[]LETTERS OF THE LATE Mr. LAURENCE STERNE.

To W. C. Eſq.

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 [2] 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 then, that, on paſſing out of my back door, I very ſoon gain a path, which, after conducting me through ſeveral verdant meadows and ſhady thick⯑ets, brings me, in about twenty minutes, to the ruins of a monaſtery, where, in [3] times long paſt, a certain number of cloiſ⯑tered 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 for⯑bids 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 [4] 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 for⯑give the ſpleen, the gout, and the envy of a malicious world. And, after having ta⯑ken 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 al⯑ders—and do—what? you'll ſay—why I ex⯑amine her gentle heart, and ſee how it is attuned; I then gueſs at her wiſhes, and play with the croſs that hangs at her bo⯑ſom—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 [5] 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 aſ⯑ſert, in oppoſition to all their ſaws and ſee-ſaws, that he is never in his right ſen⯑ſes, or I would rather ſay his right ſenti⯑ments, but when he is purſuing ſome Dulcinea or other. If that ſhould be the caſe with you at this moment, I will for⯑give your ſtaying from me; but if this let⯑ter 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

LETTER II.

AND ſo you have been at the ſeats of the learned.—If I could have gueſſed at ſuch an intention, I would have contrived that ſomething in an epiſtolary ſhape ſhould have met you there, with half a dozen lines recommending you to the care of the Maſter of Jeſus.—He was my tutor when I was at College, and a very good kind of man. He uſed to let me have my way, when I was under his direction, and that ſhewed his ſenſe, for I was born to [7] travel out of the common road, and to get aſide from the highway path, and he had ſenſe enough to ſee it, and not to trouble me with trammels. I was neither made to be a thill-horſe, nor a fore-horſe; in ſhort I was not made to go in a team, but to am⯑ble along as I liked; and ſo that I do not kick, or ſplaſh, or run over any one, who in the name of common ſenſe has a right to interrupt me?—Let the good folks laugh if they will, and much good may it do them. Indeed, I am perſuaded, and I think I could prove, nay, and I would do it, if I were writing a book inſtead of a letter, the truth of what I once told a very great ſtateſman, orator, politician, and as much more as you pleaſe—that every time a man ſmiles—much more ſo—when he laughs—it adds ſomething to the fragment of life.

[8] But the ſtaying five days at Cambridge does not come within the immediate reach of my crazy comprehenſion, and you might have employed your time much, much better, in urging your mettleſome tits to wards Coxwould.

I may ſuppoſe that you have been pick⯑ing a hole in the ſkirts of Gibb's cum⯑brous architecture, or meaſuring the façade of Trinity College Library, or peering about the gothic perfections of King's College Chapel, or, which was doing a better thing, ſipping tea and talking ſentiment⯑ally with the Miſs Cookes, or diſturbing Mr. Gray with one of your enthuſiaſtic viſits—I ſay diſturbing him, for with all your own agreeableneſs, and all your ad⯑miration of him, he would rather have your room than your company. But mark [9] me, I do not ſay this to his glory, but to his ſhame. For I would be content with any room, ſo I had your company.

But tell me, I beſeech you, what you did with S— all this time. The look⯑ing at the heavy walls of muzzing Colle⯑ges, and gazing at the mouldy pictures of their founders, is not altogether in his way; nor did he wander where I have whilom wandered, on Cam's all verdant banks with willows crowned, and call the muſe: Alas, he'd rather call a waiter—and how ſuch a milkſop as you could tra⯑vel—I mean be ſuffered to travel, two leagues in the ſame chaiſe with him, I know not—but from that admirable and kind pliability of ſpirit which you poſſeſs when⯑ever you pleaſe, but which you do not al⯑ways pleaſe to poſſeſs. I do not mean [10] that a man ſhould wear a court dreſs when he is going to a puppet-ſhow; but, on the other hand, to keep the beſt ſuit of em⯑broidery for thoſe only whom he loves, though there is ſomething noble in it, will never do. The world, my dear friend, will not let it do. For while there are ſuch qualities in the human mind as ingratitude and duplicity, unlimited confidence and this patriotiſm of friendſhip, which I have heard you rave and rant about, is a very dangerous buſineſs.

I could preach a ſermon on the ſubject—to ſay the truth, I am got as grave as if I were in my pulpit. Thus are the pro⯑jects of this life deſtroyed. When I took up my pen, my humour was gay, friſky, and fanciful—and now I am ſliding into all the ſee-ſaw gravity of ſolemn councils. [11] I want nothing but an aſs to look over my pales and ſet up a braying to keep me in countenance.

Leave, leave your Lincolnſhire ſeats, and come to my dale; S—, I know, is heartily tired of you. Beſides I want a nurſe, for I am not quite well, and have taken to milk-coffee. Remember me, however, to him kindly, and to yourſelf cordially, for

LETTER III. To W. C. Eſq.

AND ſo you ſit in S—'s temple and drink tea, and converſe claſſically:—now I ſhould like to know what is the na⯑ture of this diſorder which you call claſſi⯑cality;—if it conſiſts in a rage to converſe on ancient ſubjects in a modern manner; or on modern ſubjects in an antient one;—or are you both out of your ſenſes, and do you fancy yourſelves with Virgil and Horace at Sinueſſa, or with Tully and At⯑ticus at Tuſculum? Oh how it would de⯑light [13] me to peep at you from behind a lau⯑rel buſh, and ſee you ſurrounded with co⯑lumns and covered by a dome, quaffing the extract of a Chineſe weed, and talking of men who boaſted the inſpiration of the Falernian grape!

What a couple of vapid, inert beings you muſt be!—I ſhould really give you up for loſt, if it were not for the confi⯑dence I have in the reinvigorating powers of my ſociety, to which you muſt now have immediate recourſe, if you wiſh for a reſtoration. Make haſte then, my good friend, and ſeek the aid of your phyſician ere it be too late.

You know not the intereſt I take in your welfare. Have I not ordered all the li⯑nen to be taken out of the preſs, and re⯑waſhed [14] before it was dirty, that you may have a clean table cloth every day, with a napkin into the bargain? And have I not ordered a kind of windmill, that makes my head ach again with its clatter, to be placed in my fine cherry-tree, that the fruit may be preſerved from the birds, to furniſh you a deſert? And do you not know that you will have curds and cream for your ſupper? Think on theſe things, and let S— go to Lincoln ſeſſions by himſelf, and talk claſſically with country juſtices. In the mean time we will philo⯑ſophize and ſentimentalize;—the laſt word is a bright invention of the moment in which it was written, for yours or Dr. Johnſon's ſervice,—and you ſhall ſit in my ſtudy and take a peep into the world as into a ſhow-box, and amuſe yourſelf as I preſent the pictures of it to your imagi⯑nation. [15] Thus will I teach you to laugh at its follies, to pity its errors, and deſpiſe its injuſtice;—and I will introduce you, among the reſt, to ſome tender-hearted damſel, on whoſe cheeks ſome bitter af⯑fliction has placed a tear;—and having heard her ſtory, you ſhall take a white handkerchief from your pocket to wipe the moiſture from her eyes, and from your own:—and then you ſhall go to bed, not to the damſel, but with an heart conſcious of thoſe ſentiments, and poſſeſſed of thoſe feelings, which will give ſoftneſs to your pillow, ſweetneſs to your ſlumbers, and gladneſs to your waking moments.

You ſhall ſit in my porch, and laugh at attic veſtibules. I love the claſſics as well as any man ought to love them,—but a⯑mong all their fine ſayings, their fine wri⯑tings, [16] and their fine verſes, their moſt en⯑thuſiaſtic admirer would not be able to find me half a dozen ſtories that have any ſenti⯑ment in them,—and ſo much for that.

If you don't come ſoon, I ſhall ſet about another volume of Triſtram without you. So God bleſs you, for

LETTER IV. To — —.

I AM grieved for your downfall, though it was only out of a park-chair—May it be the laſt you will receive in this world; though, while I write this wiſh, my heart heaves a deep ſigh, and I believe it will not be read by you, my friend, without a ſimilar accompaniment.

Alas! alas! my dear boy, you are born with talents to ſoar aloft with; but you have an heart, which, my apprehenſions [18] tell me, will keep you low.—I do not mean, you know I do not, any thing baſe or grovelling;—but, inſtead of winging your way above the ſtorm, I am afraid that you will calmly ſubmit to its rigours, and houſe yourſelf afterwards in ſome hum⯑ble ſhed, and there live contented, and chaunt away the time, and be loſt to the world.

How the wind blows I know not; and I have not an inclination to walk to my window, where, perhaps, I might catch the courſe of a cloud and be ſatisfied,—but here I am up to my knees—I ſhould rather ſay up to my heart, in a ſubject, which is ever accompanied with ſome af⯑flicting vaticination or other. I am not afraid of your doing any wrong but to yourſelf. A ſecret knowledge of ſome [19] circumſtances which you have never com⯑municated to me, have alarmed my affec⯑tion for you—not from any immediate harm they can produce, but from the con⯑viction they have forced upon me, con⯑cerning your diſpoſition, and the nicer parts of your character. If you do not come ſoon to me, I ſhall take the wings of ſome fine morning and fly to you; but I ſhould rather have you here; for I wiſh to have you alone; and if you will let me be a Mentor to you for one little month, I will be content—and you ſhall be a Men⯑tor to me the reſt of the year; or, if you will, the reſt of my days.

I long, moſt anxiouſly, my dear friend, to teach you—not to give an opiate to thoſe ſenſibilities of your nature, which make me love you as I do; nor to check [20] your glowing fancy, that gives ſuch grace to poliſh'd youth; nor to yield the beve⯑rage of the fountain for the nectar of the caſk; but to uſe the world no better, or to pleaſe you a very little better, than it de⯑ſerves.—But think not, I beſeech you, that I would introduce my young Telemachus to ſuch a foul and ſquint-eyed piece of pol⯑lution as Suſpicion. Avaunt to ſuch a baſe ungenerous paſſion! I would ſooner car⯑ry you to Calypſo at once, and give you at leaſt a little pleaſure for your pains. But there is a certain little ſpot to be found ſomewhere in the mid-way between truſt⯑ing every body and truſting nobody; and ſo well am I acquainted with the longi⯑tudes, latitudes, and bearings of this world of ours, that I could put my finger upon it, and direct you at once to it; and I think I could give you ſo many good [21] reaſons why you ſhould go there, that you would not heſitate to ſet off immediately, and I would accompany you thither, and ſerve as a Cicerone to you. I wiſh therefore much, very much, to talk with you about that and other ſerious matters.

As for your bodily infirmity, never mind it; you may come here by gentle ſtages, and without inconvenience; and I will be your ſurgeon, or your nurſe; and warm your verjuice every evening, and bathe your ſprain with it, and talk of theſe things. So tell me, I pray you, the day that I am to meet you at York. In the mean time, and always may a good Provi⯑dence protect you—It is the ſincere wiſh of

LETTER V. To W. C—. Eſq.

THIS letter will meet you at Hew⯑it's, inſtead of myſelf; for I have taken ſome how or other, and I know not how, a very violent cold, and cannot come; and as I would receive you with my beſt looks, if poſſible, as well as my beſt welcome, I am nurſing myſelf into ſome ſort of reſ⯑toration againſt your arrival; though my cough torments me without mercy, and I am ſo hoarſe at this moment, that I can ſcarce make myſelf heard acroſs my table.

[23] This phthiſic of mine will ſooner or la⯑ter, and, perhaps, ſooner than either I or you, my friend, may think, bear me to my laſt aſylum from a ſplenetic world. You will ſay, perhaps, that I am ſplenetic alſo in my turn by writing thus gravely;—but as I well know this vile cough is the engine which that ſcare-crow death em⯑ploys to ſhatter my poor frame, and bring it to his dominion, how can I be merry or ſatisfied?—It is true, I love laughing and merry-making, and all that, as well as any ſoul upon earth; nevertheleſs, I cannot think of piping and taboring it out of the world, like the figures in Holbein's dance. Beſides I have been ſo uſed to my own way, that I don't like to be put out of it, by being made to cough ſo villainouſly as I do, more than half my time. It is moſt inurbane in him,—by Heaven, it is cow⯑ardly [24] in the raſcal, to rob me of thoſe ſpi⯑rits, with which I have ſo often defeated him.

And this is not all,—for I have forty volumes more to write; nay, and have abſolutely promiſed the world to do it; and I have my engagements to you as well as to the world—and to myſelf as well as to you both; and how ſhall I keep my word as an author and a gentleman, and what is of more conſequence than either—as a friend,—if I cannot ſhake off this piece of anatomy: Beſides, no one can do theſe things for me but myſelf; the buſineſs is beyond all power of attorney; for if I were to leave fifty executors to my laſt will and teſtament, and if they were to be joined by a regiment of adminiſtrators and aſ⯑ſigns, [25] they could not take up their pens and do as I would do.

But what a wayward fancy mine is!—and with what a ſeducing pen am I writing—for I am got leagues without number from the idea which danced before me, when I firſt began this letter. And here I am wrong again:—for what great diſtance can there be between the grave of my grand⯑father and my own; and it was to his tomb that I wiſhed to conduct you!

I know full well, that all ſprained your ancle may be, it will be wholly im⯑poſſible for you to paſs through York, without popping your head into its cathe⯑dral, and indulging your mind with a few of thoſe reflections which ſuch a building is calculated to inſpire. Now, when you [26] are there, tell a verger to conduct you to the tomb of Archbiſhop Sterne. He is the ſame whoſe picture you ſaw at Cam⯑bridge, and which you were pleaſed to ſay, bore ſo ſtrong a reſemblance to me. In the marble whole length figure which dig⯑nifies the monument, you will find the likeneſs ſtill ſtronger: and if I drop in this corner of the world, I ſhould like to be depoſited in that corner of the church, and ſleep out my laſt ſleep beſide my pious anceſtor.

He was an excellent prelate and an ho⯑neſt man:—I have not half his virtues, if report ſpeaks true of us both, which, for his ſake, I hope it does—and for my own, I hope it does not. Though, to uſe an expreſſion which dropped from the lips and at the table of a brother Arch-prelate [27] of his, and one of his ſucceſſors, "My ideas are ſometimes rather too diſorderly for a man in orders." In his Grace's Concio ad clerum, I do not find myſelf a very princi⯑pal figure, but in his private hours, he is always moſt cordial to me.

The day after to-morrow, I ſhall hope to embrace you at my gate; till then, my dear friend, may God bleſs you—and al⯑ways.

LETTER VI. To — —.

I SHALL forgive the tardineſs of your paſſage hither, if it be true, as a ſtill ſmall voice of a York goſſip has informed me, that you repoſe, with your infirm limb, on a ſofa, in Mrs. —'s withdrawing room, and have your coffee and tea handed you by her two daughters, and one of them has charms enough for the three Graces—and that they play on their harpſichord, and, with voices ſtolen from heaven, ſing duets to you, while you, ſtretched on da⯑maſk, [29] command, as it were, that little world of beauty and good ſenſe which ſur⯑rounds you.

You cannot, my good friend, have known the charming people, with whom you are ſo happy, more than eight and forty hours at moſt. Now I make this obſervation, merely to have the pleaſure of making another, which is, that you have learned the art, and a very comfort⯑able one it is, of ſetting yourſelf at eaſe with worthy ſpirits, when you have the good fortune to meet them. Indeed, I may claim the credit of having taught you the maxim, that life is too ſhort to be long in forming the tender and happy connections of it. 'Tis a miſerable waſte of time, as well as a very baſe buſineſs, to be looking at each other, as an uſurer looks at a ſecu⯑rity, [30] to find a flaw in it. No:—if you meet a heart worth being admitted into, and you really feel yourſelf worthy of ad⯑miſſion, the matter is arranged in five hours, as well as five years.

Hail, ye gentle ſympathies, that can ap⯑proach two amiable hearts to each other, and chaſe every diſcordant idea from an union that nature has deſigned by the ſame happy colouring of character that ſhe has given them!—But lucus a non lucendo—I have re⯑ceived a kind of diſh daſh ſort of letter from Garrick—out of which all my che⯑miſtry cannot extract a ſympathetic atom. I am glad, however, to have an opportu⯑nity of writing a ſhort anſwer to him, that I may addreſs a long poſtſcript to his cara ſpoſa.

[31] I love Garrick on the ſtage, better than any thing in the world, except Mrs. Garrick off it; and if there is any one heart in the world I ſhould like to get a corner of—it would be hers. But I am too great a ſin⯑ner to do more than approach the portal of ſo much excellence—there to bend one knee at leaſt, and ejaculate at a diſtance from the altar.

I have often thought on what this ſpirit of idolatry, which is continually bearing me to the feet of ſome fair image or other, will do with me twenty years hence; and whether, after having had, during my younger days, a damſel to ſmooth my pil⯑low—I ſhould find one, in my age, to put on my ſlipper. However, I need not trou⯑ble myſelf or you about theſe conjectures; [32] for I well know there is not life in me to make the experiment.

This inſtant brings me a letter from your kind hoſteſs, who is determined not to let you go till I come to fetch you.—To⯑morrow, by noon, therefore, I ſhall em⯑brace you, and her—and—the damſels.

LETTTER VII. To — —, Eſq.

THOUGH I hope and truſt you be⯑lieve that I am not only diſpoſed to laugh with thoſe who laugh, but to weep with thoſe who weep;—yet it is moſt true, my dear friend, that I could not but ſmile as I read the account you ſent me of your diſtreſs and diſappointment; and when I gave your letter to Hall, for you ſee I am at Crazy Caſtle, he laughed the tears into his eyes.

[34] Now you muſt not ſuppoſe, nor can you imagine, that either of us trifled with your ſufferings, for you know I love you, and Hall ſays you are a lad of promiſe; but we were merry at the amiable ſimplicity of your nature, in wondering that there is ever any villainy in a villainous world; and at the idea, how little a time you were deſtined to poſſeſs that delicious—for I will call it with all its ſcrapes and duperies, a delicious ſentiment. You have juſt open⯑ed the volume of life, and ſtartle to find a blot in the firſt page; alas! alas! as you proceed, you will find whole pages ſo blot⯑ted and blurred, that you will ſcarce be able to diſtinguiſh the characters. 'Tis a ſorry buſineſs I muſt confeſs, to plant ſuſpicion in a breaſt that has never known it, and to check the glow of hope which animates the beginning of the journey, by pointing out [35] the interruptions and dangers that will be neceſſarily encountered in the courſe of it: But this is the duty of friendſhip, and ariſes from the nature of our exiſtence and the ſtate of the world. If, however, after all, you can acquire an uſeful experience, and be taught to put yourſelf on your guard, at the expence of a few ſcore gui⯑neas, you have made a good bargain:—ſo be content, and no more of your com⯑plainings.

But you will tell me, perhaps, that it is not the matter of the loſs, but the manner of it, that you conſider as a misfortune: The being treated ſo ill, and with ſo much ingratitude, is the buſineſs that afflicts you. Hall, who is ſtill laughing, bids me tell you for your comfort, that he who dupes muſt be a raſcal; and he who is duped [36] may be an honeſt man; but he is a cynic, and adminiſters his doſe in his own way. Now, was I to conſole you in mine, I ſhould tell you, that gratitude is not ſo common a virtue in the world as it ought to be, for all our ſakes: but ingratitude, my dear friend, is not an offspring of the preſent moment; it ſeems to have exiſted from the beginning, and will continue to diſgrace the world when we have long been in the valley of Jehoſaphat:—nay, you muſt have read—indeed I know that I have written a ſermon upon the ſubject—that of the lepers who were healed, but one return⯑ed to give thanks for his reſtoration. I do not, however, tell you theſe things that you may find conſolation in the miſerable habits of mankind, but that you may not ſuppoſe yourſelf worſe uſed than the reſt of the world, which is very common with [37] young men like yourſelf, who feel at every pore, and have not yet had that colliſion with untoward circumſtances which a⯑wakens caution, or begets patience.

And ſo much for you and your miſeries, which I doubt not will have been diſſipated by the bewitching ſmiles of ſome fair dam⯑ſel or other, before my grave ſee-ſaw let⯑ter ſhall reach you. Let me know, I beg of you, your plan of operations for the winter, if you have one. You may, I think—though you may think otherwiſe—fly from the joys and damps of this unge⯑nial climate, and winter ſerenely with me in Languedoc; your company would do me good, and mine would do you no harm:—at leaſt I think ſo; and we ſhall return to London time enough to peep in at Ra⯑nelagh, and look at the birth-day. In [38] ſhort, write to me upon the ſubject, and direct to me here, for here I am to be dur⯑ing this ſhooting month of September; ſo God bleſs you, and give you patience if you want it.

LETTER VIII. To W— C—, Eſq.

SO Burton ^* really told you with a grave face, and an apparent mortification, that I had ridiculed my Iriſh friends at Bath for an hour together, and had made a large company merry at Lady Lepel's ^† table during an whole afternoon at their expence. By Heaven's 'tis falſe as miſre⯑preſentation can make it. It is not in my nature, I truſt, to be ſo ungrateful, as I ſhould be, if abſent or preſent, I were to [40] be ungracious to them. That I ſhould make Burton look grave, whoſe counte⯑nance is formed to mark the ſmiles of an amiable and an honeſt heart, is not within my chapter of poſſibilities:—I am ſure it is not in that of my intentions to ſay any thing that is inurbane of ſuch a man as he is:—for, in my life, did I never commu⯑nicate with a gentleman of qualities more winning, and diſpoſitions more generous. He invited me to his houſe with kindneſs, and he gave me a truly graceful welcome; for it was with all his heart. He is as much formed to make ſociety pleaſant as any one I ever ſaw; and I wiſh he were as rich as Croeſus, that he might do all the good an unbounded generoſity would lead him to do. I never paſſed more pleaſant hours in my life than with him and his fair [] countrywomen; and foul befall the man who ſhould let drop a word in diſpraiſe of him or them!—And there is the charming widow Moor, where, if I had not a piece of legal meadow of my own, I ſhould re⯑joice to batten the reſt of my days;—and the gentle elegant Gore, with her fine form and Grecian face, and whoſe lot I truſt it will be to make ſome man happy, who knows the value of a tender heart:—Nor ſhall I forget another widow, the intereſt⯑ing Mrs. Veſey, with her vocal, and fifty other accompliſhments.—I abuſe them!—it muſt not be told,—for it is falſe,—and it ſhould not be believed, for it is unna⯑tural.—It is true I did talk of them, for an hour together, but no ſarcaſm or un⯑lucky ſallies mingled with my ſpeech:—Yes, I did talk of them as they would [42] wiſh to be talked of,—with ſmiles on my countenance, praiſe on my tongue, hila⯑rity in my heart, and the goblet in my hand.—Beſides, I am myſelf of their own country:—My father was a conſiderable time on duty with his regiment in Ireland; and my mother gave me to the world when ſhe was there, on duty with him. I beg of you, therefore, to make all theſe good people believe that I have been at leaſt miſunderſtood, for it is impoſſible that Lady Barrymore could mean to miſrepreſent me.

Read Burton this letter if you have an opportunity, and aſſure him of my moſt cordial eſteem and reſpect for him and all his ſocial excellencies: and whiſper ſome⯑thing kind and gentle for me, as you well [43] know how, to my fair countrywomen; and let not an unmerited prejudice or diſplea⯑ſure againſt me remain any longer in their tender boſoms.—When you get into diſ⯑grace of any kind, be aſſured that I will do as much for you.

I am here as idle as eaſe of heart can make me:—I ſhall wait for you till the be⯑ginning of next month; when, if you do not come, I ſhall proceed to while away the reſt of the ſummer at Crazy Caſtle and Scarborough. In the beginning, the very beginning of October, I mean to arrive in Bond-ſtreet with my Sermons; and when I have arranged their publication, then—hey go mad for Italy—whither you would do well to accompany me.—In the mean time, however, I hope, and wiſh to ſee [44] you here; it will after all, be much better than playing the Strephon with phthiſical nymphs at the Briſtol Fountain. But do as you may—

LETTER IX. To — —.

I DID not anſwer your letter as you deſired me, for at the moment I receiv⯑ed it, I really thought all my projects, for ſome time to come, were burned to a cinder; or, which is the better expreſſion of the two, had evaporated in ſmoke;—for, not half an hour before an affrighted meſſenger, on a breathleſs horſe, had arrived to ac⯑quaint me, that the parſonage houſe at—was on fire, when he came away, and burning like a bundle of faggots; and [46] while I was preparing to ſet off to ſee my houſe, after it was burned down, your let⯑ter arrived to conſole me on my way; for it gave me every aſſurance that, if I were left without an hole to put my head into, or a rag to cover my—body, you would give me a comfortable room in your houſe, and a clean ſhirt into the bargain.

In ſhort, by the careleſſneſs of my cu⯑rate, or his wife, or ſome one within his gates, I am an houſe out of pocket—I ſay, literally, out of pocket; for I muſt re⯑build it at my own coſts and charges, or the church of York, who originally gave it me, will do thoſe things, which in good ſenſe ought not to be done; but which the wiſe-acres who compoſe it, will tell me they have a right to do. My loſs will be upwards of two hundred pounds, with [47] ſome books, &c. &c.—ſo that you may now lay aſide all your apprehenſions about what I ſhall do with the wealth that my ſermons have brought, and are to bring to me.—I told you then that ſome deviliſh ac⯑cident or other would provide me with the ends of getting rid of the means; and I had a croſs accident in my head at the time, which I did not communicate to you; but it is not that which has fallen out, nor any thing like it;—though this may fall out too, for aught I know, and then the fee ſimple of my ſermons will be gone for ever.

Now theſe ſermons of mine, were moſt of them written in the very houſe that is burned down, and all of them preached, I fear again and again, in the very church to which it belonged; and they now an⯑ſwer [48] a purpoſe I never dreamed or thought of; but ſo it is in this world, and thus are things hinged and hung together—or rather unhinged or unhung; for I have my doubts at preſent, whether we ſhall ſee the dying gladiator next winter. The matter, however, that concerns me moſt in the buſineſs, is the ſtrange unaccountable conduct of my poor unfortunate curate, not in ſetting fire to the houſe, for I do not accuſe him of it, God knows, nor any one elſe; but in ſetting off the moment after it happened, and flying like Paul to Tarſus, through fear of a proſecution from me.

That the man ſhould have formed ſuch an idea of me, as to ſuppoſe me capable, if I did not ſooth his ſorrows, of adding another to their number, wounded me ſore⯑ly. [49] For, amidſt all my errors and ſollies, I do not believe there is any thing, in the colour or complexion of any part of my life, that would juſtify the ſhadow of ſuch an apprehenſion.—Beſides he deprived me of all the comfort I made out to myſelf from the misfortune; which was, as it pleaſed Heaven to deprive him of one houſe, to take him and his wife, and his little one, into another—I mean into that where I lived myſelf. And he who now reads my heart, and will one day judge me for the ſecrets of it—he well knows that it did not grow cold within me, on account of the accident, till I was in⯑formed that this ſilly man was a fugitive, from the fear of my wrath.

The family of the C—s were kind to me beyond meaſure, as they have al⯑ways [50] have been. They are a ſort of people that you would like extremely; and before the ſummer is paſt, I hope to preſent you to them. Though, if I recollect aright, you know the charming damſel of the houſe already; and the reſt of it, though not ſo young or ſo fair, are as amiable as ſhe is.—As I cannot leave you in poſſeſſion of a better ſubject for your reflection, &c. I ſhall ſay adieu, and God bleſs you.—In a few days you ſhall hear again from

I write this from York—where you may write to me.

LETTER X. To — —, Eſq.

I HAVE received, my dear friend, your kind anſwer to my letter. And you muſt know that it was juſt ſuch an one, as I wiſhed to receive from you:—Nay, it was juſt ſuch an one as I expected you would write to me. I ſhould have been diſap⯑pointed if it had been in any other ſorm or ſhape of friendſhip. But underſtand me, if you pleaſe; I ſhould have been diſappointed for your ſake, and not for my own: for though I am charmed that you ſhould have made me thoſe unreſerv⯑ed offers of friendſhip, which are ſo gra⯑cious [52] in you, I am almoſt as much pleaſed that my Exchequer is in that ſlate of ſuffi⯑ciency as not to require them.

I have made my bargain for rebuilding my parſonage, and ſettled all arrange⯑ments with all parties concerned, in a manner more to my ſatisfaction than I could have expected. I was rather in haſte to ſettle this account, that there might be no riſque of leaving my wife and Lydia a dilapidation for their fortune: for I have no reaſon to believe that the *** of *** would be more kind to them when friendleſs and unprotected, than they had been to the huſband of the one, and the father of the other, who, when he was a poor Curate, had pride enough to deſpiſe their Reverences, and wit enough to make [53] others laugh at them. But may God for⯑give them, as I do!—Amen.

I wrote to Hall an account of my diſ⯑aſter;—and his anſwer bid me find out a conceit on the occaſion, and comfort my⯑ſelf with it. Tully, the Orator, the Po⯑litician, the Philoſopher, the Moraliſt, the Conſul, &c. &c. &c. adopted as he candidly tells us every one, who reads his works, this mode of conſolation, when he loſt his daughter; and, if we may be⯑lieve him, with ſucceſs. Now this ſame Tully, you muſt know, was like my fa⯑ther; I mean Mr. Shandy, of Shandy Hall, who was as well pleaſed with a misfortune that gave him an opportunity of diſplay⯑ing his eloquence, as with a bleſſing that obliged him to hold his tongue. Both theſe great men were fond of conceits I mean their own; ſo I will tell you a ſtory [54] of a Conceit, not of Cicero's nor my Fa⯑ther's, but of the Lord of Crazy.

You muſt know then, that this ſame friend of mine, and, I may add, of your's alſo, in a moment of lazy pride, took it into his head that he would have a town chariot, to ſave his feet by day, and to carry him to Ranelagh in the evening. For this purpoſe, after conſulting a coach-maker, he had allotted one hundred and forty pounds; and he wrote me word of it. On my arrival in town, about three months after this communication, I found a card of invitation from Lord Spencer to dine with him on the following Sunday; and I had no ſooner read it, than Hall's fine crane-neck'd chariot came bounce as it were, upon my recollection; ſo I ſallied forth to aſk him how he did, and to bor⯑row [55] his carriage, that I might pay my vi⯑ſit in pomp as well as Pontificalibus. I found him at home, made a friendly en⯑quiry or two, and told him of the little arrangement I had formed; when he re⯑plied with one of his Cynical ſmiles, that his mortification was in the extreme, for that his chariot was gone poſt to Scotland. I ſtared, and he laughed,—not at me, but at his own conceit; and you ſhall have it, ſuch as it is:

I muſt inform you then, that at the moment when the coach-maker, was re⯑ceiving his laſt inſtructions, he himſelf re⯑ceived a letter; which letter acquainted him that his ſon, who was quartered at Edinburgh, had got into a terrible riot there; to get out of the conſequences of which, demanded almoſt the preciſe ſum [56] that had been deſtined for the chariot. So that the hundred and forty pounds, which had been ſet a part to build a chariot in London, were employed to repair broken windows, broken, lamps and broken heads, in Edinburgh; and Hall comforted himſelf with the conceit that his chariot was gone poſt to Scotland. So much for comforts and conceits;—and happy is it for us when we can, by any means, conceit ourſelves into comfort. I could ſay more upon this matter, but my paper is almoſt filled; and I have only ſpace to expreſs a wiſh, that your life may never want any of theſe petty helps to make it as happy as, if I greatly miſtake not, it muſt be honourable—Let me ſee you ſoon; and, in the mean time, and at all times, may God be with you.

LETTER XI. To — —, Eſq.

YOU are not ſingular in your opin⯑ion about my wonderful capacity for poetry.—Beauclerk, and Lock, and I think Langton, have ſaid what you have ſaid on the ſubject, and founded their opinion, as you have done, on the ſrag⯑ment of an Introduction to the Ode to Ju⯑lia, in Triſtram Shandy. The unity of the epiſode would have been wounded, if I had added another line; and if I had ad⯑ded a dozen, my character as a poetical [58] genius, which, by the bye, I never had, would have been loſt for ever—or rather would never have been ſuſpected.

Hall had alſo ſimilar ideas on this very matter, and, on the ſtrength of his opin⯑ion, ventured once to giveme an unfiniſhed poem of his own, and bade me go on with it—and ſo I did, heltering and ſkeltering at a moſt terrible rate;—In ſhort, I added ſome ſixty or fourſcore lines to the buſi⯑neſs, which he called doggrel, and which I think he called rightly; however, he choſe to let them ſtand, to uſe his own phraſe, as a curioſity; ſo into the preſs they went, and helped to compoſe the worſt ſquib our crazy friend ever let off. I do not, however, mention theſe things to leſſen the merit of your opinion, by point⯑ing out its ſimilarity to that of others. [59] You need not be aſhamed to think with ſuch men, if even they ſhould be wrong, which, on this particular ſubject, I moſt ſolemnly believe you all to be. Cum his er⯑rare is ſomething—and all that—

I once, it is true, wrote an epitaph, which I liked myſelf, but the perſon, at whoſe requeſt I did it, ſacrificed it to one of his own, which he liked better, but which I did not—ſo my lines were thrown aſide, and his own nerveleſs rhime was en⯑graved on a marble, which deſerved a bet⯑ter inſcription; for it covered the duſt of one, whoſe gentle nature, and amiable qualities, merited more than common praiſe, or common-place eulogium. How⯑ever, I ſhed a tear over the ſepulchre, which, if the dead could have known it, would have been more acceptable than the [60] moſt ſplendid diction that ever glared on monumental alabaſter.

I alſo wrote a kind of Shandean, ſing⯑ſong, dramatic piece of rhyme for Mr. Beard—and he ſung it at Ranelagh, as well as on his own ſtage, for the benefit of ſome one or other. He aſked for ſome⯑thing of the kind, and I knew not how to refuſe him; for, a year before, he had in a very reſpectful manner, and without any previous acquaintance, preſented me with the freedom of Covent-Garden Theatre. The act was gracious; and I liked it the better, becauſe the monarch of Drury-Lane had known me for ſome years, and beſides had, for ſome time, occupied a front ſeat in my page, before he offered me the freedom—not of Drury Lane houſe, but of Drury-Lane pit. I told [61] him, on the occaſion, that he acted great things and did little ones:—ſo he ſtam⯑mered and looked fooliſh, and performed, at length, with a bad grace, what his ri⯑val manager was ſo kind as to do with the beſt grace in the world—But no more of that—he is ſo complete on the ſtage, that I ought not to mention his patch-work off it.

However, to return to my ſubject—if I can; for digreſſion is interwoven with my nature; and to get to my point, or find my way back to it, when I have wandered aſide, as other men do, is not in the line of my faculties.—But though I may not be a poet, the clerk of my pa⯑riſh is—not abſolutely in my conceit—but, which is better, in that of his neigh⯑bours; and, which is the beſt of all—in his own. His muſe is a profeſſional one, [62] for ſhe only inſpires him to indite hymns; and it is appropriate, for ſhe leads him to ſuch ſubjects as are ſuitable to his ſpiritual office, and which, like thoſe of his bre⯑thren Stera [...]ld and Hopkins, may be ſaid or ſung in churches. In ſhort, there had been a terrible diſeaſe among the cattle, and our pariſh had ſuffered greatly, ſo that this parochial bard thought it a pro⯑per ſubject for a ſpiritual ſong, which he accordingly compoſed, and gave it out on the Sunday following, to the praiſe and glory of God, as an hymn of his own compoſing. Not only the murrain itſelf, but the ſufferers by the calamity, were vociferated through the aiſles in all the pomp and devotion of ruſtic pſalmody. The laſt ſtanza, which is the only one I recollect, rather unhinged my devotion, but it ſeemed to rivet that of the congre⯑gation, [63] and therefore I had no right to complain. I leave it with you as a bonne bouche, and wiſh you a good night.

LETTER XII. To — —, Eſq.

I SENT you, my dear friend, as you requeſt it, the Epitaph which I men⯑tioned in my laſt epiſtle to you. I write it from recollection; and, though it may not contain the preciſe expreſſion, it will certainly poſſeſs the ſentiment of the ori⯑ginal compoſition—and that is of the moſt conſequence. I remember well it came from the heart, for I moſt ſincerely loved the amiable perſon, whoſe virtues deſerved a better inſcription, and, accord⯑ing [65] to a very common courſe of things, found a worſe. But here it is—

Hall liked it, I remember—and Hall always knows what ought to be liked, and, in certain humours, will be candid upon theſe ſentimental ſubjects, and ac⯑knowledge that he feels them. He is an excellent ſcholar and a good critic: but his judgment has more ſeverity than it ought to have, and his taſte leſs delicacy than it ſhould poſſeſs. He has, alſo, great hu⯑manity, but, ſomehow or other, there is [66] ſo often ſuch a mixture of ſarcaſm in it, that there are many who will not believe he has a ſingle ſcruple of it in his compo⯑ſition.—Nay, I am acquainted with ſever⯑al, who cannot be perſuaded but that he is a very inſenſible, hard-hearted man, which I, who have known him long, and known him well, aſſure you he is not.—He may not always poſſeſs the grace of charity, but he feels the reality of it, and continu⯑ally performs benevolent actions, though not always, I muſt confeſs, in a benevo⯑lent manner. And here is the grief of the buſineſs. He will do a kindneſs with a ſneer, or a joke, or a ſmile; when, per⯑haps, a tear, or a grave countenance, at leaſt, would better become him. But this is his way; it is the language of his character; and, though one might wiſh it to be otherwiſe, yet I cannot tell what [67] right any of us have to paſs a ſevere ſent⯑ence upon it, for no other reaſon in the world, but becauſe our own failings are of a different complexion. And ſo much for all that.

I am preparing to prance it for a week or ten days at Scarborough. If you paſs your autumn at Mulgrave-Hall, take that place in your way, and I will accompany you on your viſit, and then to Crazy Caſtle, and ſo home: and then to London—and then God knows where—but it ſhall be where it pleaſes him: this is clerically ſaid, however, and it would be well for the beſt of us, if it were thought and conſidered as often as it was ſaid. But ſo it is, that the lips and the heart, which ought never to be aſunder, are ſometimes wandering at different corners of the earth. Mine how⯑ever [68] are in the cloſeſt conjunction, when I offer you my moſt affectionate regard. So good night, and may the viſions of a good ſpirit attend you.

LETTTER XIII. To — —, Eſq.

I SHALL not reply, my dear friend, to all the kind things you think and ſay of me.—I truſt, indeed, that I deſerve ſome of them; and I am well pleaſed to find that you think I deſerve them all.—But however that may be, I deſire you to cheriſh thoſe benevolent ſentiments which you have ſo warmly expreſſed in the paper before me, both for your own ſake, and that of the perſon who is the ſubject of them.

[70] Your commands, in general, ſhould be obeyed without reflection—but in this par⯑ticular inſtance, a rare gleam of prudence has ſhot acroſs me, and, I beg leave to reflect for a few moments on the ſubject—and were I to take wiſdom upon me, and reflect for a few days—the reſult, I am ſure, would be, that I ſhould not obey your commands at all.

The giving advice, my good friend, is the moſt thankleſs generoſity in the world—becauſe in the firſt place, it coſts you nothing; and, in the next, it is juſt ſuch a thing as the perſon to whom you preſent it will think that he does not want. This, you ſee, is my way of reaſoning; but I believe, from my heart, that it will apply too well to the ſubject between us.

[71] There are ſuch things in the world as wrong heads and right hearts—and wrong hearts and right heads.—Now, for my⯑ſelf, and ſpeaking under the influence of my own particular feelings, I would ra⯑ther be of the right heart family, with all their blunders, errors and confuſions; but if I want a buſineſs to be done, or a plan to be executed, give me the right head:—if there is a right heart into the bargain, ſo much the better: but it is upon the former that I muſt rely—and whether the latter be right or wrong, is not a matter of abſolute conſideration. This is not, my dear friend, quite ortho⯑dox, according to your ſyſtem, but as you proceed, every day will tend to encreaſe the propinquity of this opinion to your own.

[72] Now, I am rather diſpoſed to think, without leaning to the uncharitable ſide of the queſtion, that poor—is of the Wrong-head family.—I know his heart—and I am ſure his preſent ſcrape ariſes from the good diſpoſitions of it. Nevertheleſs, though I think myſelf a dab at giving good counſel in ſuch caſes as his, I cannot bring myſelf to preſcribe on the occaſion—It is impoſſible to do it, with⯑out informing him of the nature of his diſ⯑eaſe, which is neither more nor leſs than abſolute wrong-headedneſs; and, were I to do it, he would exhibit another ſymp⯑tom of his diſorder, by throwing my pre⯑ſcription out of the window, and perhaps threatening the ſame miſchief to the phy⯑ſician himſelf.

If you have influence ſufficient to in⯑duce him to apply to me, I will moſt [73] readily exert my beſt for him; and I can then do the bitter buſineſs, and give the the unpalatable doſe with a good grace. Here then we will, if you pleaſe, let the matter reſt for the preſent.

I write in haſte, and on my pillow, that you may, as ſoon as poſſible, be acquaint⯑ed with my ſentiments in a matter wherein you have a greater dependence upon me than I fear the event will juſtify.—So good morning, and God bleſs you.—

I received a letter, yeſterday, from poor dear Lydia.—It is an amiable mad⯑cap—and God bleſs her alſo.—Once more adieu.

LETTER XIV.

YOU refine too much, my dear friend,—you do indeed.—Your rea⯑ſoning is ingenious, and produces a neat, pretty, plauſible train of argument, that would make a figure in a company of fe⯑male philoſophers; but if committed to paper, would be pardonable only when written on the fan of ſome pedantic Dulcinea. You run into diviſions, when a ſimple modulation would anſwer better; that is, would produce more pleaſing effects both in yourſelf, and the ſentimental ſpirit whom you might wiſh to pleaſe.

[75] Opinion, my dear fellow, ſomehow or other, rules all mankind; and not like a kind maſter, or, which would be more congenial, a gentle miſtreſs, but like a tyrant, whoſe wiſh is power, and whoſe gratification is ſervility.—Opinion leads us by the ears, the eyes,—and, I had al⯑moſt ſaid, by the noſe. It warps our un⯑underſtandings, confounds our judgments, diſſipates experience and turns our paſſions to its purpoſe. In ſhort, it becomes the governeſs of our lives, and uſurps the place of reaſon, which it has kicked out of office.—This is among the ſtrange truths which cannot be explained but by that mortifying deſcription which time will diſplay to your experience hereafter, with ten times the credit that would accom⯑pany any preſent endeavours of mine to the ſame purpoſe.

[76] If you would know more of the matter and can bring yourſelf to riſque the opin⯑ion, which, by the bye, I do not adviſe you to do, aſk A— why he ſubmits, with ſuch a placid ſubſervience, to the little wench who lives with him? You know—and all his friends know—that he has but half, nay not half the enjoyments of life, through the fear of her vengeance, whatever it may be. He has fortune, underſtanding, and courage:—he loves ſociety, and adds greatly to the pleaſures of it,—and yet, how often does he leave it half-enjoyed! Nay, to come more home to the buſineſs, how often has he left our pleaſant claſſical meetings, before they have ariſen to their uſual glow, in or⯑der to humour this little piece of diſgrace, whom he has not the reſolution to ſend back to the banks of the Wye, where the fifty [77] pounds a year he might give her, would make her queen of the village!—We pit⯑ty poor A—, we argue with him, we wonder at him—do we not?—But in this we deceive ourſelves,—for the wiſeſt and beſt of us are governed by ſome little dirty drab of an opinion, whoſe governance is equally diſgraceful, and may be much more injurious—as it will, perhaps, give a colour to the whole current of our lives. A miſtreſs, with all her arts and faſcina⯑tions, may, in time, be got rid of; but opinion, once rooted, becomes a part of ourſelves—it lives and dies with us.

It muſt be acknowledged, that I have been rather ſermonic this fine morning, but you know how and where to apply what has been written, and I leave the whole to your practice, if you think pro⯑per; [78] and if you do not—but what have I to do with ifs?—It is an exceptious mo⯑noſyllable, and I fling it from me.

B— is here, and tells me that he left you continually driving between London and Richmond—What beauty of the Hill has enchanted you there? Or what ſwan of the ſilver Thames are you dying for?—I take it very ill of you that you never favour me with a ſingle communication concerning your Dorothies or your Delias: I proteſt moſt ſeriouſly that I will never write to you again, till you give me an hiſtory of your chains; and who it is has bound you at preſent on the river's bank—tell me who the Naiad is.

Mr. F—, the Apoſtolic F—, as Lady — calls him, in his way to —, [79] hinted to me ſomething ſerious. He talked of a marriage,—to which I replied, God forbid!—But do not, I pray, be angry with my exclamation; for it was neither a thoughtleſs, or a peeviſh one, but an im⯑pulſe of that ſincere regard which you more than deſerve from me.—With your diſpoſitions, and in your ſituation, I hardly think there is a woman in the king⯑dom who would be an happy match for you: and if you think proper to aſk me, I will, hereafter, tell you why:—at pre⯑ſent I ſhall content myſelf with telling you that

LETTER XV.

I MEAN my dear friend, that this epiſtle ſhould meet you, and greet you, a day or two at leaſt before you leave town; and I wiſh it, from that ſpirit of miſerable ſelf-intereſt, which you know governs and directs me in all I do.—But, leſt you ſhould not like this reaſon, I will give you another, and which may be ncarer the truth; at leaſt I hope ſo.

I want very much to know whether [81] B— has arranged the matter with Foley the banker, at Paris, about Mrs. Sterne's remittance, as I ordered him. You muſt know that I ſuſpect he has been dilatory, not from diſhoneſty, for I believe him to be as honeſt a poor creature as was ever vam⯑ped into the form he wears: but, perhaps, his exchequer might not be in a convenient ſtate to anſwer my orders; and if ſo, I only beg to be informed of the truth; which, as he does not anſwer my letters, he appears to be afraid to tell.

I have received a letter from Toulouſe which does not comfort my ſpirits; and I have reaſon to apprehend from thence, that there is ſome neglect at the fountain head of my treaſury, which I muſt beg you to enquire into; and, if you ſee oc⯑caſion, to correct, in order that the little [82] rill of ways and means may not be inter⯑rupted between London and Languedoc—that is, between me and Mrs. Sterne, and my poor dear Lydia.

They write me word that they have drawn upon Foley, as I deſired, who tells them he has no effects to anſwer the bill; but that, if they are in diſtreſs, he will accommodate them for my ſake. This is very handſome dealing, and I am rather proud of it;—but, in the mean time, there is an uncertainty which is very unpleaſant—I mean to the poor women, who are at ſuch a diſtance, that a great deal of anxious ſuſpence muſt be ſuffered before the miſtake can be rectified.

Beſides,—, theſe things breed words, and queſtions, as well as ſuſpicions, and all [83] that.—My dear Lydia contents herſelf with a gentle complaint or ſo; but her mother does not heſitate to diſcharge a volume of reproaches. Now the truth is, that I de⯑ſerve neither the one nor the other,—and had managed the matter for the ſupply of their wants, and the ridding myſelf of all future anxiety in the buſineſs, in as plain a manner as my hand-writing and ſpirit of calculation could make it.—However, it has abated the ardour of my Knight Er⯑rantry for the preſent, and thrown more than a ſickly thought or two on my ima⯑gination.

I am prodigal of words, my dear friend, in a matter wherein a mere hint is all that would be neceſſary for you to exert your⯑ſelf. So do me the honour to ſee that it is abſolutely done without a moment's delay; [84] and if B— ſhould heſitate the tythe of an inſtant,—do that for me, my friend, which I would do for you on a ſimilar oc⯑caſion.—So God bleſs you.—My heart will not ſuffer me to offer you an apology, becauſe I know it will be ungracious to your's.—Once more farewell!

LETTER XVI To — —, Eſq.

I HAVE received the Letter which you informed me I ſhould receive from Doctor L—, and return you both my beſt thanks for it.—He is certainly a man of Learning and an excellent Critic, and would do well to employ his leiſure hours on Virgil; or rather, if I underſtand him well, on Horace; and he would give us ſuch a Commentary on both thoſe Authors as we have not, and perhaps, may never have, if he does not ſet about it.

[86] But Triſtram Shandy, my friend, was made and formed to baffle all criticiſm:—and I will venture to reſt the book on this ground,—that it is either above the power or beneath the attention of any critic or hypercritic whatſoever.—I did not faſh⯑ion it according to any rule.—I left my fancy, or my Genius, or my feelings,—call it what you may,—to its own free courſe, without a ſingle intruding reflecti⯑on, that there ever had been ſuch a man as Ariſtotle in the world.

When I mounted my Hobby Horſe, I never thought, or pretended to think, where I was going, or whether I ſhould return home to dinner or ſupper, the next day, or the next week:—I let him take his own courſe; and amble, or curvet, or trot, or go a ſober, ſorrowful Lackadayſical pace [87] as it pleaſed him beſt.—It was all one to me, for my temper was ever in uniſon with his manner of courſing it,—be it what it might. I never pricked him with a ſpur, or ſtruck him with a whip; but let the rein lay looſely on his neck, and he was wont to take his way without doing injury to any one.

Some would laugh at us as we paſſed along,—and ſome ſeemed to pity us—and now and then a melancholy tender hearted paſſenger would look at us and heave a ſigh.—Thus have we travelled together—but my poor Roſinante did not, like Bala⯑am's Aſs, ſtand ſtill if he ſaw an Angel in the way, but directly puſhed up to her;—and if it were but a damſel, ſitting by a fountain, who would let me take a refreſh⯑ing draught from her cup, ſhe was, ſurely an Angel to me.

[88] The grand Error of Life is, that we look too far:—We ſcale the Heavens,—we dig down to the centre of the Earth, for Syſtems,—and we forget ourſelves.—Truth lies before us; it is in the high way path; and the Ploughman treads on it with his clouted Shoon.

Nature defies the rule and the Line;—Art raiſes its ſtructures, and forms its works on their aid:—but Nature has her own Laws, which Art cannot always com⯑prehend, and Criticiſm can never reach.

Doctor L— acknowledges, how⯑ever, that my Sermon on Conſcience is a moſt admirable compoſition; but is of opinion that it is degraded by being made a part of Triſtram Shandy—Now, if you pleaſe; be ſo good as to note my anſwer:—If this [89] ſermon is ſo excellent, and I myſelf believe it to be ſo,—becauſe Judge Burnet, who was a man of taſte and erudition, as well as Law, deſired me to print it;—I ſay, if it be a good Sermon, it ought to be read; and ſince it appeared in the pages of Triſt⯑ram Shandy, it has been read by thouſands; whereas the fact is, that when it was pub⯑liſhed by itſelf, it was read by no one.

I have anſwered Doctor L— with all the reſpect which his amiable Character and admirable Talents deſerve; but I have told him, at the ſame time, that my book was not written to be tried by any known Laws of Scholaſtic Criticiſm; and that if I thought any thing I might hereafter write would be within their reach, I would throw the Manuſcript that is now before me into the fire, and never dip my pen into [90] my Ink-ſtand again, but for the purpoſe of aſſuring ſome uncritical, and uncriticiſing friend, like yourſelf, of my ſincere and cordial regard.—At this moment I make that offering to you,—So God be with you.

I begin to peep out of my hermitage a little; for Lord and Lady Fauconberg are come down, and bring with them, as uſual, a large ſtore of amiable, eaſy, and hoſpitable virtues.—I wiſh you were here to partake of, and add to them.

LETTER XVII. To — — Eſq.

YOU have hit my fancy moſt won⯑derfully, in the account you have given me of Lady —; the Juno cha⯑racter not only prevails, but abſolutely predominates. The Minerva qualities are all ſecondary,—and as to any Cyprian diſ⯑poſitions, I know nothing about them.

She certainly poſſeſſes a very good underſtanding, and is not without attain⯑ments; but both the one and the other [92] derive all their conſequence from her man⯑ners.—She has ſomewhat of an imperious diſpoſition, which would be either ſilent⯑ly deſpiſed by ſome, or violently oppoſed by others, if ſhe did not give a grace to it that annihilates any unpleaſant ſenſation that might attempt to riſe in the breaſt of a by-ſtander, or which is better, by⯑ſitter: but this is not all, for it calls forth alſo, that kind of reſpectful ſubmiſſion, which does not leſſen us in our own opini⯑on for having practiſed it.

I never, in my life, felt the merit of exterior decoration ſo much as in my con⯑verſations and communications with this Lady; and I really do not know any po⯑ſition, in the preſent ſchool of faſhion, where a young man might learn ſo much as in her drawing room, or without mean⯑ing [93] any miſchievous equivoque, her dreſſ⯑ing room.—It is really no common ſatiſ⯑faction to me to reflect that my young friend is an Eléve of ſuch an inſtructreſs.

There is a time and circumſtance of life, and that period and circumſtance are now yours, when nothing but the eaſy, ſociety, and little tender friendſhips of an accompliſhed woman are wanting to ren⯑der a character complete:—and without ſaying a word more than I think on the buſineſs,—I cannot but expreſs my ſatiſ⯑faction that you are in ſuch hands as will probably produce the very effects which ſo ſincere a friend as myſelf can wiſh and deſire.

It has ever been a maxim with me, ſince I knew any thing of the world, that [94] we are all of us as much in want of a Schoolmiſtreſs at the finiſh, as we do at the commencement of our education. And as you are ſo fortunate as to have Lady — to teach you the Horn-book of high life, you will bid fair to ſpell it and put it to⯑gether, ſo as to become the charm of all ſociety:—and you will loſe, what I ſo much wiſh you to loſe, the attention to one, and the neglect of the many; which though there may be ſomething amiable in the principle, is not adapted to the general intercourſe of life.

Lady M— F— might forward buſi⯑neſs, and Lady C— I am ſure is ready to do it—ſo that in ſuch a ſoil, in ſuch a ſeaſon, and with ſuch cultivations, what has not partial friendſhip a right to expect. And now what can I do better than leave you [95] in ſuch good and excellent company, and deſire you, in return to preſent my reſpect⯑ful compliments to them all,—and to receive yourſelf the moſt cordial regard of

LETTER XVIII. To — —

I UNDERSTAND, from Mr. Phipps, ^* that you are abſolutely engaged to paſs the Summer, or rather the Autumn, with him at Mulgrave-Hall; ſo that I now conſider a previous viſit to me as a matter on which I may depend, and to which believe me, I look with real ſatisfaction. We will while away a month or ſix weeks at my vicarage in a manner which, I truſt, will not be unpleaſing or unprofitable to you.

[97] However, in ſaying this, or rather writ⯑ing it, I addreſs myſelf to the excellence of your heart, which I cannot enough ad⯑mire, and that cultivated underſtanding of which I have the greateſt hopes.—I know the pleaſures you will quit, and the ſocie⯑ties you muſt ſacrifice, to come and paſs any part of the Summer with me; but, at the ſame time, I do not doubt of your viſit,—and that a Shande an Tête á Tête has its charms for you

I remember a circumſtance, which I ſhall never think of without the utmoſt pride in my own heart, and the moſt ſincere affection for yours;—but, beſides that it flattered me in the higheſt degree, it proved that you poſſeſſed a ſource of ſentiment which, whatever may befall you in life, muſt preſerve you in honour and happineſs:—with [98] ſuch a delicious quality, misfortune will never be able to bear you down; nor will folly, paſſion, or even vice, though they may for a time obſcure or leſſen the excellence of your character, poſſeſs the power of deſtroying it.—I allude to a little delicate touch of ſentiment that eſcaped you laſt winter,—which though I have mentioned it with every poſſible eulogium to others, again and again, I have never before hint⯑ed it even to you; the moment, however, is now come, when my ſpirit urges me to ſpeak of it; and I do it with thoſe diſpo⯑ſitions which are congenial to the ſubject, and, I truſt, natural to myſelf.

You cannot abſolutely have forgotten an evening viſit which you paid me laſt January, in Bond Street, when I was ill in bed;—nor ought it to eſcape your occaſi⯑onal [99] reflection that you ſat by my bed-ſide the whole night, performing every act of the moſt friendly and pious attention.—I then thought that the ſcare-crow death was at my heels;—nay, I thought the villain had got me by the throat,—and I told you as much.—However, it pleaſed Heaven, that I ſhould not be ſnatched from the world at that moment; though I ſpoke my own honeſt opinion when I va⯑ticinated my deſtiny by expreſſing little hopes of getting to the winter's end—I believe, my dear friend, ſaid I, that I ſhall ſoon be off.—I hope not, you replied, with a ſqueeze of my hand and a ſigh of your heart, which went to the very bottom of mine:—but,—you were pleaſed to add leſt that ſhould be the caſe, I hope you will do me the favour to let me be always with you, that I may have every atom of [100] advantage and comfort your ſociety may afford me, while Heaven permits it to laſt.—

I ſpoke no reply, for I could not,—but my heart made one then, and will continue to do ſo,—till it is become a clod of the Valley.

Hence it is, that I do not doubt but you will quit the ring of pleaſure without re⯑gret, to come and ſit with me beneath my Honey-Suckle, which is now flaunting like a Ranelagh beauty, and accompany me in paying my nuns their penſive evening viſit.—We can go to veſpers with them, and return home to our curds and cream with more delicious ſentiments than all the pleaſures of the world, and the [101] beauties thereof, in their vaineſt moments, can truly afford.

I am buſy about another couple of vo⯑lumes to amuſe, and, as I hope, to inſtruct a gouty and a ſplenetic world;—in which, I ſolemnly declare, I have no Ambition to remain, but for the love I bear to ſuch friends as you; and, perhaps, the vanity, which I am vain enough not to call an idle one, of adding a few more leaves to the wreath which I have been able to weave for my own little glory.

Come, then, and let me read the pages to you as they fall from my pen; and be a Mentor to Triſtram, as you have been to Yorick.—At all events,—I am ſure you cannot come to York without coming to me; and I ſhall triumph completely over [102] Lady Lepel, &c. if I draw you for a month from the bright centre to which you are ſo naturally attracted. So God bleſs you,—and believe me, with all ſincerity, to be

LETTER XIX. To — —

I SAW the charming Mrs. Veſey but for a moment, and ſhe contrived with her voice and her thouſand other graces to dis—order me; and what ſhe will have to anſwer for on the occaſion, I ſhall not employ my caſuiſtry to determine;—nor ſhall I aſk my good friend the Archbiſhop, from whoſe houſe, and amidſt whoſe kind⯑neſs and hoſpitality I addreſs this to you.

I envy, however, your ſaunter together round an empty Ranelagh, though I ſhould [104] have liked it the better, becauſe it was empty, and would give the imagination and every delicious feeling, opportunity to make one forget there was another being in the room—but ourſelves.

You will, I am ſure, more than under⯑ſtand me when I mention that ſenſe of fe⯑male perfection,—I mean, however, when the female is ſitting or walking beſide you,—which ſo poſſeſſes the mind that the whole Globe ſeems to be occupied by none but two.—When your hearts, in perfect uniſon, or, I ſhould rather ſay, harmony with each other, produce the ſame chords,—and bloſſom with the ſame flowers of thought and ſentiment.

Theſe hours,—which virtuous, tender minds have the power of ſeparating from [105] the melancholy ſeaſons of life,—make ample amends for the weight of cares and diſappointments, which the happieſt of us are doomed to bear.—They caſt the brighteſt ſunſhine on the dreary land⯑ſcape,—and form a kind of refuge from the ſtormy wind and tempeſt.

With ſuch a companion, is not the primroſe bank and the cottage, which humble virtue has raiſed on its ſide, ſupe⯑rior to all that ſplendour and wealth has formed in the palaces of monarchs—The ſcented heath is then the Perfumed Araby, and, though the Nightingale ſhould refuſe to lodge among the branches of the poor ſolitary tree that overſhadows us,—if my fair minſtrel did but pour forth the melting ſtrain, I would not look to the muſick of the ſpheres for raviſhment.

[106] There is ſomething, my dear friend, moſt wonderfully pleaſant in the idea of getting away from the world;—and though I have ever found it a great comfort, yet I have been more vain of the buſineſs, when I have done it in the midſt of the world.—But this aberration from the crowd, while you are ſurrounded and preſſed by it, is only to be accompliſhed by the magic of female perfection.—Friendſhip, with all its powers,—mere friendſhip, can⯑not do it.—A more refined ſentiment muſt employ its influence to wrap the heart in this delicious oblivion.—It is too pleaſing to laſt long,—for envious, ſleepleſs care is ever on the watch to awake us from the bewitching trance.

You, my friend, poſſeſs ſomething of the reality of it: and I, while I enjoy your [107] happineſs, apply to fancy for the purpoſe of creating a copy of it.—So I ſit my⯑ſelf down upon the turf, and place a lovely fair one by my ſide,—as lovely, if poſſible, as Mrs. V—, and having plucked a ſprig of bloſſoms from the May⯑buſh, I place it in her boſom, and then addreſs ſome tender tale to her heart,—and if ſhe weeps at my ſtory, I take the white handkerchief ſhe holds in her hand and wipe the tears from off her cheek: and then I dry my own with it:—and thus the delightful viſion gives wing to a lazy hour, calms my ſpirits, and compoſes me for my pillow.

To wiſh that care may never plant a thorn upon yours, would be an idle em⯑ployment of votive regard;—but that you may preſerve the virtue which will blunt [108] their points, and continue to poſſeſs the feelings which will, ſometimes, pluck them away, is a wiſh not unworthy of that friendſhip, with which

P.S. Lydia writes me word ſhe has got a lover.—Poor dear Girl!—

LETTER XX. To — —.

DO not imagine, my dear Boy—and do not ſuffer, I beſeech you any pedantic, cold-hearted fellow to per⯑ſuade you—that ſenſibility is an evil. You may take my word on this ſubject, as you have been pleaſed to do on many others—that ſenſibility is one of the firſt bleſſings of life—as well as the brighteſt ornament of the human character.

You do not explain matters to me, which, by the bye, is not fair; but I ſup⯑poſe, [110] from the tenor of your letter, which is now beſide me, that you have been made a dupe of by ſome artful perſon—who, I am diſpoſed to think, is ſome cunning bag⯑gage—and that, under the impreſſions of this game that has been played you, your vanity is alarmed, and your underſtanding piqued; and then, you lay all this dire grievance, in a very pettiſh manner, let me tell you, at the door of your ſenſibili⯑ty. And, which is worſe than all the reſt, you write to me as if you really believed yourſelf to be in earneſt, in all the ſee-ſaw obſervations you have written to me on the ſubject.

Be aſſured, my dear friend, if I thought the ſentiments of your laſt letter were not the ſentiments of a ſickly moment—if I could be made to believe, for an inſtant, [111] that they proceeded from you, in a ſober, reflecting condition of your mind—I ſhould give you over as incurable, and baniſh all my hopes of your riſing into that proud honour, and brilliant reputation, which, I truſt, you will one day poſſeſs.

I was almoſt going to write—and where⯑fore ſhould I not—that there is an amiable kind of cullibility, which is as ſuperior to the ſlow precaution of worldly wiſdom, as the ſound of Abel's Viol di Gamba, to the bray⯑ing of an aſs on the other ſide of my pa⯑ling.

If I ſhould, at any time, hear a man pique himſelf upon never having been a dupe—I ſhould grievouſly ſuſpect that ſuch an one will, ſome time or other, give [112] cauſe to be thought, at beſt, a mean-ſpi⯑rited, dirty raſcal.

You may think this a ſtrange doctrine—but, be that as it may—I am not aſhamed to adopt it.—What would you ſay of any character, who had neither humanity, ge⯑neroſity, nor confidence?—Why you would ſay—I know you would—ſuch a man‘Is fit for treaſons, ſtratagems, and ſpoils—’ And yet impoſition—dupery—deception—call it by what name you will—attends up⯑on theſe virtues like their ſhadow. For virtue, my dear friend, like every other poſſeſſion in this world, though it is the moſt valuable of all—is of a mixed nature; and the very inconveniences of it, if they deſerve that name, form the baſis on which its importance and natural excellence is eſtabliſhed.

[113] Senſibility is oftentimes betrayed into a fooliſh thing;—but its folly is amiable, and ſome one or other is the better for it. I am not for its exceſſes—or a blind ſub⯑miſſion to its impulſe, which produces them;—yet, ſome how or other, I ſhould be ſtrongly diſpoſed to hug the being, who would take the rag off his back—to place it on the ſhivering wretch who had nought to cover him.

Diſcretion is a cold quality—but I have no objection to the poſſeſſing as much of it—as will direct your finer feelings to their proper objects;—but here let its of⯑fice finiſh; if it proceeds a ſtep further there may be miſchief;—it may cool that currrent which is the life-blood of all vir⯑tue, and will, I truſt, warm your heart, till it is become a clod of the valley.

[114] Senſibility is the ſource of thoſe delicious feelings which give a brighter colour to our joys, and turn our tears to rapture.—Though it may, now and then, lead us into a ſerape, as we paſs through life—you may be aſſured, my dear friend, it will get us out of them all, at the end of it;—and that is a matter which wiſer men than myſelf will tell you is well worth thinking about.

So leaving you to your contemplations—and wiſhing them, and every thing you do, an happy iſſue—I remain, with great truth,

LETTER XXI. To — —.

So, my dear friend, you are pleaſed to be very angry with the Reviewers;—ſo am not I.—but as your diſpleaſure proceeds from your regard for me,—I thank you, as I ought to do,—again and again.

I really do not know to whom I am perſonally indebted for ſo much obliging illiberality.—Nor can I tell whether it is the ſociety at large, or a ſplenetic Indivi⯑dual, to whom I am to acknowledge my obligation.—I have never enquired who it [116] is or who they are:—and if I knew him or them,—what would it ſignify?—and where⯑fore ſhould I give their names immortali⯑ty in my writings, which they will never find in their own.—Let the Aſſes bray as they like;—I ſhall treat their wor⯑ſhips as they deſerve, in my own way and manner,—and in a way and manner that they will like leſs than any other.

There is a certain race of people, who are ever aiming to treat their betters in ſome ſcurvy way or other—but it has ever been a practice with me, not to mind a little dirt thrown upon my coat,—ſo that I keep my lining unrumpled.—And ſo much for that envy, ignorance and ill-na⯑ture, for which, what I have written, is far too much.

[117] I am rejoiced, however, for twenty good reaſons, which I will tell you hereafter, that London lies in your way between Ox⯑forſhire and Suffolk, and one of them I will tell you now—which is, that you can be of very great ſervice to me; ſo I would deſire you to prepare yourſelf to do me a kindneſs; if I did not know that you are always in ſuch a ſtate of preparation.

The town is ſo empty, that though I have been in it, full four and twenty hours, I have ſeen only three people I know—Foote on the ſtage—Sir Charles Davers at St. James's Coffee-houſe, and Williams, who was an haſty bird of paſſage, on his flight to Brigthelmſtone, where I am told he is making love in right earneſt, to a very fine woman, and with all the ſuc⯑ceſs his friends can wiſh him. Our races at York were every thing we could de⯑ſire [118] them to be in the ball-room, and every thing we did not deſire them to be on the ground. The rain ſaid nay, with a ven⯑geance, to the ſports of the courſe, for all the water-ſpouts of the heavens ſeemed to be let looſe upon it. However in the amuſe⯑ments under cover, we were all as merry as heart could wiſh. I had promiſed a cer⯑tain perſon that you ſhould be there, and was obliged to parry a ſcore or two of re⯑proaches on your account.

But though I forgot to tell it you before, I am by no means well, and if I do not get away from this climate before winter ſets in, I ſhall never ſee another ſpring in this world; and it is to forward my journey to the South, that I requeſt you to make haſte to me from the Weſt.

[119] Alas, alas, my friend! I begin to feel that I loſe ſtrength in theſe annual ſtrug⯑gles and encounters with that miſerable ſcare-crow, who knows as well as I do, that, do what I can he will finally get the better of me, and all of us. Indeed, he has already beat the vizard from my hel⯑met, and the point of my ſpear is not as it was wont to be. But while it pleaſes hea⯑ven to grant me life, it will, I truſt, grant me ſpirits to bear up againſt the ſawey cir⯑cumſtances of it, and preſerve to my laſt ſeparating ſigh, that ſenſibility to whatever is kind and gracious, which, when once it poſſeſſes the heart, makes, I truſt, ample amends for a large portion of human er⯑ror.

You may, indeed, believe, that while I am ſenſible of any thing, I ſhall be ſenſible [120] of your friendſhip; and I have every reaſon to think, that ſhould my term be drawing nigh to its period, you will continue to love me while I live, and when I am no more, to cheriſh the memory of

LETTER XXII. To — —

IF you wiſh to have the repreſentation of my ſpare, meagre-form—which, by the bye, is not worth the canvas it muſt be painted on—you ſhall be moſt welcome to it; and I am happy in the reflection, that when my bones ſhall be laid low, there may be any reſemblance of me, which may re⯑call my image to your friendly and ſympa⯑thizing recollection.

[122] But you muſt mention the buſineſs to Reynolds yourſelf; for I will tell you why I cannot. He has already painted a very excellent portrait of me, which, when I went to pay him for, he deſired me to ac⯑cept, as a tribute, to uſe his own elegant and flattering expreſſion, that his heart wiſhed to pay to my genius. That man's way of thinking and manners, are at leaſt equal to his pencil.

You ſee therefore the delicacy of my ſituation, as well as the neceſſity, if the genius of Reynolds is to be employed in the buſineſs, of your taking it entirely up⯑on yourſelf. Or if your friendly impati⯑ence which you expreſs with ſo much kindneſs, will let you wait till we make our tour to Bath, your favorite Gainſho⯑rough may do the deed.

[123] Or why not your little friend Coſway, who is riſing faſt into fame and fortune. But be it as you pleaſe, and arrange it ac⯑cording to your own fancy.

At all events, I ſhall treat myſelf when I get to Rome with my own buſto, if Nollikens does not make a demand for it that may be inconſiſtent with my Exche⯑quer. The ſtatuary decorations of my grandfather the Archbiſhop's monument, in the Cathedral at York, which you admire ſo much, have given birth, I believe, to this whim of mine; and this piece of mar⯑ble, which my vanity—for let it be vanity if you pleaſe—deſtines for myſelf, may be placed by the hand of friendſhip, and by yours perhaps, near my grave—and ſo much for that.

[124] But I was born for digreſſions, and I, therefore, tell you at once, not raſhly, or prematurely, but with all due ſobriety and reflection, that Lord — is of a low, baſe, pimping nature. If he had been nothing but a fool, I ſhould have ſaid—Have mer⯑cy upon him: but he has juſt underſtand⯑ing ſufficient to make him anſwerable for what he does, and not ſufficient to perceive the ſuperiority of what is great over what is little.—If ever that man riſes into a good or a noble action, I would be bound to be conſidered as a retailer of ſcandal, and an ill-natured man, as long as I live, and as long as my memory lives; but no more of him I beſeech you—and the hour tells me to write no more of any thing, for I muſt haſten where I ought to have been half an [125] hour ago—ſo God bleſs you, and believe me, where ever I am, to be

LETTER XXIII. To — —

THE ſtory, my dear friend, which you heard related, with ſuch an air of autho⯑rity, is like many other true ſtories, abſo⯑lutely falſe. Mr. Hume and I never had a diſpute—I mean a ſerious, angry or petulant diſpute, in our lives:—indeed I ſhould be moſt exceedingly ſurprized to hear that Da⯑vid ever had an unpleaſant contention with any man;—and if I ſhould be made to be⯑lieve that ſuch an event had happened, no⯑thing [127] would perſuade me that his oppo⯑nent was not in the wrong: for, in my life, did I never meet with a being of a more placid and gentle nature; and it is this a⯑miable turn of his character, that has giv⯑en more conſequence and force to his ſcep⯑ticiſm, than all the arguments of his ſo⯑phiſtry.—You may depend on this as a truth.

We had, I remember well, a little plea⯑ſant ſparring at Lord Hertford's table at Paris; but there was nothing in it that did not bear the marks of good-will and urba⯑nity on both ſides.—I had preached that very day at the Ambaſſador's Chapel, and David was diſpoſed to make a little merry with the Parſon; and, in return, the Par⯑ſon was equally diſpoſed to make a little [128] mirth with the Infidel; we laughed at one another, and the company laughed with us both—and, whatever your informer might pretend, he certainly was not one of that company.

As for his other hiſtory, that I preached an offenſive ſermon at the Ambaſſador's Chapel—it is equally founded in truth; for Lord Hertford did me the honour to thank me for it again and again. The text, I will own, was an unlucky one, and that was all your informer could have heard to have juſtified his report.—If he fell aſleep immediately after I repeated it—I will forgive him.

The fact was as follows:

[129] Lord Hertford had juſt taken and fur⯑niſhed a magnificent Hotel; and as every thing, and any thing gives the faſhion of the moment at Paris, it had been the faſh⯑ion for every one to go to ſee the Engliſh Ambaſſador's new hotel.—It occupied the curioſity, formed the amuſement, and gave a ſubject of converſation to the polite cir⯑cles of Paris, for a fortnight at leaſt.

Now it fell to my lot, that is to ſay, I was requeſted to preach, the firſt day ſer⯑vice was performed in the chapel of this new hotel.—The meſſage was brought me when I was playing a ſober game of Whiſt with the Thornhills, and whether it was that I was called rather abruptly from my after⯑noon's amuſement to prepare myſelf for this buſineſs, for it was to be on the next day; [130] or from what other cauſe I do not pretend to determine, but that unlucky kind of fit ſeized me, which you know I can never re⯑ſiſt, and a very unlucky text did come into my head,—and you will ſay ſo when you read it. "And Hezekiah ſaid unto the Prophet, I have ſhewn them my veſſels of gold, and my veſſels of ſilver, and my wives and my concubines, and my boxes of ointment, and whatever I have in my houſe, have I ſhewn unto them: and the Prophet ſaid unto Hezekiah, thou haſt done very fooliſhly."

Now, as the text is a part of Holy writ, that could not give offence; though wick⯑ed wits are ſometimes diſpoſed to ill-treat [131] it with their own ſcurvy miſrepreſenta⯑tions.—And as to the diſcourſe itſelf, no⯑thing could be more innocent, and David Hume favoured it with his grace and ap⯑probation.

But here I am got, I know not how, writing about myſelf for whole pages toge⯑ther—whereas the only part of my letters that can juſtify my being an egotiſt, is, when I aſſure any gentle ſpirit, or faith⯑ful friend, as I now do you, that I am her, or his, or your

LETTER XXIV. To — —.

BELIEVE me, my dear friend, I have no great faith in Doctors. Some eminent ones of the faculty aſſured me, ma⯑ny years ago, that if I continued to do as I was then doing, I ſhould not live three months. Now the fact is, that I have been doing exactly what they told me I ought not to do, for thirteen years together—and here I am, as thin, it is true, but as ſau⯑cy [133] as ever; and it will not be my fault, if I do not continue to give them the lie for another period of equal duration.

It is Lord Bacon, I think, who obſerves,—at leaſt be it who it may that made the obſervation, it is not unworthy the great man whoſe name I have juſt written—That Phyſicians are old women, who ſit by your bed-ſide till they kill you, or Nature cures you.

There is an uncertainty in the buſineſs that often baffles experience, and renders genius abortive—Tho' I mean not, believe me, to be ſevere on a ſcience which is ſome⯑times made the means of doing good. Nay, the ſcience itſelf conſidered, naturally and phyſically, is the eye of all the reſt. But [134] I do not always hold my peace when I re⯑flect on thoſe ſelf-conceited, upſtart pro⯑feſſors of it, who fly and bounce, and give themſelves airs, if you do not read the directions upon the label of a phial, which contains the matter of their preſcriptions, with as much reverence, as if it had been penned by St. Luke himſelf.

Goddeſs of Health—let me drink thy healing and ſuſtaining beverage at the pure fountain which flows at thy command! Give me to breathe the balmy air, and to feel the enlivening ſun—and ſo I will!—for if I do not ſee you in fifteen days, I will, on the ſixteenth, ſtep quickly into the Do⯑ver coach, and proceed without you to the banks of the Rhone, where you may fol⯑low me if you pleaſe—and if you do not, [135] the difference between us will be—that while you are paſſing your Chriſtmas-day in fencing againſt fogs, by warm cloaths and large fires, I ſhall be ſitting on the graſs, courting no warmth but the all⯑cheering one which proceeds from the grand luminary of nature.

So think on theſe things I beſeech you—and let me know about it, for I will not remain gaſping another month in Lon⯑don, even for your ſake,—or for your com⯑pany, which,—I might add, would be for my own ſake.

In the mean time, and at all times, may God bleſs you.

LETTER XXV. To — —.

I AM always getting into a ſcrape, not from a careleſneſs of offending, as ſome good-humoured people have ſuſpect⯑ed, for I do not wiſh to give offence, but from the want of being underſtood.—Pope has well expreſſed the hardſhip of being forced

[137] I think the quotation is correct.—Indeed, a man may proceed well enough without a ſecond. Genius is oftentimes ſo far from wanting ſuch an aſſiſtant, that it is fre⯑quently clogged by it;—but to be without a judge is a mortification which comes home with much ſeverity to the boſoms of thoſe who feel, or fancy, which is pretty near the ſame thing, that judgment—I mean impartial, adequate judgment, would be their reward.

To be eternally miſunderſtood, and which naturally follows, to be eternally miſrepreſented by ignorance, is far, far worſe than to be ſlandered by malice.—Calumny is more than oftentimes, for it is almoſt always the ſacrifice which vice pays to virtue, and folly offers up to wiſ⯑dom.—A wiſe man while he pities the ef⯑forts [138] of ſlander, will feel a kind of conſe⯑quence from the exertion of them;—like the philoſopher who is ſaid to have raiſed a monument to his own fame, with the ſtones, which the malignity of his compe⯑titors had thrown at him.

The divorce between virtue and repu⯑tation is too common to be wondered at—though it is too unjuſt not to be la⯑mented: but that being a circumſtance which connects itſelf with ſomething like the general order of Providence, we are able to conſole ourſelves under it, by hope and reſignation. But in the little, and comparatively ſpeaking, the petty bu⯑ſineſs of human fame—the mind may be juſtified in kicking at the perverſions to which its honeſt and beſt endeavours are ſo continually ſubject.

[139] I do moſt ſincerly aſſure you, that I have ſeldom been ſo proud of myſelf and the little diſplay of my talents,—whatever they may be—as I was in the very cir⯑cumſtance which has given ſo much un⯑eaſineſs. I intended no ſeverity—I was all complacency and good humour—my ſpirits were in uniſon with every generous and gracious thought,—and, ſo far was I from poſſeſſing the idea of giving offence—and to a Lady — that there never was a moment of my life, perhaps, when I was ſo diſpoſed to buckle on my armour, and mount my Roſinante, to go and fight the cauſe of injured or captive beauty.—But inſtead of all this, here am I conſidered as the very monſter whom I myſelf was ready to combat and to deſtroy.

[140] You will, therefore, be ſo good as to communicate theſe thoughts, in as much better a manner as you pleaſe, to Mrs. H—, and aſſure her, that ſhe has only done what ſo many have done before her—that is, ſhe has miſconceived, or, as that word may produce a miſconception—ſhe has miſunderſtood me.

So far I am moſt willing to travel in the high-way of apology; and, if ſhe is diſpoſed to ſmile, I will receive her re⯑turning favour, with all due acknow⯑ledgments; but if ſhe ſhould think it clever, or witty, or conſequential, to con⯑tinue to be offended—I will not fail to remember her in a poſtſcript to my chap⯑ter on the right and wrong end of a wo⯑man; [141] which, though my uncle Toby, from a certain combination of circum⯑ſtances could never be made to under⯑ſtand, I will explain to the world in ſuch a manner, that they who run may read.

I am not, however, unintelligible to all. There are ſome ſpirits who want no key either to my ſpeech or my wri⯑tings; and they—I mean the ſpirits—are of the firſt order. This is ſome comfort, and that comfort increaſes both in its weight and meaſure, on the re⯑flection that you are one of them.

But my paper and poſtman's bell both warn me to do—what I ought to have done at leaſt a page ago— [142] and that is to write adieu; ſo adieu, and God bleſs you.

LETTER XXVI. To — —

WERE I a Miniſter of State—inſtead of being a country-parſon;—or rather, though I do not know that it is the better thing of the two,—were I king of a country, not like Sancho-Pancha, without a will of my own, but with all the rights, privileges and immunities be⯑longing to ſuch a ſituation, I would not ſuffer a man of genius to be pulled to pie⯑ces, or pulled down, or even whiſtled at, by any man who had not ſome ſort of ge⯑nius [144] of his own.—That is to ſay, I would not ſuffer blockheads of any denomination to ſhew their heads in my territories.

What—will you ſay—is there no ſaving clauſe for the ignorant and the unlettered?—No ſpot ſet apart for thoſe on whom ſcience has not beamed; or the current of whoſe genius poverty has frozen?—My dear friend, you do not quite underſtand me,—and I beg of you not to ſuppoſe—that all men are blockheads who are not lear⯑ned—and that no man who is learned can be a blockhead.

My definitions are not borrowed from the common room of a College, or the dull muzzing pericranium of a word⯑mongering dictionary maker, but from [145] the book of Nature, the volume of the world, and the pandects of experience. There I find a blockhead to be a man, (for I am not at preſent in a humour to involve the poor women in the definition) who thinks he has what, in fact, he has not—and who does not know how to make a right uſe of that which he has.

It is the mode of applying means to ends that marks the character of ſuperior un⯑derſtanding.—The poor ſcare-crow of a beaſt that Yorick rode ſo long and to the laſt, being once ſet in the right road, will ſooner get to the end of his journey, than the fleeteſt race-horſe of Newmarket, who has taken an oppoſite direction.

Wiſdom very often cannot read or write, and Folly will often quote you paſſages [146] from all the dead, and half the living lan⯑guages. I beg therefore, you will not ſorm a bad,—that is to ſay a falſe idea of this kingdom of mine—for whenever I get it, you may be ſure of being well appointed, and living at your eaſe, as every one muſt do there, who lives to his honour.—But to the point.

To the point, did I ſay?—Alas! there is ſo much zig-zag in my deſtiny, that it is impoſſible for me to keep going on ſtrait through one poor letter—and that to a friend; but ſo it is—for here is a viſitor ar⯑rived to whom I cannot ſay nay—and who obliges me to write adieu, a page or two, or three, perhaps, before I intended to do it. I muſt therefore fold up my paper as it is—and ſhall only add, God bleſs you— [147] which, however, is the conſtant and ſin⯑cereſt wiſh of

LETTER XXVII. To — —.

I recommend it to you,—not, perhaps, above all things, but very aſſuredly above moſt things,—to ſtick to your own underſtanding a little more than you do; for, believe me, an ounce of it will an⯑ſwer your purpoſe better than a pound weight of other people's. There is a cer⯑tain timidity which renders early life ami⯑able, [149] as a matter of ſpeculation; but is very inconvenient indeed, not to ſay dan⯑gerous, according to the preſent humour of the world, in matters of practice.

There is a manly confidence, which, as it ſprings from a conſciouſneſs of poſſeſſing certain excellent qualities and valuable at⯑tainments, we cannot have too early; and there is no more impropriety in offering manifeſtations of it to the world, than the putting on your helmet in the day of bat⯑tle. We want it as a protection—I ſay as a protection, from the inſults and inju⯑ries of others; for, in your particular cir⯑cumſtances, I conſider it merely as a defen⯑ſive quality—to prevent you from being run down, or run over, by the firſt ignorant blockhead or inſolent coxcomb, who per⯑ceives [150] your modeſty to be a reſtraint on your ſpirit.

But this by the way.—The application of it is left to your own diſcernment and good ſenſe, of which I ſhall not write what I think, and what ſome others think, whoſe teſtimony will wear well.

I am ſo much better pleaſed ſince I ſet my foot on the Continent, that it would do you good to ſee—and more good ſtill to hear me; for I have recovered my voice in this genial climate; and ſo far am I now from finding a difficulty to make myſelf heard acroſs the table, that I am almoſt fit to preach in a cathedral.

Here they are all hey—go—mad.—The vintage has been abundant, and is now at [151] the cloſe. Every eye beams delight, and every voice is attuned to joy.—Though I am running away as faſt as I can well go, and am withal ſo preſſed by the raſcal, death! that I ought not in prudence to take time to look behind me; yet cannot I reſiſt the temptation of getting out of my chaiſe, and ſitting for a whole evening on a bank, to ſee thoſe happy people dance away the la⯑bours of the day: and thus they contrive, for two or three hours at leaſt out of the four and twenty, to forget, God bleſs 'em, that there are ſuch things as labour and care in the world.

This innocent oblivion of ſorrow is one of the happieſt arts of life; and philoſo⯑phy, in all its ſtorehouſe of human reme⯑dies, has nothing like unto it. Indeed, I [152] am perſuaded that mirth—a ſober, well re⯑gulated mirth—is perfectly acceptable to the kind Being that made us;—and that a man may laugh and ſing, and dance too—and, after all, go to Heaven.

I never could—and I never can—nay, I poſitively never will, believe that we were ſent into this world to go ſorrowing through it. On the contrary, every object around me—the rural dance, and the ruſtic min⯑ſtrelſy, that I behold and hear from my win⯑dow, tell me that man is framed for joy. Nor ſhall any crack-brained Carthuſian Monk,—or all the Carthuſian Monks in the world,—perſuade me to the contra⯑ry.

Swiſt ſays, vive la bagatelle. I ſay, vive la joie; which I am ſure is no bagatelle; but, [153] as I take it, a very ſerious thing, and the firſt of human poſſeſſions.

May your treaſury, my dear friend, continue to have good ſtore in it—and, like the widow's cruſe, may it fail not!

At Lyons I expect to find ſome tidings of you, and from thence I will diſpatch ſome further tidings of myſelf.—So in the mean time, and at all times, may God bleſs you.—Believe me,

LETTER XXVIII. To — —.

I have travelled hither moſt deliciouſly—though I have made my journey in a déſoblégeant, and of courſe, alone. But when the heart is at reſt, and the mind is in harmony with itſelf, and every ſubordinate feeling is well attuned, not an object of⯑fers itſelf to the attention but may be made to produce pleaſure—Beſides, ſuch is the character of this happy people, that you [155] ſee a ſmile on every countenance, and hear the notes of joy from every tongue.—There is an old woman, at this moment, playing on the viol before my window, and a groupe of young people are dancing to it, with more appearance, and, I believe, more reality of pleaſure, than all your brilliant aſſemblies at Almack's can boaſt.

I love my country as well as any of her children—and I know the ſolid, characte⯑riſtic virtues of its people;—but they do not play the game of happineſs with that attention or ſucceſs which is practiſed and obtained here.—I ſhall not enter into the phyſical or moral difference between the two nations—but I cannot, however, help obſerving that, while the French poſſeſs [156] a gaity of heart, that always weakens and ſometimes baffles ſorrow, the Engliſh ſtill anſwer the deſcription of the old French⯑man, and really continue to divert them⯑ſelves moult triſtement.

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 re⯑ſponſive to the ſound of a broken-winded hautboy.

[157] 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 all⯑providential care;—he even tempers the wind to the ſhorn lamb.

By ſuch reflections, and under ſuch in⯑fluences, I am perverted from my pur⯑poſe; for when I drew my chair to the ta⯑ble, [158] 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 ſym⯑pathetic 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 [159] eraſe the laſt dozen lines; as, the very mo⯑ment 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 pro⯑greſs 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,

LETTER XXIX. To — —

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 ſtu⯑pid wiſdom, as I have hitherto been ſaid to have done ſenſible nonſenſe, to my coun⯑try-men and country-women.

To tell you the truth—I began this let⯑ter yeſterday morning, and was interrupt⯑ed [161] in getting to the end of it, by half a do⯑zen 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 ſu⯑perior 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 be⯑come acquainted with you—not, believe me, from any repreſentations or biography of mine, but from the warm encomiums ſhe [162] 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 bar⯑gain—which, I believe, is the only way of doing you any good—this is the pre-emi⯑nent 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, [163] 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 fire⯑ſide, 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 [164] 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 pre⯑ſent [165] good intentions towards you;—future ones, it is true, I ſhall have in plenty—for, at all events, in all circumſtances, and every where,

LETTER XXX. To — —

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 [167] 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 re⯑poſe 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 [168] 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

LETTER XXXI. To — —

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 yeſter⯑day 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 [170] 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 diſ⯑tance of an hundred miles, at leaſt, that lay between us; but I promiſed and vowed,—for I was obliged to do both,—that the mo⯑ment I could lay hold of your arm, I would 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 at⯑tendant 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 can⯑not, [171] 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 com⯑forts us with the proſpect of an eternal re⯑union, and religion encourages the belief of it:—but, in the melancholy hiſtory which you relate, I behold what has always ap⯑peared 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 com⯑paſs to expect any good, is in a ſtate, over which the Angel of pity ſheds all his ſhow⯑ers—Unable to dig, and to beg aſhamed— [172] what a deſcription!—what an object for relief;—and how great the rapture to re⯑lieve 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 poſſi⯑ble, 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 Spi⯑rit that planted it will finally conduct you.

Robinſon called upon me yeſterday, to take me to dinner in Berkeley-ſquare;— [173] 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 threat⯑ened 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 be⯑ſeech 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 [174] me, was diſplayed in a manner, which en⯑hanced the value of the gift, and heighten⯑ed 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 com⯑municate 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,

LETTER XXXII. To — —

THERE is a certain pliability of the affections, my dear friend, which, with all its inconveniences,—and I will ac⯑knowledge a thouſand,—forms a wonder⯑ful charm in the human character.—To become a dupe to others, who are almoſt always worſe, and, very often, more ig⯑norant than yourſelf, is not only mortify⯑ing to one's pride, but frequently deſtruc⯑tive to one's fortune. Nevertheleſs, there [176] 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.

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 good⯑nature and mean ſelf-love, is of difficult attainment; though Mr. Pope ſays,— [177] that Lord Bathurſt poſſeſſed it in an emi⯑nent 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 poſ⯑ſeſſed 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 clergy⯑men do,—but no matter.

B— is exactly one of theſe harm⯑leſs, inoffenſive people, who never frets or fumes, but bears all his loſſes with a moſt Chriſtian patience, and ſettles the ac⯑count in this manner,—that he had rather loſe any thing than that benevolence of diſ⯑poſition, [178] 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 im⯑poſe 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 vil⯑lains.

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, confiden⯑tial, unſuſpicious ſpirit, which I have al⯑ready hinted to you, but an overweening, wicked, inſidious diſpoſition, which, by [179] 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 qualifi⯑cation; 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 [180] to ſuſpect the cauſe where it muſt be em⯑ployed; 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 misfor⯑tune.

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, [181] and bleſs you,—now, and at all times.—Amen.

LETTER XXXIII. To — —.

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.

[183] The very ſame ſpirit that has led thee from hence to the Briſtol Fountain, for no other earthly purpoſe, but to let a Phthyſi⯑cal maiden lean upon thine arm, and receive the healing waters from thine hand, would, in a former age, have urged thee to tra⯑verſe foreſts and fight with monſters, for the ſake of ſome Dulcinea whom thou hadſt never ſeen; or perhaps have made a red⯑croſs-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, back⯑biting, cheating, pimping world of ours, it will not do,—indeed, indeed it will not.—And full well do I know, nor does this [184] 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 ſtate⯑ly palfrey, with all its gay and gilded trap⯑pings 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 Ban⯑ditti of the world ſhould plunder thee,—I know full well that we ſhould ſee thee no more;—for thou wouldſt then find out ſome [185] diſtant cell, and become an Hermit; and endeavour to perſuade thyſelf, not to re⯑gret 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 re⯑gulation.

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.

[186] Anſwer me on theſe things, and may God bleſs you.—

LETTER XXXIV. To — —

THERE is a certain kind of offence which a man may,—nay, which he ought to forgive:—But ſuch is the jealous honour of the world, that there is a ſort of injury, commonly called an affront, which, if it proceeds from a certain line of cha⯑racter, muſt be revenged.—But let me en⯑treat thee to remember that hardneſs of heart is not worth thine anger, and would [188] diſgrace thy vengeance.—To turn upon a man who poſſeſſes it, would not, like Saint Paul, be kicking againſt the pricks,—but, which is far worſe, againſt a flint.—Thou didſt right, therefore my dear boy,—in letting the matter paſs as thou haſt done.

As far as my obſervation has reached, and the circle of it is by no means, a nar⯑row one—an hard heart is always a coward⯑ly heart.—Generoſity and courage are aſ⯑ſociate virtues; and the character which poſſeſſes the former, muſt, in the nature of mental arrangements, be adorned with the latter.

If I perceive a man to be capable of do⯑ing a mean action,—if I ſee him imperious and tyrannical; if he takes advantage of [189] the weak to oppreſs, or of the poor to grind, or of the downcaſt to inſult,—or is continually on the hunt after excuſes not to do what he ought,—I determine ſuch a man, though he may have fought fifty du⯑els, to be a coward.—It is by no means a proof that a man is brave becauſe he does not refuſe to fight;—for we all know that cowards have fought, nay,—that cowards have conquered,—but a coward never per⯑formed a generous or a noble action:—and thou haſt my authority to ſay,—and thou mighteſt find a worſe, that a hard-hearted character never was a brave one. I ſay, thou mayſt juſtly call ſuch a man a coward,—and, if he ſhould be ſpirited into a re⯑ſentment of thy words—fear him not.—Triſtram ſhall brighten his armour, and ſcour the ruſt from off his ſpear, and aid thee in the combat.

[190] And now let me aſk thee, my good friend, how it happens that thy fancy has of late taken to the Dormitory.—I thought the very names of Petrarch and Laura, and the enchanting ſcene of Vaucluſa's fountain, which is ſuch a claſſical ſpot to all tender minds, muſt have inſpired thee with a flow of ſentiment, that would have meandered through every page of thy laſt letter;—but inſtead of it, here have I been ſaluted with a ſtring, of ſtiff, ſtarched notions of ho⯑nour, and God knows what—that you could have found no where but in conver⯑ſing with the young Lords in great peri⯑wigs,—and the old Ladies in bouncing fardingals,—who have ſo long inhabited—'s long, long Gallery.

However, when you are tired of ſuch company, and ſtalking about upon a mat⯑ted [191] floor, you may come here and contem⯑plate the Autumn leaf; and relax yourſelf with looking at me while I prepare another volume or two to leſſen the ſpleen of a ſple⯑netic world.—For with all its faults, I am willing to do it that good at leaſt,—if it will let me;—and, if it will not,—I ſhall leave you to pity it. So fare thee well,—and God bleſs you.

LETTER XXXV. To Lady C— H—

HERE am I now actually at my writ⯑ing table,—ſhall I divulge the ſe⯑cret?—in ſomething between the fortieth and forty-fifth year of my life,—I ſhall leave your Ladyſhip, if you pleaſe, to ima⯑gine all the reſt;—and, in this advancing ſtate of my age, am I to addreſs myſelf to all thoſe charms which are compoſed by the happieſt combination of youth and beauty.—

[193] But if you ſhould conſider this as a pre⯑ſumption, I will quit thoſe beauties which belong only to early life, and make my ap⯑plication to qualities, which are of every period, and poſſeſs that lengthened charm, which makes one overlook the wrinkles of age, and turns the hoary hair into Auburn Treſſes. That you will always poſſeſs the one as you now do the other, I have heard acknowledged wherever I have heard your name mentioned: nor do I remember that your praiſe was ever accompanied with the exception of a ſingle but—from any of the many various forms and ſhapes, which en⯑vy plants in every corner to ſnarl at excel⯑lence.

But while your Ladyſhip, by a kind of miraculous power, can ſubdue envy with [194] reſpect to yourſelf,—you many ſometimes, without meaning it, encourage its attacks upon others.—For my part, nothing can be more certain than that I ſhall be envied with a vengeance, when it is known with what a gracious condeſcenſion you have indulged my requeſt: but envy, on ſuch an occaſion, will add to my laurels inſtead of withering them:—it is like the ſcar of glory; and, I am as proud of the one, as the patriot hero has reaſon to be of the other.

To confine myſelf, however, to the pur⯑poſe of this paper.

Permit me to thank your Ladyſhip moſt cordially, for permiting me to ſolicit the honour of your protection—as for attempt⯑ing [195] to thank you for having granted it, that is not in my power; both my pen and my lips find it impoſſible to obey the impulſe of my heart on the occaſion.—Perhaps the time may come, when ſome of the Shandy family may poſſeſs a ſufficient eloquence; to offer you that homage, which is very de⯑voutly felt, but cannot be adequately ex⯑preſſed,—indeed it cannot, by

LETTER XXXVI. To — —

THAT woman is a timid animal, I am moſt ready, my dear friend, to ac⯑knowledge,—but, like other timid animals, is more dangerous, in certain ſituations, than thoſe who poſſeſs a greater degree of natural courage.—I would, therefore, coun⯑ſe thee for this, among a thouſand other reaſons, never to make a woman thine ene⯑my, if thou canſt poſſibly help it.—Not that [197] I ſuſpect thee to be capible of an uncour⯑teous act, to any of the lovelier ſex,—on the contrary, I think thee qualified, and diſpoſed too, beyond moſt men I ever knew, to charm them, and do them good: and it is, perhaps, on that, as much as any other account, that I warn thee againſt giv⯑ing them offence.—For I have more than once obſerved, and mentioned with ſome concern, a propenſity in thy character to collect thy warm affections in one particu⯑lar circle, and to be careleſs of, which, as it relates to women, is the ſame thing as to be ungracious to thoſe, who are not inclu⯑ded in it.

There is ſomething amiable,—nay, there may be ſomething noble in the principle of ſuch a conduct; but it is too refined for [198] a world like our's; in which, ſhort as life is, we may eaſily live long enough, to find the inconvenience and diſtreſs of it. He who attaches himſelf entirely to one object—or even to a few,—may, from ingrati⯑tude, caprice, or death, be ſoon left alone: and he will come with an ill-grace, when neceſſity compels him, to ſeek for kindneſs and ſociety, where he formerly appeared to diſdain both.

If a ſmall cohort of friends could be cer⯑tain of continuing together, till they all ſunk, into one common grave, your preſent theory might form not only a gallant, and a pleaſant, but a practica⯑ble ſyſtem; this, however, my dear fellow, cannot be, and, as for living alone when all our friends are gone, it is neither more, or leſs, than making life a living tomb, [199] which, in my mind, is far,—far worſe, than a dead one.

But to return to my ſubject.

Woman is a timid animal,—and, there⯑fore, I truſt and am ſure thy generous na⯑ture, laying aſide every other conſideration, will never do any thing deſignedly to diſ⯑treſs it.—Indeed, it does not appear to me, that there can be a poſſible ſituation, which will juſtify any kind of inattention to the ſex, that may give them pain.—For be aſſured, and I will reſt my experience of woman kind, of which I am not a little proud, on the opinion, that the paſſion for any individual of the ſex, whatever her per⯑fections may be, which makes thee relax in thy gracious behaviour to the reſt, will [200] never promote thy real happineſs:—it may afford thee a certain ſeaſon, though I be⯑lieve a very ſhort one, of tumultuous rap⯑ture, and then thou wilt awake from thy delirium, to all the grievances of a fretful ſpirit.

Women look at leaſt for attentions;—they conſider them as an inherent birth⯑right, given to their ſex by the laws of po⯑liſhed ſociety; and when they are deprived of them, they moſt certainly have a right to complain—and will be, one and all, diſpoſed to practiſe that revenge, which is not, by any means, to be treated with con⯑tempt. It would be very unpleaſant for me to hear in any female ſociety, that my friend was a ſtrange, eccentric, ſingular, unpleaſant character;—and I rather think that he himſelf would not be pleaſed to find, [201] that ſuch a deſcription was given, and be⯑lieved of him.—I do not mean to urge,—indeed, I well know you cannot ſuſpect me of ſo groſs an error,—that the ſame regard is to be equally dealt to all: this is far from being my ſyſtem;—but I affirm on the other hand—that all are not to be diſregarded for one; for it will ſeldom happen, that the affection of that one, will recompenſe thee for the enmity of all the reſt.—Love one, if you pleaſe, and as much as you pleaſe—but, be gracious to all.

Affection may, ſurely, conduct thee through an avenue of women, to her who poſſeſſes thy heart, without tearing the flounces of any of their petticoats. The diſplaying courteſy to all whom you meet, will delay you very little in your way, to [202] the arms of her whom you love—and, if I miſtake not, will attune your ſenſibili⯑ties, to the higher enjoyment of the rap⯑tures you will find there.

We have all of us, enemies enough, my good friend, from the inevitable courſe of human events, without our encreaſing the number by ſo ſtrange, and unprofitable conduct, as that of neglecting any of the moſt trifling offices of familiar life.

Beſides,—to come more home to thine heart,—let me obſerve to thee,—that cha⯑rity, and humanity, which, by the bye, are one, and the ſame thing, are ſaid to be the foundation of thoſe qualities, which form what is called a well-bred man.—If, therefore, you ſhould, on any account, [203] get into the habit of neglecting the latter,—you may ſtand more than a chance of its being ſaid, that you do not poſſeſs the former, which, you know to be the bright⯑eſt jewel in the human character.—And this I am certain would wound thee in thy very ſoul.

—My dear boy, neglect not theſe, and other things, which, thou mayſt call, lit⯑tle things;—for little things, believe me, are, oftentimes, of great importance, in the arrangements of life.

You have been frequently pleaſed to tell me, as a matter of praiſe, that, in my deſcriptions, I am natural to a nicety,—and, when I tell of picking up an hand⯑kerchief, or wiping a tear from the cheek [204] of a diſtreſſed damſel, with a white one—or the ſticking a pin into a pincuſhion,—and ſuch things, I am far ſuperior to any other writer.—Apply then, I beſeech thee, this obſervation to thyſelf, and give me an opportunity of retorting the eulogi⯑um upon thee. This, is the ſincere wiſh of thy friend.

So may God bleſs thee, and direct the beſt feelings of thy heart, to the beſt pur⯑poſes of thy life.

The poſtman's bell tells me I have not time to read what I have written; but I will truſt to both our hearts, that there is nothing which either ought to be aſhamed of.

LETTER XXXVII. To MRS V—

WHEN all the croud, my fair lady, was hurried into the gardens, to hear the muſick of ſquibs and crackers—and to ſee the air illuminated by rockets, and balloons,—I was flattered, exquiſitely flattered, to find you contented to ſaunter lackadayſically with me, round an exhauſt⯑ed Ranelagh, and give me your gentle, amiable, elegant ſentiments, in a tone of voice, that was originally intended for a Cherub. How you got it I know not—nor is it my buſineſs to enquire; I am ever [206] rejoiced to find, any emanation of the other world, in any corner of this, be it where it may;—but particularly, when it pro⯑ceeds through any female organ,—where the effect muſt be more powerful, becauſe it is always moſt delicious.

Now after this little emanation of my ſpirit, which may not be quite ſo celeſtial as it ought, I truſt you will not think me ungracious, in deſiring you to excuſe my promiſed duties, at your drawing-room this evening. The truth is,—my cough has ſeized me ſo violently by the throat, that, though I could hear you ſing, I ſhould not be able, to tell you the effects, of your muſic, upon my heart. Indeed,—I can ſcarce produce a whiſper, loud enough, to make the ſervant bring my gruel.

[207] I have now been ſo long acquainted with this crazy frame of mine, that I know all its tricks,—and, I foreſee, that I have a week's indulgence, at leaſt, to beſtow upon it.—However, on Sunday next, I truſt,—I may be-caſſock myſelf, in my cloak, and be chaired to your warm cabinet, where, I hope to poſſeſs voice enough, to aſſure you, of the ſincere eſteem, and admiration, I feel for you,—whether I can tell you ſo, or no. Colds, and coughs, and catarrhs, may tie up the tongue, but the heart is above the little inconveniences, of its pri⯑ſon-houſe, and will one day eſcape from them all. 'Till that period, I ſhall beg leave to remain, with great truth,

LETTER XXXVIII. To — —.

THE poor in ſpirit, and the poor in purſe, with nine out of ten,—nay, with ninety-nine, in an hundred of the world, are ſo alike, that, by practiſing the virtues of the former, a man generally gets, all the credit, or rather diſcredit of the latter.

Here are very few, my friend, who have that nice inſight into characters, as to be able to diſcern the various, but approach⯑ing ſhades, that diſtinguiſh them from [209] each other—and, ſorry am I to ſay it, but, there are ſtill fewer, who have the humani⯑ty to make them employ their diſcernment, where it ought to be employed, in favour of the heart.

This moderation of temper, which is always aſſociated to ſterling merit, is made to win the love of the few, but is too apt, at the ſame time, to be not only the dupe, but the contempt of the many. He, who comes not forward with his pretenſions, is either ſuppoſed to poſſeſs none,—or to be prevented by ſome awkward, or diſgrace⯑ful circumſtances, from offering them.—The ignorant, the upſtart, and the aſſu⯑ming will, not be made to believe, that the humble can have merit.—As they themſelves wear, the tinſel ſuit of tawdry qualifications, upon their backs, they look [210] no further for the qualities of others—Which, by the bye, is natural enough.

The wicked, and the knaviſh, will not ſuppoſe, that a man on the ſcore of con⯑ſcience, or virtue, can be ſuch an idiot, as to practiſe ſubmiſſion, and keep back brilliant talents from exerciſe, becauſe he cannot enliſt them in an honeſt cauſe;—or, that when he is employing them in an humble way,—it is not with ſome deſign of artifice, or from ſome motive that is baſe;—ſo that the modeſt, diffident, and Chriſtian character, ſtands but little chance of what is called good fortune in the world.—Indeed, Chriſtianly ſpeaking, there is no great promiſe made to it, in this petty circle of time;—Such virtues, are to look, to more durable honours, when this world is faded away,—and it is their conſolation [211] and their delight, here, that ſuch a reward awaits them. Alas,—without this hope, how could the good bear as they do, the thouſand untoward circumſtances, that are continually preſſing upon them,—and, chaſing away the ſmile from the cheeks, and placing tears in their ſtead.

But I am interrupted,—or I believe,—inſtead of a letter—you would have had a ſermon; but it is Sunday evening,—and therefore with,—a God bleſs you,—I con⯑clude myſelf,

LETTER XXXIX. To — —

I HAVE had, my friend, another at⯑tack, and though I am, in a great meaſure recovered, it has hinted to me one thing, at leaſt, which is,—that if I am raſh enough to riſk the Winter in Lon⯑don, I ſhall never ſee another Spring.^*

But be that as it may,—as my family is now in England, and as I have my ſenti⯑mental journey;—which, I think with you, will be the moſt popular of my works, to [213] give to the world:—I know not how it will be poſſible for me, to run ſo counter to my intereſt, my affections, and my vanity—as to ſet my face ſouthward before March,—and I think if I get to that period, I may bid the ſcare-crow, defiance, for another ſeven, or eight months,—and then I may leave him in the fogs, and go where, as he ſo often followed me in vain, he will not follow me again. And this idea cheers my ſpirit—not, believe me, that I am un⯑eaſy about death, as death;—but, that I think, for a dozen years to come—I could make a very tolerable, good uſe of life.

But be that as it pleaſes God.

Beſides I have promiſed your,—and ſure I may add, my charming friend, Mrs. V—,to pay her a viſit in Ireland,—which,—I mean that you ſhould do with me.

[214] It is not that you introduced me to her acquaintance,—which is ſomething; it is not her enchanting voice which, humanly ſpeaking may be more,—nor that ſhe has come herſelf, in the form of a pitying angel, and made my Tiſan for me during my illneſs,—and played at picquet with me, in order to prevent my attempt to talk, as ſhe was told it would do me harm;—which is moſt of all—that makes me love her ſo much as I do;—but it is a mind attuned to every virtue, and a nature of the firſt order,—beaming through a form of the firſt beauty. In my life did I never ſee any thing—ſo truely graceful as ſhe is, nor had I an idea, 'till I ſaw her—that grace could be ſo perfect in all its parts, and ſo ſuited to all the higher ordinances of the firſt life, from the ſuperintending impulſe of the mind. For I will anſwer for it, that edu⯑cation, [215] though called forth to the utmoſt exertions, has played a very ſubordinate part, in the compoſition of her character. All its beſt efforts are—as it were—in the back ground, or rather are loſt in the ge⯑neral maſs of thoſe qualities, which predo⯑minate over all her acceſſory accompliſh⯑ments.

In ſhort if I had ever ſo great an incli⯑nation to croſs the gulph, while ſuch a wo⯑man beckoned me to ſtay,—I could not depart.

The world, however has abſolutely kil⯑led me, and ſhould ſuch a report have reached you, I know full well, that it would have grieved you ſorely,—and I wiſh you not to ſhed a tear for me in vain.—That you will drop more than one over [216] thy friend Yorick, when he is dead, ſooths him while he is yet alive;—but I truſt that, though there may be ſomething in my death, whenever it happens,—to diſtreſs you, there will, be ſomething, alſo in the remembrance of me, to comfort you, when I am laid beneath the marble.

But why do I talk of marble,—I ſhould ſay beneath the ſod.

Till then, at leaſt, I ſhall be, with great truth,