Nay, how often have I seen at a York Assembly, two young people dance down thirty couple, with as grave countenances as if they did it for hire, and were, after all, not sure of being paid: and here have I beheld the sun-burnt sons and daughters of labor rise from their scanty meal with not a pulse in their hearts that did not beat to pleasure; — and, with the brightest looks of satisfaction, make their wooden shoes responsive to the sound of a broken-winded hautboy.
All the world shall never persuade me there is not a Providence, and a gracious one too, which governs it. With every blessing under the sun we look grave, and reason ourselves into dissatissaction; while here — with scarce any blessing but the Sun — on est content de son ètat.
But the kind Being who made us all, gives to each the portion of happiness, according to his wise and good pleasure; for no one — and nothing is beneath his allprovidential care; — he even tempers the wind to the shorn lamb.
By such reflections, and under such influences, I am perverted from my purpose; for when I drew my chair to the table, and dipped my pen into the inkhorn, I breathed nothing but complaint, and it was my sole design to tell you so — for I have sent — a la poste restante again and again, and there is no letter from you. But though I am impatience itself to continue my journey towards the Alps, and cannot possibly indulge my curious spirit till I hear from you, yet such is the effect of my sympathetic nature, that I have caught all the ease and good humour of the people about me, and seem to be sitting here, in my black coat and yellow slippers, as contented as if I had not another step to take; and, God knows, I have a pretty circuit to make, my friend, before I may embrace you again.
It is not, as you well know, my practice to icratch out any thing I write, or I would erase the last dozen lines; as, the very moment I had concluded them, your letter and two others arrived, and brought me every thing I could wish. — I would really linger, if I thought you would overtake me. At all events, we shall meet at Rome — at Rome — and I shall now take the wings of to-morrow morning to forward my progress thither.
I sincerely hope this paper may be thrown away upon you, — that is, I wish you may be come away before it has made its passage to England. — At all events, my dear boy, we shall meet at Rome. So till then — fare thee well: — there and every where — I shall be,
Your most faithful and affectionate Ls L. STERNE.
LETTER XXIX. TO ——
Bond Street.
I HAVE a great mind to have done with joking, laughing and merry-making, for the rest of my days, with either man, woman, or child; and set up for a grave, formal, see-saw character; and dispense stupid wisdom, as I have hitherto been said to have done sensible nonsense, to my country-men and country-women.
To tell you the truth — I began this letter yesterday morning, and was interrupted in getting to the end of it, by half a dozen idle people, who called upon me to lounge and to laugh; though one of them forced me home with him to dine with his sister, whom I found to be a being of a superior order, and who has absolutely made the something like a resolution with which I began this letter, not worth the feather of the quill with which it was written.
She is, in good faith, charming beyond my powers of description; and we had such an evening, as made the cup of tea she gave me more delicious than nectar.
By the bye, she wishes very much to become acquainted with you — not, believe me, from any representations or biography of mine, but from the warm encomiums she has received of you from others, and those, as she says, of the first order. After all this, however, you may be sure that my testimony was not wanting. — So that, when you will give an opportunity, I shall have the honour of presenting you to kiss her hand, and add another devout worshipper at the temple of such transcendant merit.
I am really of opinion that, if there is a woman in the world formed to do you good, and to make you love her into the bargain — which, I believe, is the only way of doing you any good — this is the pre-eminent and bewitching character. — Indeed, were you to command my seeble powers to deliniate the lovely being whose affections would well repay thee for all the heart-achs and disquieting apprehensions that may and will afflict thee in thy passage through life, it would be this fair and excellent creature. My Knight Errant spirit has already told her that she is a Dulcinea to me — but I would most willingly take off my armour and break my spear, and resign her as an Angel to you.
I need not say any thing, I trust, of my affection for you; and I have, just now, some singular ideas on your subject, which kept me awake last night, when I ought to have been found asleep — but I shall reserve them for the communication of my fireside, or your’s, as it may be; and I wish, as devoutly as ever I wished any thing in my life, that my fire was to brighten before you this very evening.
In the name of fortune, — for want of a better at the moment, — what business have you to be fifty leagues from the capital, at a time when I stand so much in need of you, for your own sake.
I hear you exclaim — whom is all this about? — And I see you half determined to throw my letter into the fire, because you cannot find her name in it. This is all, my good friend, as it ought to be — for you may be assured that I never intended to write her name on this sheet of paper. I have told you of the divinity, and you will find the rest inscribed on the altar.
I was never more serious in my life; so let the wheels of your chariot roll as rapidly as post-horses can make them, towards this town; where if you come not soon, I shall be gone; and then I know not what may become of all my present good intentions towards you; — future ones, it is true, I shall have in plenty — for, at all events, in all circumstances, and every where,
I am, Most cordially, and affectionately your’s, L. STERNE.
LETTER XXX. TO ——
Friday.
THESE may be piping times to you, my dear friend, and I rejoice at it — but they are not dancing ones to me.
You will perceive, by the manner in which this letter is written, that if I dance — Holbein’s piper must be the fidler.
Since I wrote to you last, I have burst another vessel of my lungs, and lost blood enough to pull down a very strong man: what it has done then with my meagre form, clad as it is with infirmities, may be better imagined than described. — Indeed, it is with difficulty and some intervals of repose that I can trail on my pen; and, if it were not for the anxious forwardness of my spirits; which aids me for a few minutes by their precious Mechanism, I should not be able to thank you at all: — I know I cannot thank you as I ought, for your four letters which have remained so long unanswered, and particularly for the last of them.
I really thought, my good friend, that I should have seen you no more. The grim scare-crow seemed to have taken post at the foot of my bed, and I had not strength to laugh him off as I had hitherto done: — so I bowed my head in patience, without the least expectation of moving it again from my pillow.
But somehow or other he has, I believe, changed his purpose for the present — and we shall, I trust, embrace once again. I can only add, that, while I live, I shall be
Most affectionately your’s, L. STERNE.
LETTER XXXI. TO ——
Bond-street, May 8.
I Felt the full force of an honest heart-ach on reading your last letter. — The story it contains may be placed among the most affecting relations of human calamity, and the happiest efforts of human benevolence. I happened to have it in my pocket yesterday morning when I breakfasted with Mrs. M — ; and, for want of something so good of my own, I read the whole of your letter to her, — but this is not all; for, what is more to the purpose, (that is, to the purpose of your honour) she desired to read it herself, and then she entreated me not to delay the earliest opportunity to present you to her breakfast-table, and the mistress of it to you. I told her of the aukward distance of an hundred miles, at least, that lay between us; but I promised and vowed, — for I was obliged to do both, — that the moment I could lay hold of your arm, I w
ould lead you to her vestibule. — I really begin to think I shall get some credit by you.
Love, I most readily acknowledge, is subject to violent paroxysms, as well as slow fevers; but there is so much pleasure attendant upon the passion in general, and so many amiable sympathies are connected with it; nay, — it is sometimes so suddenly, and oftentimes so easily cured, that I cannot, for the life of me, pity its disasters with the same tone of commiseration, which accompanies my consolatory visits to other less oftensible sources of distress. — In the last sad separation of friends, hope comforts us with the prospect of an eternal reunion, and religion encourages the belief of it: — but, in the melancholy history which you relate, I behold what has always appeared to me, to be the most affecting sight in the gloomy region of human misfortune: I mean the pale countenance of one who has seen better days, and sinks under the despair of seeing them return. The mind that is bowed down by unmerited calamity, and knows not from what point of the compass to expect any good, is in a state, over which the Angel of pity sheds all his showers — Unable to dig, and to beg ashamed — what a description! — what an object for relief; — and how great the rapture to relieve it!
I do not, my dear boy, — indeed I do not — envy your feelings, for I trust that I share them; but if it were possible for me to envy you any thing that does you so much honour, and makes me love you, if possible, so much better than I did before — it is the little fabric of comfort and happiness which you have erected in the depths of misery. The whole may occupy, perhaps, but little space in this world — but, like the mustard seed, it will grow up and rear its head towards that Heaven, to which the Spirit that planted it will finally conduct you.
Robinson called upon me yesterday, to take me to dinner in Berkeley-square; — and, while I was arranging my drapery, I gave him your letter to read. He felt it as he ought, and not only desired me to say, every handsome thing on his part to you, but he said a great many handsome things of you himself, during dinner and after it, and drank your health. Nay, as his wine warmed him, he talked loud, and threatened to drink water — like you — the rest of his days.
But while I am relating so many fine things to flatter your vanity, let me, I beseech you, mention something to flatter my own; — and this is neither more or less than a very elegant silver standish, with a motto engraved upon it, which has been sent me by Lord Spencer. This mark of that Nobleman’s good disposition towards me, was displayed in a manner, which enhanced the value of the gift, and heightened my sense of the obligation. I could not thank him for it as I ought; but I wrote my acknowledgements as well as I could, and promised his Lordship that, as it was a piece of plate the Shandy family would value the most, it should certainly be the last they will part with.
I had another little business to communicate to you, but the postman’s bell warns me to write adieu — so God bless you, and preserve you, as you are; — and this wish, by the bye, is saying no small matter in your favour; but it is addressed for, and to you, with the same truth that guides my pen in assuring you, that I am, most sincerely and cordially, your faithful friend,
L. STERNE.
LETTER XXXII. TO ——
Bond Street.
THERE is a certain pliability of the affections, my dear friend, which, with all its inconveniences, — and I will acknowledge a thousand, — forms a wonderful charm in the human character. — To become a dupe to others, who are almost always worse, and, very often, more ignorant than yourself, is not only mortifying to one’s pride, but frequently destructive to one’s fortune. Nevertheless, there is something, in the very face, and, which is worse, in the mind, of suspicion, of such a detestable complexion and character, that I could never bear it; and whenever I have observed mistrust in the heart, I would never rap at the door of it, even to pay, if I could help it, a morning visit, much less to take my lodging there.
Niger est, hune tu Romane caveto.
This sort of cullibility most certainly lays you open to the designs of knaves and rascals; and they are, alas! to be found in the hedges and highway sides, and will come in without the trouble of sending for them. — The happy mean between mad goodnature and mean self-love, is of difficult attainment; though Mr. Pope says, — that Lord Bathurst possessed it in an eminent degree, — and I believe it. Indeed, it is for my honour that I should believe it, as I have received much kindness, and many generous attentions from that venerable, and excellent nobleman: — as I never possessed this happy quality myself, I can only recommend it to you, without offering any instructions on a duty, of which I cannot offer myself as an example. — This is not altogether clerical, — I mean as clergymen do, — but no matter.
B — is exactly one of these harmless, inoffensive people, who never frets or fumes, but bears all his losses with a most Christian patience, and settles the account in this manner, — that he had rather lose any thing than that benevolence of disposition, which forms the happiness of his life. But how will all this end? — for you know, as I know, that when once you have won his good opinion, you may impose upon him ten times a day, — if nine did not suit your purpose. The real friends of virtue, of honour, and what is best in the human character, should form a phalanx round such a man, and preserve him from the harpy plottings of sharpers and villains.
But there is another species of cullibility that I never can be brought to pity, which arises from the continual aim to make culls of others. It is not that gentle, confidential, unsuspicious spirit, which I have already hinted to you, but an overweening, wicked, insidious disposition, which, by being continually engaged in the miserable business of deceiving others, either outwits itself, or is outwitted by the very objects of its own fallacious intentions.
There is not, believe me, a more straight way to the being a dupe yourself, than the resting your hopes or pleasure in making dupes of others.
Cunning is not an honourable qualification; it is a kind of left-handed wisdom, which even fools can sometimes practise, and villains always make the foundation of their designs: — But, alas! how often does it betray its votaries to their dishonour, if not to their destruction.
Though an occasional stratagem may be sometimes innocent, I am ever disposed to suspect the cause where it must be employed; for, after all, you will, I am sure, agree with me, that where artifice is not to be condemned as a crime, the necessity, which demands it, must be considered as a misfortune.
I have been led to write thus Socratically from the tenor of your letter; though, if my paper would allow me, I would take a frisk, and vary the scene; but I have only room to add, that I dined in Brook-street last Sunday, where many gracious things were said of you, not only by the old folks, but, which is better, by the young virgins. I went afterwards, not much to my credit, to Argyle Buildings, but there were no virgins there. So may God forgive me, and bless you, — now, and at all times. — Amen.
I remain, Most truly and cordially, Your’s L. STERNE.
LETTER XXXIII. TO —— .
Coxwould, August 19, 1766.
AMONG your Whimsicalities, my dear friend, for you have them as well as Tristram, — there is not one of them which possesses a more amiable tendency, than that gentle spirit of modern Romance which, hadst thou lived in days of Yore, would have made thee the veriest Knight Errant, that ever brandished a spear, or wore a vizard.
The very same spirit that has led thee from hence to the Bristol Fountain, for no other earthly purpose, but to let a Phthysical maiden lean upon thine arm, and receive the healing waters from thine hand, would, in a former age, have urged thee to traverse forests and fight with monsters, for the sake of some Dulcinea whom thou hadst never seen; or perhaps have made a redcross-Knight of thee, and carried thee over lands and seas to Palestine. —
For to tell thee the truth, enthusiasm, is in the very soul of thee: — if thou wert born to live in some other planet, I might encourage all its glowing, high-coloured vulgarities; — but in this miserable, backbiting, cheating, pimping world of ours, it will
not do, — indeed, indeed it will not. — And full well do I know, nor does this vaticination escape me without a sigh, that it will lead thee into a thousand scrapes, — and some of them may be such, as thou wilt not easily get out of; — and should the fortunes of thine house be shaken by any of them, — with all thy pleasant enjoyments; — what then? you may say; nay I think I hear you say so, — why thy friends will then lose thée.
For if foul fortune should take thy stately palfrey, with all its gay and gilded trappings from beneath thee; or if, while thou art sleeping by moon-light beneath a tree, — it should escape from thee, and find another master; — or if the miserable Banditti of the world should plunder thee, — I know full well that we should see thee no more; — for thou wouldst then find out some distant cell, and become an Hermit; and endeavour to persuade thyself, not to regret the separation from those friends, who will ever regret their separation from thee.
This enthusiastic spirit, is in itself a good spirit; — but there is no spirit whatever, — no, not a termagant spirit, that requires a more active restraint, or a more discreet regulation.
And so we will go next spring, if you please, to the fountain of Vauclusa, and think of Petrarch, and, which is better, apostrophise his Laura. — By that time, I have reason to think my wife will be there, who, by the bye, is not Laura; — but my poor dear Lydia will be with her, and she is more than a Laura to her fond father.
Complete Works of Laurence Sterne Page 98