is now without protector but thee; ſave her from all the accidents of a dangerous element, and give her comfort at the laſt"’—
[27] My prayer, Eliza, I hope is heard, for the ſky ſeems to ſmile upon me as I look up to it—
I am juſt return'd from our dear Mrs. James's, where I have been talking of thee theſe three hours—She has got your picture and likes it, but Mariot and ſome other judges agree, that mine is the better, and expreſſive of a ſweeter character; but what is that to the original? yet I acknowledge her's a picture for the world, and mine only calculated to pleaſe a very ſin⯑cere friend, or ſentimental philoſo⯑pher—
[28] In the one you are dreſſed in ſmiles, and with all the advantages of ſilks, pearls, and ermine, in the other, ſim⯑ple as a veſtal, appearing the good girl nature made you; which to me conveys an idea of more unaffected ſweetneſs, than Mrs. Dr [...]p [...]r ha⯑bited for conqueſt in a birth day ſuit, with her countenance animated and ‘"dimples viſible"’—
If I remember right, Eliza, you endeavour'd to collect every charm of your perſon into your face with more than common care, the day you ſat for Mrs. James, your colour too brighten'd, and your eyes ſhone with more than their uſual brilliancy—
[29] I then requeſted you to come ſim⯑ple and unadorn'd when you ſat for me, knowing (as I ſee with unpreju⯑duc'd eyes) that you cou'd receive no addition from the ſilkworm's aid, or jeweller's poliſh—
Let me now tell you a truth, which I believe I utter'd before—when I firſt ſaw you, I beheld you as an object of compaſſion, and a very plain wo⯑man—
The mode of your dreſs (the faſhion⯑able) disfigur'd you—but nothing now cou'd render you ſuch, but the being ſollicitous to make yourſelf ad⯑mir'd as a handſome one—
[30] You are not handſome, Eliza—nor is your's a face that will pleaſe the tenth part of your beholders—
But you are ſomething more; for I ſcruple not to tell you, I never ſaw ſo intelligent, ſo animated, ſo good a countenance; nor ever was there, nor will there be, that man of ſenſe, ten⯑derneſs, and feeling in your company three hours, that was not, or will not be, your admirer and friend in conſequence of it, i. e. if you aſſume or aſſumed no character foreign to your own, but appear'd the artleſs being nature de⯑ſign'd you for—a ſomething in your voice and eyes, you poſſeſs in a degree [31] more perſuaſive than any woman I ever ſaw, read, or heard of:
But it is that bewitching ſort of nameleſs excellence, that men of nice ſenſibility alone can be touch'd with—
Was your huſband in England, I wou'd freely give him 500l. (if money cou'd purchaſe the acquiſition) to let you only ſit by me two hours in the day, while I wrote my ſentimental journey—I am ſure the work wou'd ſell ſo much the better for it, that I ſhould be reimburs'd the ſum more than ſeven times told—
[32] I would not give nine-pence for the picture of you, that the Newnham's have got executed; it is the reſem⯑blance of a concerted, made up co⯑quette—your eyes, and the ſhape of your face (the latter the moſt perfect oval I ever ſaw) which are perfections that muſt ſtrike the moſt indifferent judge, becauſe they are equal to any of God's works in a ſimilar way, and finer than any I beheld in all my tra⯑vels, are manifeſtly inſpir'd by the af⯑fected leer of the one, and ſtrange ap⯑pearance of the other, owing to the attitude of the head, which is a proof of the artiſt's, or your friend's falſe taſte—
[33] The ***'s verify the character I once gave, of teazing and ſticking like pitch or bird lime—
Sent a card that they wou'd wait on Mrs. *** on Friday.
She ſent back ſhe was engag'd;
Then to meet at Ranelagh to-night; ſhe anſwer'd ſhe did not go—
She ſays if ſhe allows the leaſt foot⯑ing, ſhe never ſhall get rid of the acquaintance, which ſhe is reſolv'd to drop at once—
[34] She knows them; ſhe knows they are not her friends or yours, and the firſt uſe they wou'd make of being with her, would be to ſacrifice you to her (if they could) a ſecond time—
Let her not, then, let her not, my dear, be a greater friend to thee than thou art to thyſelf; ſhe begs I will reiterate my requeſt to you, that you will not write to them—'twill give her, and thy Bramin too, inex⯑preſſible pain—be aſſur'd, all this is not without reaſon on her ſide. I have my reaſons too, the firſt of which is, that I ſhould grieve to exceſs, if [35] Eliza wanted that fortitude her Yo⯑rick has built ſo high upon—
I ſaid I wou'd never more mention—the name to thee, and had I not receiv'd it as a kind of charge from a dear woman that loves you, I ſhould not have broke my word—
I will write again to-morrow to thee, thou beſt, and moſt endearing of girls: a peaceful night to thee; my ſpirit will be with thee thro' every watch of it—Adieu.
OH! I grieve for your cabin, and freſh painting will be enough to deſtroy every nerve about thee—nothing ſo pernicious as white lead—take care of yourſelf, dear girl, and ſleep not in it too ſoon, 'twill be enough to give you a ſtroke of an epilepſy—
I hope you will have left the ſhip, and that my letters may meet and greet you, as you get out of your poſt chaiſe at Deal—when you have got them all, put them, my dear, into ſome [37] order—the firſt eight or nine are number'd, but I wrote the reſt with⯑out that direction to thee—but thou wilt find them out by the day or hour, which, I hope, I have generally pre⯑fix'd to them; when they are got together in chronological order, ſew them together under a cover—I truſt they will be a perpetual refuge to thee from time to time, and that thou wilt (when weary of fools and unintereſt⯑ing diſcourſe) retire and converſe an hour with them and me—
I have not had power or the heart, to aim at enlivening one of them with a ſingle ſtroke of wit or humour; but they contain ſomething better, and [38] what you will feel more ſuited to your ſituation—a long detail of much ad⯑vice, truth, and knowledge—
I hope, too, you will perceive looſe touches of an honeſt heart in every one of them, which ſpeak more than the moſt ſtudied periods, and will give thee more ground of truſt and re⯑liance upon Yorick, than all that labour'd eloquence cou'd ſupply—lean then thy whole weight Eliza, upon them and upon me.
‘"May poverty, diſtreſs, anguiſh and ſhame be my portion, if ever I give thee reaſon to repent the know⯑ledge of me."—’
[39] With this aſſeveration, made in the preſence of a juſt God, I pray to him that ſo it may ſpeed with me, as I deal candidly and honourably with thee:
I would not miſlead thee, Eliza, I would not injure thee in the opinion of a ſingle individual, for the rich⯑eſt crown, the proudeſt monarch wears—
Remember, that, while I have life and power, whatever is mine you may ſtyle, and think yours; tho' ſorry ſhould I be, if ever my friendſhip was put to the teſt thus, for your own delicacy's ſake—
[40] Money and counters are of equal uſe in my opinion, they both ſerve to ſet up with. I hope you will an⯑ſwer in this letter; but if thou art de⯑barr'd by the elements which hurry thee away, I will write one for thee, and knowing it is ſuch an one as thou wouldſt have written, I will regard it as my Eliza's—
Honour and happineſs, and health and comforts of every kind ſail along with thee, thou moſt worthy of girls! I will live for thee and my Lydia, be rich for ye, dear children of my heart, gain wiſdom, gain fame and happineſs, to ſhare them with thee and her, in my old age—
[41] Once for all, Adieu! Preſerve thy life ſteadily, purſue the ends we pro⯑pos'd, and let nothing rob thee of thoſe powers heaven has given thee for thy well being—
What can I add more in the agi⯑tation of mind I am in, and within ſive minutes of the laſt poſtman's bell; but recommend thee to heaven, and recommend myſelf to heaven with thee, in the ſame fervent eja⯑culation.
‘"That we may be happy and meet again, if not in this world, in the next"—’
[42] Adieu, I am thine affectionately Eliza, and everlaſtingly.
I Think you could act no otherwiſe than you did with your young ſol⯑dier, there was no ſhutting the door againſt him, either in politeneſs or hu⯑manity—
Thou tell'ſt me he ſeems ſuſceptible of tender impreſſions, and that before Miſs L [...]t has ſail'd a fortnight, he will be in love with her—
Now, I think it a thouſand times more likely, that he attaches himſelf to thee, Eliza, becauſe thou art a thou⯑ſand times more amiable—
[44] Five months with Eliza, and in the ſame room, and an amorous ſon of Mars beſides, ‘"It no can be Maſſer."’—The ſun, if he could avoid it, wou'd not ſhine upon a dunghill; but his rays are ſo pure, Eliza, and celeſ⯑tial, I never heard they were polluted by it—Juſt ſuch will thine be, my deareſt child, in this and every ſuch ſituation as you will be expos'd to, till thou art fix'd for life.—
But, thy diſcretion, thy wiſdom, thy honour, the ſpirit of thy Yorick, and thy own ſpirit, which is equal to it, will be thy ableſt counſellors—
[45] Surely, by this time, ſomething is doing towards thy accomodation—but why may not clean waſhing and rub⯑ing do, inſtead of painting your cab⯑bin, as it is to be hung—paint is ſo pernicious both to your nerves and lungs, and will keep you, ſo much longer too, out of poſſeſſion of your apartment, where I hope you will paſs ſome of your happieſt hours—
I fear the beſt of your ſhipmates, are only genteel by compariſon with the contraſted crew, with which thou muſt behold them.
So was you know who, from the ſame fallacy that was put upon the [46] judgment, when—But I will not mortify you—If they are decent and diſtant, it is enough, and as much as is to be expected; if any of them are more, I rejoice—
Thou wilt want every aid, and 'tis thy due to have them—
Be cautious only, my dear, of inti⯑macies; good hearts are open, and fall naturally into them—heaven in⯑ſpire thine with fortitude, in this and every other deadly trial!
Beſt of God's works! Farewell, love me, I beſeech thee, and remem⯑ber for ever, I am, my Eliza, and [47] ever will be in the moſt comprehen⯑ſive ſenſe,
P.S. Probably you will have an opportunity of writing to me by ſome Dutch or French ſhip, or from the Cape de Verd Iſlands, 'twill reach me ſome how—
I Wiſh to God, Eliza, it was poſſible to poſtpone the voyage to India for another year, for I am firmly perſuad⯑ed within my own breaſt, that thy huſ⯑band could never limit thee with re⯑gard to time—
I fear that Mr. B. has exaggerated matters,—I like not his countenance, it is abſolutely killing thee—ſhould evil befall thee, what will he not have to anſwer for—I know not the being that will be deſerving of ſo much pity, or that I ſhall hate more; he will be an outcaſt alien; in which caſe I will be a father to thy children my good [49] girl, therefore take no thought about them—But, Eliza, if thou art ſo very ill, ſtill put off all thoughts of return⯑ing to India this year—write to your huſband—tell him the truth of your caſe—if he is the generous humane man you deſcribe him to be, he cannot but applaud your conduct—I am cre⯑dibly informed, that his repugnance to your living in England ariſes only from the dread which has enter'd his brain, that thou mayeſt run him in debt, beyond thy appointments, and that he muſt diſcharge them—
That ſuch a creature ſhould be ſa⯑crificed, for the paultry conſideration a few hundreds, is too, too hard! [50] Oh! my child, that I could with propriety indemnify him for every charge, even to the laſt mite, that thou haſt been of to him! with joy would I give him my whole ſubſiſtence, nay, ſequeſter my livings, and truſt to the treaſures heaven has furniſh'd my head with for a future ſubſiſtence—
You owe much, I allow, to your huſband; you owe ſomething to ap⯑pearances and the opinions of the world; but, truſt me, my dear, you owe much likewiſe to yourſelf—Return therefore from Deal if you continue ill: I will preſcribe for you gratis. You are not the firſt woman by many, I have done ſo for with ſucceſs—
[51] I will ſend for my wife and daugh⯑ter, and they ſhall carry you in purſuit of health to Montpelier, the wells of Bancer's, the Spaw, or whither thou wilt; thou ſhalt direct them, and make parties of pleaſure in what corner of the world fancy points out to you—
We ſhall fiſh upon the banks of Arno, and loſe ourſelves in the ſweet labyrinths of it's vallies, and then thou ſhould'ſt warble to us, as I have once or twice heard thee ‘"I'm loſt, I'm loſt,"’ but we would find thee again, my Eliza—
[52] Of a ſimilar nature to this, was your phyſician's preſcription ‘"eaſe, gentle exerciſe, the pure ſouthern air of France, or milder Naples, with the ſociety of friendly gentle beings"’—
Senſible man, he certainly enter'd into your feelings, he knew the falla⯑cy of medicine to a creature, whoſe illneſs has ariſen from the affliction of her mind—Time only, my dear, I fear you muſt truſt to, and have your reli⯑ance on: may it give you the health ſo enthuaſtic a votary to the charm⯑ing goddeſs deſerves—
I honour you, Fliza, for keeping ſecret ſome things, which if explain'd, [53] had been a panegyric on yourſelf—There is a dignity in venerable affliction which will not allow it to appeal to the world for pity or redreſs—Well have you ſupported that character, my ami⯑able philoſophic friend! And, indeed, I begin to think you have as many virtues, as my uncle Toby's widow—
I don't mean to inſinuate, huſſey, that my opinion is no better founded than his was of Mrs. Wadman; nor do I believe it poſſible for any Trim to convince me it is equally fallacious; I am ſure while I have my reaſon it is not—
[54] Talking of widows—pray, Eliza, if ever you are ſuch, do not think of giving yourſelf to ſome wealthy nabob, becauſe I deſign to marry you my⯑ſelf—My wife cannot live long—ſhe has ſold all the provinces in France al⯑ready, and I know not the woman I ſhould like ſo well for her ſubſtitute, as yourſelf—'Tis true, I am ninety five in conſtitution, and you but twenty-five; rather too great a diſpa⯑rity this! but what I want in youth, I will make up in wit and good hu⯑mour—Not Swift ſo lov'd his Stella, Scarron his Maintenon, or Waller his Sachariſſa, as I will love and ſing thee, my wife elect—all thoſe names, emi⯑nent [55] as they were, ſhall give place to thine, Eliza.
Tell me in anſwer to this, that you approve and honour the propoſal; and that you would (like the Spectator's miſtreſs) have more joy in putting on an old man's ſlipper, than in aſſociat⯑ing with the gay, the voluptuous, and the young—Adieu, my Simplicia—
I Have been within the verge of the gates of death: I was ill the laſt time I wrote to you, and apprehen⯑ſive of what would be the conſequence.—My fears were but too well founded, for in ten minutes after I diſpatch'd my letter, this poor fine-ſpun frame of Yorick's gave way, and I broke a veſſel in my breaſt, and could not ſtop the loſs of blood till four this morn⯑ing—I have fill'd all thy India hand⯑kerchiefs with it, it came I think, from the heart—I fell a ſleep thro' [57] weakneſs at ſix, and awoke with the boſom of my ſhirt ſteep'd in tears—
I dream'd I was ſitting under the canopy of Indolence, and that thou cam'ſt into the room with a ſhaul in thy hand, and told me, ‘"my ſpirit had flown to thee to the Downs with tidings of my fate, and that you was come to adminiſter what conſolation filial affection could beſtow, and to receive my parting breath and bleſs⯑ings,"’ with that you folded the ſhaul about my waiſt, and, kneeling, ſuppli⯑cated my attention.
I awoke, but in what a fra [...]! Oh! my God! but ‘"Thou w [...]t re⯑member [58] my tears, and put them all into thy bottle"’—Dear girl, I ſee thee, thou art for ever preſent to my fancy, embracing my feeble knees, and raiſ⯑ing thy fine eyes to bid me be of comfort—
And when I talk to Lydia, the words of Eſau, as utter'd by thee, perpetu⯑ally ring in my ears.
‘"Bleſs me even alſo, my fa⯑ther."—’
Bleſſings attend thee, thou child of my heart—My bleeding is quite ſtopp'd, and I feel the principle of life [59] ſtrong within me—ſo be not alarm'd, Eliza, I know I ſhall do well—
I have eat my breakfaſt with hun⯑ger, and I write to thee with a plea⯑ſure ariſing from that prophetic im⯑preſſion in my imagination.
‘"That all will terminate to our hearts content"’—Comfort thyſelf eter⯑nally with this perſuaſion, ‘"That the beſt of beings (as thou ſweetly haſt expreſs'd it) could not by a com⯑bination of accidents, produce ſuch a chain of events, merely to be the ſource of miſery to the leading perſon engag'd in them"’—
[60] The obſervation was very applica⯑ble, very good, and very elegantly expreſs'd—I wiſh my memory did juſtice to the wording of it—
Who taught you the art of writing ſo ſweetly, Eliza? You abſolutely have exalted it to a ſcience—When I am in want of ready caſh, and ill health will permit my genius to exert itſelf, I ſhall print your letters, as Finiſh'd Eſſays by an unfortunate Indian Lady! The ſtyle is new, and would almoſt be a ſufficient recommendation for their ſelling well, without merit; but their ſenſe, natural eaſe, and ſpirit, is not to be equall'd, I believe, in this ſec⯑tion of the globe; nor, I'll anſwer [61] for it, by any of your country women in yours—
I have ſhew'd your letter to Mrs. B. and to half the literati in town: you ſhall not be angry with me for it, be⯑cauſe I meant to do you honour by it—
You cannot imagine how many ad⯑mirers your epiſtolary productions have gain'd you, that never view'd your external merits—
I only wonder where thou couldſt acquire thy graces, thy goodneſs, thy accompliſhments! ſo connected! ſo educated! Nature has ſurely ſtudy'd [62] to make thee her peculiar care, for thou art (and not in my eyes alone) the beſt and faireſt of all her works—and ſo this is the laſt letter thou art to receive from me, becauſe the Earl of Chatham (I read in the papers) is got to the Downs, and the wind (I find) is fair—if ſo, bleſſed woman, take my laſt, laſt farewell! cheriſh the remembrance of me, think how I eſteem, nay, how affectionately I love thee, and what a price I ſet upon thee. Adieu, adieu; and with my adieu, let me give thee one ſhort rule of conduct, that thou haſt heard from my lips in a thouſand forms, but I concenter it in one word,
—Reverence Thyſelf—
[63] Adieu once more, Eliza, may no an⯑guiſh of heart plant a wrinkle upon thy face, till I behold it again; may no doubt or miſgivings diſturb the ſerenity of thy mind, or awaken a painful thought about thy children, for they are Yorick's, and Yorick is thy friend for ever—
Adieu, adieu, adieu— Fare thee well—
P.S. Remember that ‘"Hope ſhortens all journies, by ſweetning them;"’ ſo ſing my little ſtanza on the ſubject, with the devotion of an hymn, every morning thou ariſeſt, and thou wilt eat thy breakfaſt with more comfort for it—Bleſſings, reſt [64] and Hygeia go with thee; may'ſt thou ſoon return in peace and affluence to illumine my night. I am, and ſhall be the laſt to deplore thy loſs, and will be the firſt to congratulate, and hail thy return—
- Citation Suggestion for this Object
- TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 3784 Letters from Yorick to Eliza. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-5F17-1