Complete Works of Laurence Sterne

by Laurence Sterne

  Or why not your little friend Cosway, who is rising fast into fame and fortune. But be it as you please, and arrange it according 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 Exchequer. 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 marble, 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.

  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 mercy upon him: but he has just understanding 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 hour ago — so God bless you, and believe me, where ever I am, to be

  Most cordially yours, L. STERNE

  LETTER XXIII. TO ——

  Monday Morning.

  THE story, my dear friend, which you heard related, with such an air of authority, is like many other true stories, absolutely 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 David ever had an unpleasant contention with any man; — and if I should be made to believe that such an event had happened, nothing would persuade me that his opponent 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 amiable turn of his character, that has given more consequence and force to his scepticism, than all the arguments of his sophistry. — You may depend on this as a truth.

  We had, I remember well, a little pleasant sparring at Lord Hertford’s table at Paris; but there was nothing in it that did not bear the marks of good-will and urbanity 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 Parson was equally disposed to make a little 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:

  Lord Hertford had just taken and furnished a magnificent Hotel; and as every thing, and any thing gives the fashion of the moment at Paris, it had been the fashion 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 circles 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 service 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 afternoon’s amusement to prepare myself for this business, for it was to be on the next day; 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 resist, 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 wicked wits are sometimes disposed to ill-treat it with their own scurvy misrepresentations. — And as to the discourse itself, nothing could be more innocent, and David Hume favoured it with his grace and approbation.

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

  Most affectionate, humble servant. L. STERNE.

  LETTER XXIV. TO —— .

  Wednesday Noon.

  BELIEVE me, my dear friend, I have no great faith in Doctors. Some eminent ones of the faculty assured me, many 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 saucy 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 sometimes made the means of doing good. Nay, the science itself considered, naturally and physically, is the eye of all the rest. But I do not always hold my peace when I reflect on those self-conceited, upstart professors 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 Dover coach, and proceed without you to the banks of the Rhone, where you may follow me if you please — and if you do not, 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 allcheering 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 London, even for your sake, — or for your company, which, — I might add, would be for my own sake.

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

  I am, most cordially your’s, L. STERNE.

  LETTER XXV. TO —— .

  Wednesday Noon.

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

  — to trudge

  Without a second and without a judge.

  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 frequently 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 wisdom. — A wise man while he pities the efforts of slander, will feel a kind of consequence 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 competitors had thrown at him.

  The divorce between virtue and reputation is too common to be wondered at — though it is too unjust not to be lamented: 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 business of human fame — the mind may be justified in kicking at the perversions to which its honest and best endeavours are so continually subject.

  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 circumstance which has given so much uneasiness. 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.

  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 returning favour, with all due acknowledgments; but if she should think it clever, or witty, or consequential, to continue to be offended — I will not fail to remember her in a postscript to my chapter on the right and wrong end of a woman; which, though my uncle Toby, from a certain combination of circumstances could never be made to understand, 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 writings; 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 reflection 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 — and that is to write adieu; so adieu, and God bless you.

  I am, most cordially yours, L. STERNE.

  LETTER XXVI. TO ——

  Thursday Nov. 1.

  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 belonging to such a situation, I would not suffer a man of genius to be pulled to pieces, or pulled down, or even whistled at, by any man who had not some sort of genius 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 learned — 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 wordmongering dictionary maker, but from 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 understanding. — 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 from all the dead, and half the living languages. 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 arrived 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 — which, however, is the constant and sincerest wish of

  your affectionate, L. STERNE.

  LETTER XXVII. TO —— .

  Dijon, Nov. 9, 1765.

  MY DEAR FRIEND,

  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 answer your purpose better than a pound weight of other people’s. There is a certain timidity which renders early life amiable, as a matter of speculation; but is very inconvenient indeed, not to say dangerous, 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 attainments, 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 battle. We want it as a protection — I say as a protection, from the insults and injuries of others; for, in your particular circumstances, I consider it merely as a defensive quality — to prevent you from being run down, or run over, by the first ignorant blockhead or insolent coxcomb, who perceives 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 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 labours 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 philosophy, in all its storehouse of human remedies, has nothing like unto it. Indeed, I am persuaded that mirth — a sober, well regulated mirth — is perfectly acceptable to the kind Being that made us; — and t
hat 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 minstrelsy, that I behold and hear from my window, 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 contrary.

  Swist says, vive la bagatelle. I say, vive la joie; which I am sure is no bagatelle; but, 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,

  I shall ever remain most truly And affectionately your’s, L. STERNE.

  LETTER XXVIII. TO —— .

  Lyons, Nov. 15.

  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 offers itself to the attention but may be made to produce pleasure — Besides, such is the character of this happy people, that you 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, characteristic 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 a gaity of heart, that always weakens and sometimes baffles sorrow, the English still answer the description of the old Frenchman, and really continue to divert themselves moult tristement.