Adieu.
LETTER VII.
i I Think you could act no otherwise than you did with the young soldier. There was no shutting the door against him, either in politeness or humanity. Thou tellest me he seems susceptible of tender impressions: and that before Miss Light has sailed 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 thousand times more amiable. Five months with Eliza; and in the same room; and an amorous son of Mars besides!— “It can no be, masser.’” The sun, if he could avoid it, would not shine upon a dunghill; but his rays are so pure, Eliza, and celestial, — I never heard that they were polluted by it. — Just such will thine be, dearest child, in this, and every such situation you will be exposed to, till thou art fixed 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.
Surely, by this time, something is doing for thy accommodation. — But why may not clean washing and rubbing do, instead of painting your cabin, 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 your apartment; where, I hope, you will pass some of your happiest hours. —
I fear the best of your ship-mates 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 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 intimacies. Good hearts are open, and fall naturally into them. Heaven inspire thine with fortitude, in this, and every deadly trial! Best of GOD’S works, farewell! Love me, I beseech thee; and remember me for ever! — .
I am, my Eliza, and will ever be, in the most comprehensive sense, Thy friend,
YORICK.
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 — it will reach me some how. —
LETTER VIII.
MY DEAR ELIZA!
OH! I greive for your cabin. — And the 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. It will 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 order. — The first eight or nine, are numbered: but I wrote the rest without that direction to thee; but thou wilt find them out, by the day or hour, which, I hope, I have generally prefixed 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 uninteresting discourse) retire, and converse an hour with them, and me.
I have not had power, or the heart, to aim at enlivening any one of them, with a single stroke of wit or humour; but they contain something better; and what you will feel more suited to your situation — a long detail of much advice, 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 reliance upon Yorick, than all that laboured eloquence could 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 knowledge of me.” — 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 richest crown the proudest monarch wears.
Remember, that while I have life and power, whatever is mine, you may style, and think, yours. — Though sorry should I be, if ever my friendship was put to the test thus, for your own delicacy’s sake. — Money and counters are of equal use, in my opinion; they both serve to set up with.
I hope you will answer me this letter; but if thou art debarred by the elements, which hurry thee away, I will write one for thee; and knowing it is such a one as thou would’st 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 the dear children of my heart — gain wisdom, gain fame, and happiness, to share with them — with thee — and her, in my old age. — Once for all, adieu. Preserve thy life; steadily pursue the ends we proposed; and let nothing rob thee of those powers Heaven has given thee for thy well-being.
What can I add more, in the agitation of mind I am in, and within five minutes of the last postman’s bell, but recommend thee to Heaven, and recommend myself to Heaven with thee, in the same fervent ejaculation, “that we may be happy, and meet again; if not in this world, in the next.” — Adieu, — I am thine, Eliza, affectionately, and everlastingly, YORICK.
LETTER IX.
I Wish to God, Eliza, it was possible to postpone the voyage to India, for another year. — For I am firmly persuaded within my own heart, that thy husband could never limit thee with regard to time.
I fear that Mr. B — has exaggerated matters. — I like not his countenance. It is absolutely killing. — Should evil befal 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 girl! — therefore take no thought about them. —
But, Eliza, if thou art so very ill, still put off all thoughts of returning 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 credibly informed, that his repugnance to your living in England arises only from the dread, which has entered his brain, that thou mayest run him in debt, beyond thy appointments, and that he must discharge them — that such a creature should be sacrificed for the paltry consideration of a few hundreds, is too, too hard! 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 the treasures Heaven has furnished my head with, for a future subsistence. —
You owe much, I allow, to your husband, — you owe something to appearances, and the opinion 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. I will send for my wife and daughter, and they shall carry you, in pursuit of health, to Montpelier, the wells of Bancois, the Spa, or whither thou wilt. Thou shalt direct them, and make parties of pleasure in what corner of the world fancy points out to thee. We shall fish upon the banks of Arno, and lose ourselves in the sweet labyrinths of its 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 should find thee again, my Eliza. — Of a similar nature to this, was your physician’s prescription: “Use gentle exercise, the pure southern air of France, or milder Naples — with the society of friendly, gentle beings.” Sensible man! He certainly entered into your feelings. He knew the fallacy 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 reliance on; may it give you the health so enthusiastic a votary to the charming goddess deserves.
I honour you, Eliza, for keeping secret ‘ some things, which if explained, had been a panegyric on yourself. T
here 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 amiable, 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 conceive it possible for any Trim to convince me it is equally fallacious. — I am sure, while I have my reason, it is not. — 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 myself. — My wife cannot live long — she has sold all the provinces in France already — 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 disparity this! — but what I want in youth, I will make up in wit and good humour. — Not Swift so loved his Stella, Scarron his Maintenon, or Waller his Sacharissa, as I will love, and sing thee, my wife elect! All those names, eminent 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 associating with the gay, the voluptuous, and the young. — Adieu, my Simplicia!
Yours, TRISTRAM.
LETTER X.
MY DEAR ELIZA!
I Have been within the verge of the gates of death. — I was ill the last time I wrote to you, and apprehensive of what would be the consequence. — My fears were but too well founded; for, in ten minutes after I dispatched 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 morning. I have filled all thy India handkerchiefs with it. — It came, I think, from my heart! I fell asleep through weakness. At six I awoke, with the bosom of my shirt steeped in tears. I dreamt I was sitting under the canopy of Indolence, and that thou earnest into the room, with a shaul in thy hand, and told me, my spirit had flown to thee in the Downs, with tidings of my fate; and that you were come to administer what consolation filial affection could bestow, and to receive my parting breath and blessing. — With that you folded the shaul about my waist, and, kneeling, supplicated my attention. I awoke; but in what a frame! Oh! my God! “But thou wilt number 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 raising thy fine eyes to bid me be of comfort: and when I talk to Lydia, the words of Esau, as uttered by thee, perpetually ring in my ears— “Bless me even also, my father!” — Blessing attend thee, thou child of my heart!
My bleeding is quite stopped, and I feel the principle of life strong within me; so be not alarmed, Eliza — I know I shall do well. I have eat my breakfast with hunger; and I write to thee with a pleasure arising from that prophetic impression in my imagination, that “all will terminate to our heart’s content.” Comfort thyself eternally with this persuasion, “that the best of beings (as thou hast sweetly expressed it) could not, by a combination of accidents, produce such a chain of events, merely to be the source of misery to the leading person engaged in them.” The observation was very applicable, very good, and very elegantly expressed. I wish my memory did justice to the wording of it. — Who taught you the art of writing so sweetly, Eliza? — You have absolutely 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 finished 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 equalled, I believe, in this section of the globe; nor, I will answer for it, by any of your countrywomen in yours. — I have shewed your letter to Mrs. B — , and to half the literati in town. — You shall not be angry with me for it, because I meant to do you honour by it. — You cannot imagine how many admirers your epistolary productions have gained you, that never viewed your external merits. I only wonder where thou could’st acquire thy graces, thy goodness, thy accomplishments — so connected! so educated! Nature has surely studied 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 streight rule of conduct, that thou hast heard from my lips in a thousand forms — but I concenter it in one word,
REVERENCE THYSELF.
Adieu, once more, Eliza! May no anguish 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!
P. S. Remember, that Hope shortens all journies, by sweetening them — so sing my little stanza on the subject, with the devotion of an hymn, every morning when thou arisest, and thou wilt eat thy breakfast with more comfort for it.
Blessings, rest, 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. —
FARE THEE WELL!
ORIGINAL LETTERS OF THE LATE REVEREND MR. LAURENCE STERNE
CONTENTS
LETTER I. TO W. C. ESQ.
LETTER II.
LETTER III. TO W. C. ESQ.
LETTER IV. TO —— .
LETTER V. TO W. C — . ESQ.
LETTER VI. TO —— .
LETTTER VII. TO —— , ESQ.
LETTER VIII. TO W — C — , ESQ.
LETTER IX. TO —— .
LETTER X. TO —— , ESQ.
LETTER XI. TO —— , ESQ.
LETTER XII. TO —— , ESQ.
LETTTER XIII. TO —— , ESQ.
LETTER XIV.
LETTER XV.
LETTER XVI TO —— , ESQ.
LETTER XVII. TO —— ESQ.
LETTER XVIII. TO ——
LETTER XIX. TO ——
LETTER XX. TO —— .
LETTER XXI. TO —— .
LETTER XXII. TO ——
LETTER XXIII. TO ——
LETTER XXIV. TO —— .
LETTER XXV. TO —— .
LETTER XXVI. TO ——
LETTER XXVII. TO —— .
LETTER XXVIII. TO —— .
LETTER XXIX. TO ——
LETTER XXX. TO ——
LETTER XXXI. TO ——
LETTER XXXII. TO ——
LETTER XXXIII. TO —— .
LETTER XXXIV. TO ——
LETTER XXXV. TO LADY C — H —
LETTER XXXVI. TO ——
LETTER XXXVII. TO MRS V —
LETTER XXXVIII. TO —— .
LETTER XXXIX. TO ——
LETTER I. TO W. C. ESQ.
Coxwould, July 1, 1764.
I Am safe arrived at my bower — and I trust that you have no longer any doubt about coming to embower it with me. Having, for six months together, been running at the ring of pleasure, you will find that repose here which, all young as you are, you ought to want. We will be witty, or classical, or sentimental, as it shall please you best. My milk-maids shall weave you garlands; and every day after coffee I will take you to pay a visit to my nuns. Do not, however, indulge your fancy beyond measure, but rather let me indulge mine, or, at least, let me give you the history of it, and the fair sisterhood who dwell in one of it’s visionary corners. Now, what is all this about? you’ll say — have a few moments patience, and I will tell you.
You must know t
hen, that, on passing out of my back door, I very soon gain a path, which, after conducting me through several verdant meadows and shady thickets, brings me, in about twenty minutes, to the ruins of a monastery, where, in times long past, a certain number of cloistered females had devoted their — lives — I scarce know what I was going to write — to religious solitude. — This saunter of mine, when I take it, I call paying a visit to my nuns.
It is an awful spot — a rivulet flows by it, and a lofty bank, covered with wood, that rises abruptly on the opposite side, gives a gloom to the whole, and forbids the thoughts, if they were ever so disposed, from wandering away from the place. Solitary sanctity never found a nook more appropriated to her nature! — It is a place for an antiquary to sojourn in for a month — and examine with all the spirit of rusty research. But I am no antiquary, as you well know — and, therefore, I come here upon a different and a better errand — that is — to examine myself.
So I lean, lackadaysically, over a gate, and look at the passing stream — and forgive the spleen, the gout, and the envy of a malicious world. And, after having taken a stroll beneath mouldering arches, I summon the sisterhood together, and take the fairest among them, and sit down with her on a stone beneath a bunch of alders — and do — what? you’ll say — why I examine her gentle heart, and see how it is attuned; I then guess at her wishes, and play with the cross that hangs at her bosom — in short — I make love to her.
Fie, for shame! Tristram — that is not as it ought to be: — Now I declare, on the contrary, that it is exactly what it ought to be; for, though philosophers may say, among the many other foolish things philosophers have said, that a man who is in love is not in his right senses — I do assert, in opposition to all their saws and see-saws, that he is never in his right senses, or I would rather say his right sentiments, but when he is pursuing some Dulcinea or other. If that should be the case with you at this moment, I will forgive your staying from me; but if this letter should find you at the instant when your last flame is blown out, and before a new one is lighted up, and you should not take post and come to me and my nuns, I will abuse you in their name and my own, to the end of the chapter — though I believe, after all, at the end of the chapter, I should feel myself
Complete Works of Laurence Sterne Page 92