Here’s Jemmy How has lost a cow,
And so has Johnny Bland;
Therefore we’ll put our trust in God,
And not in any other man.
Yours, L. S.
LETTER XII. TO —— , ESQ.
Coxwould, Wednesday Night.
I SENT you, my dear friend, as you request it, the Epitaph which I mentioned 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 original 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, according to a very common course of things, found a worse. But here it is —
Columns and labour’d urns but vainly show,
An idle scene of fabricated woe: —
The sweet companion and the friend sincere
Need no mechanic arts to force the tear.
In heartfelt numbers, never meant to shine,
‘Twill flow eternal o’er an hearse like thine,
‘Twill flow while gentle goodness has one friend,
Or kindred tempers have a tear to lend.
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 acknowledge 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 humanity, but, somehow or other, there is 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 composition. — Nay, I am acquainted with several, 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 continually performs benevolent actions, though not always, I must confess, in a benevolent manner. And here is the grief of the business. He will do a kindness with a sneer, or a joke, or a smile; when, perhaps, 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 right any of us have to pass a severe sentence 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 however 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.
Most truly your’s L. STERNE:
LETTTER XIII. TO —— , ESQ.
Scarborough,
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.
Your commands, in general, should be obeyed without reflection — but in this particular 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.
There are such things in the world as wrong heads and right hearts — and wrong hearts and right heads. — Now, for myself, and speaking under the influence of my own particular feelings, I would rather 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 orthodox, according to your system, but as you proceed, every day will tend to encrease the propinquity of this opinion to your own.
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, without informing him of the nature of his disease, which is neither more nor less than absolute wrong-headedness; and, were I to do it, he would exhibit another symptom of his disorder, by throwing my prescription out of the window, and perhaps threatening the same mischief to the physician himself.
If you have influence sufficient to induce him to apply to me, I will most 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 acquainted 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 madcap — and God bless her also. — Once more adieu.
Yours, &c. L. STERNE.
LETTER XIV.
Scarborough, Aug. 29, 1765.
YOU refine too much, my dear friend, — you do indeed. — Your reasoning is ingenious, and produces a neat, pretty, plausible train of argument, that would make a figure in a company of female 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.
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 almost said, by the nose. It warps our ununderstandings, 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 accompany any present endeavours of mine to the same purpose.
If you would know more of the matter and can bring yourself to risque the opinion, 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 o
f 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 order 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 pounds a year he might give her, would make her queen of the village! — We pitty 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 fascinations, 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 proper; and if you do not — but what have I to do with ifs? — It is an exceptious monosyllable, 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 — , 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 impulse 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 kingdom who would be an happy match for you: and if you think proper to ask me, I will, hereafter, tell you why: — at present I shall content myself with telling you that
I am, most cordially your’s, L. STERNE.
LETTER XV.
September 9, 1765.
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 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 vamped 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 occasion, to correct, in order that the little rill of ways and means may not be interrupted 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 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 deserve 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 Errantry for the present, and thrown more than a sickly thought or two on my imagination.
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 yourself. So do me the honour to see that it is absolutely done without a moment’s delay; 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 occasion. — 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!
Most cordially your’s, L. STERNE.
LETTER XVI TO —— , ESQ.
Coxwould, Wednesday Evening.
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.
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 fashion 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 reflection, 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 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 Balaam’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 refreshing draught from her cup, she was, surely an Angel to me.
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 comprehend, and Criticism can never reach.
Doctor L — acknowledges, however, 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 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 Tristram Shandy, it has been read by thousands; whereas the fact is, that when it was published by itself, it was read by no one.
I have answered Do
ctor 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 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.
L. S.
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.
Monday Evening.
YOU have hit my fancy most wonderfully, in the account you have given me of Lady — ; the Juno character not only prevails, but absolutely predominates. The Minerva qualities are all secondary, — and as to any Cyprian dispositions, I know nothing about them.
She certainly possesses a very good understanding, and is not without attainments; but both the one and the other derive all their consequence from her manners. — She has somewhat of an imperious disposition, which would be either silently 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, bysitter: but this is not all, for it calls forth also, that kind of respectful submission, which does not lessen us in our own opinion for having practised it.
I never, in my life, felt the merit of exterior decoration so much as in my conversations and communications with this Lady; and I really do not know any position, in the present school of fashion, where a young man might learn so much as in her drawing room, or without meaning any mischievous equivoque, her dressing room. — It is really no common satisfaction to me to reflect that my young friend is an Eléve of such an instructress.
Complete Works of Laurence Sterne Page 95
