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 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 returned 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 young men like yourself, who feel at every pore, and have not yet had that collision with untoward circumstances which awakens 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 damsel or other, before my grave see-saw letter 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 ungenial 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 Ranelagh, and look at the birth-day. In short, write to me upon the subject, and direct to me here, for here I am to be during this shooting month of September; so God bless you, and give you patience if you want it.
I remain, Yours, most cordially, L. STERNE.
LETTER VIII. TO W — C — , ESQ.
Coxwould, June 11, 1765.
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 misrepresentation 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 be ungracious to them. That I should make Burton look grave, whose countenance 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 communicate 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 rejoice 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 interesting 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 unnatural. — It is true I did talk of them, for an hour together, but no sarcasm or unlucky sallies mingled with my speech: — Yes, I did talk of them as they would wish to be talked of, — with smiles on my countenance, praise on my tongue, hilarity 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 something kind and gentle for me, as you well know how, to my fair countrywomen; and let not an unmerited prejudice or displeasure against me remain any longer in their tender bosoms. — When you get into disgrace 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 beginning 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 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 —
I am, Most sincerely your’s, L. STERNE.
LETTER IX. TO —— .
I DID not answer your letter as you desired me, for at the moment I received 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 acquaint me, that the parsonage house at — was on fire, when he came away, and burning like a bundle of faggots; and while I was preparing to set off to see my house, after it was burned down, your letter 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 curate, 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 rebuild 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 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 accident 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 answer 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 sorely. 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 apprehens
ion. — 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 informed 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 always 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
Your affectionate and faithful L. STERNE.
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 disappointed 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 unreserved offers of friendship, which are so gracious in you, I am almost as much pleased that my Exchequer is in that slate of sufficiency as not to require them.
I have made my bargain for rebuilding my parsonage, and settled all arrangements 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 others laugh at them. But may God forgive them, as I do! — Amen.
I wrote to Hall an account of my disaster; — and his answer bid me find out a conceit on the occasion, and comfort myself with it. Tully, the Orator, the Politician, 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 believe him, with success. Now this same Tully, you must know, was like my father; I mean Mr. Shandy, of Shandy Hall, who was as well pleased with a misfortune that gave him an opportunity of displaying 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 of a Conceit, not of Cicero’s nor my Father’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 borrow his carriage, that I might pay my visit in pomp as well as Pontificalibus. I found him at home, made a friendly enquiry or two, and told him of the little arrangement I had formed; when he replied 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 receiving his last instructions, he himself received 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 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.
Your’s most affectionately, L. STERNE.
LETTER XI. TO —— , ESQ.
Coxwould, near Easingwould.
YOU are not singular in your opinion 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 sragment of an Introduction to the Ode to Julia, in Tristram Shandy. The unity of the episode would have been wounded, if I had added another line; and if I had added a dozen, my character as a poetical 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 opinion, 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 business, 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 pointing out its similarity to that of others. 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 errare 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 engraved on a marble, which deserved a better inscription; for it covered the dust of one, whose gentle nature, and amiable qualities, merited more than common praise, or common-place eulogium. However, I shed a tear over the sepulchre, which, if the dead could have known it, would have been more acceptable than the most splendid diction that ever glared on monumental alabaster.
I also wrote a kind of Shandean, singsong, 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 something 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 him, on the occasion, that he acted great things and did little ones: — so he stammered and looked foolish, and performed, at length, with a bad grace, what his rival 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 ge
t 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 parish is — not absolutely in my conceit — but, which is better, in that of his neighbours; and, which is the best of all — in his own. His muse is a professional one, 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 brethren 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 proper 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 congregation, and therefore I had no right to complain. I leave it with you as a bonne bouche, and wish you a good night.
Complete Works of Laurence Sterne Page 94
