Complete Works of Laurence Sterne

by Laurence Sterne

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

  I remain, With the most cordial truth, Your affectionate L. STERNE.

  LETTER XXXIV. TO ——

  Sunday Evening:

  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 character, must be revenged. — But let me entreat thee to remember that hardness of heart is not worth thine anger, and would 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 narrow one — an hard heart is always a cowardly heart. — Generosity and courage are associate 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 doing a mean action, — if I see him imperious and tyrannical; if he takes advantage of 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 duels, 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 performed 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 resentment 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.

  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 honour, and God knows what — that you could have found no where but in conversing with the young Lords in great periwigs, — 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 matted floor, you may come here and contemplate the Autumn leaf; and relax yourself with looking at me while I prepare another volume or two to lessen the spleen of a splenetic 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.

  I remain, Thine most affectionate, L. STERNE.

  LETTER XXXV. TO LADY C — H —

  Saturday Noon.

  HERE am I now actually at my writing table, — shall I divulge the secret? — in something between the fortieth and forty-fifth year of my life, — I shall leave your Ladyship, if you please, to imagine 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. —

  But if you should consider this as a presumption, I will quit those beauties which belong only to early life, and make my application 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 envy plants in every corner to snarl at excellence.

  But while your Ladyship, by a kind of miraculous power, can subdue envy with 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 purpose of this paper.

  Permit me to thank your Ladyship most cordially, for permiting me to solicit the honour of your protection — as for attempting 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 devoutly felt, but cannot be adequately expressed, — indeed it cannot, by

  Your Ladyship’s most faithful, and obedient humble servant, L. STERNE

  LETTER XXXVI. TO ——

  Wednesday, — past 9 at Night — and not very well.

  THAT woman is a timid animal, I am most ready, my dear friend, to acknowledge, — but, like other timid animals, is more dangerous, in certain situations, than those who possess a greater degree of natural courage. — I would, therefore, counse thee for this, among a thousand other reasons, never to make a woman thine enemy, if thou canst possibly help it. — Not that I suspect thee to be capible of an uncourteous 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 giving 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 particular 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 included 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 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 ingratitude, 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 certain 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 practicable 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, which, in my mind, is far, — far worse, than a dead one.

  But to return to my subject.

  Woman is a timid animal, — and, therefore, I trust and am sure thy generous nature, laying aside every other consideration, will never do any thing designedly to distress 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 perfections may be, which makes thee relax in thy gracious behaviour to the rest, will never promote thy real happiness: — it may afford thee a certain season, though I believe a very short one, of tumultuous rapture, 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 birthright, given to their sex by the laws of polished society; and when they are depr
ived 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 contempt. 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, that such a description was given, and believed 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 the arms of her whom you love — and, if I mistake not, will attune your sensibilities, to the higher enjoyment of the raptures 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 charity, 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, 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 brightest 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, little 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 handkerchief, or wiping a tear from the cheek 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 eulogium 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 purposes of thy life.

  I am, Your’s, most affectionately, L. STERNE.

  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 —

  Monday Morn.

  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 exhausted 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 rejoiced to find, any emanation of the other world, in any corner of this, be it where it may; — but particularly, when it proceeds 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.

  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 prison-house, and will one day escape from them all. ‘Till that period, I shall beg leave to remain, with great truth,

  Your most faithful, And obedient, humble servant, L. STERNE.

  LETTER XXXVIII. TO —— .

  Sunday Evening.

  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 approaching shades, that distinguish them from each other — and, sorry am I to say it, but, there are still fewer, who have the humanity 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 disgraceful circumstances, from offering them. — The ignorant, the upstart, and the assuming 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 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 conscience, 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 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 conclude myself,

  Your affectionate — L. STERNE.

  LETTER XXXIX. TO ——

  Saturday Evening.

  I HAVE had, my friend, another attack, 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 London, I shall never see another Spring.

  But be that as it may, — as my family is now in England, and as I have my sentimental journey; — which, I think with you, will be the most popular of my works, to 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 uneasy 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.

  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 education, 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 general mass of those qualities, which predominate over all her accessory accomplishments.

  In short if I had ever so great an inclination to cross the gulph, while such a woman beckoned me to stay, — I could not depart.

  The world, however has absolutely killed 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 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.