Complete Works of Laurence Sterne

by Laurence Sterne

  I have little news to add. — There is a shilling pamphlet wrote against Tristram. — I wish they would write a hundred such.

  Mrs. Sterne says her purse is light; will you, dear Sir, be so good as to pay her ten guineas, and I will reckon with you when I have the pleasure of meeting you. — My best compliments to Mrs. C. and all friends. — Believe me, dear Sir, your obliged and faithful

  LAU. STERNE.

  LETTER XI. TO MRS. F — .

  York, Tuesday, Nov. 19.

  Dear Madam,

  YOUR kind enquiries after my health, deserve my best thanks. — What can give one more pleasure than the good wishes of those we value? — I am sorry you give so bad an account of your own health, but hope you will find benefit from tar-water — it has been of infinite service to me. — I suppose, my good lady, by what you say in your letter,

  “that I am busy writing an extraordinary book,”

  that your intelligence comes from York — the fountain-head of chit-chat news — and — no matter. — Now for your desire of knowing the reason of my turning author? why truly I am tired of employing my brains for other people’s advantage.— ’Tis a foolish sacrifice I have made for some years to an ungrateful person. — I depend much upon the candour of the publick, but I shall not pick out a jury to try the merit of my book amongst *******, and — till you read my Tristram, do not, like some people, condemn it. — Laugh I am sure you will at some passages. — I have hired a small house in the Minster Yard for my wife, and daughter — the latter is to begin dancing, &c. if I cannot leave her a fortune, I will at least give her an education. — As I shall publish my works very soon, I shall be in town by March, and shall have the pleasure of meeting with you. — All your friends are well, and ever hold you in the same estimation that your sincere friend does.

  Adieu, dear lady, believe me, with every wish for your happiness, your most faithful, &c.

  LAURENCE STERNE.

  LETTER XII. TO DR. ******.

  Jan. 30, 1760.

  Dear Sir,

  — DE mortuis nil nisi bonum, is a maxim which you have so often of late urged in conversation, and in your letters, (but in your last especially) with such seriousness, and severity against me, as the supposed transgressor of the rule; — that you have made me at length as serious and severe as yourself: — but that the humours you have stirred up might not work too potently within me, I have waited four days to cool myself, before I would set pen to paper to answer you,

  “de mortuis nil nisi bonum.”

  I declare I have considered the wisdom, and foundation of it over and over again, as dispassionately and charitably as a good Christian can, and, after all, I can find nothing in it, or make more of it, than a nonsensical lullaby of some nurse, put into Latin by some pedant, to be chanted by some hypocrite to the end of the world, for the consolation of departing lechers.— ’Tis, I own, Latin; and I think that is all the weight it has — for, in plain English, ’tis a loose and futile position below a dispute —

  “you are not to speak any thing of the dead, but what is good.”

  Why so? — Who says so? — neither reason or scripture. — Inspired authors have done otherwise — and reason and common sense tell me, that if the characters of past ages and men are to be drawn at all, they are to be drawn like themselves; that is, with their excellencies, and with their foibles — and it is as much a piece of justice to the world, and to virtue too, to do the one, as the other. — The ruleing passion et les egarements du coeur, are the very things which mark, and distinguish a man’s character; — in which I would as soon leave out a man’s head as his hobby-horse. — However, if like the poor devil of a painter, we must conform to this pious canon, de mortuis, &c. which I own has a spice of piety in the sound of it, and be obliged to paint both our angels and our devils out of the same pot — I then infer that our Sydenhams, and Sangrados, our Lucretias, — and Massalinas, our Sommers, and our Bolingbrokes — are alike entitled to statues, and all the historians, or satirists who have said otherwise since they departed this life, from Sallust, to S — e, are guilty of the crimes you charge me with, “cowardice and injustice.”

  But why cowardice?

  “because ’tis not courage to attack a dead man who can’t defend himself.”

  — But why do you doctors of the faculty attack such a one with your incision knife? Oh! for the good of the living.— ’Tis my plea. — But I have something more to say in my behalf — and it is this — I am not guilty of the charge — tho’ defensible. I have not cut up Doctor Kunastrokius at all — I have just scratch’d him — and that scarce skindeep. — I do him first all honour — speak of Kunastrokius as a great man — (be he who he will) and then most distantly hint at a drole foible in his character — and that not first reported (to the few who can even understand the hint) by me — but known before by every chamber-maid and footman within the bills of mortality — but Kunastrokius, you say, was a great man— ’tis that very circumstance which makes the pleasantry — for I could name at this instant a score of honest gentlemen who might have done the very thing which Kunastrokius did, and seen no joke in it at all — as to the failing of Kunstrokius, which you say can only be imputed to his friends as a misfortune — I see nothing like a misfortune in it to any friend or relation of Kunastrokius — that Kunastrokius upon occasions should sit with ******* and ******* — I have put these stars not to hurt your worship’s delicacy — If Kunastrokius after all is too sacred a charactter to be even smiled at, (which is all I have done) he has had better luck than his betters: — In the same page (without imputation of cowardice) I have said as much of a man of twice his wisdom — and that is Solomon, of whom I have made the same remark

  “That they were both great men

  — and like all mortal men had each their ruling passion.

  — The consolation you give me,

  “That my book however will be read enough to answer my design of raising a tax upon the public”

  — is very unconsolatory — to say nothing how very mortifying! by h — n! an author is worse treated than a common ***** at this rate —

  “You will get a penny by your sins, and that’s enough.”

  — Upon this chapter let me comment. — That I proposed laying the world under contribution when I set pen to paper — is what I own, and I suppose I may be allow’d to have that view in my head in common with every other writer, to make my labour of advantage to myself.

  Do not you do the same? but I beg I may add, that whatever views I had of that kind, I had other views — the first of which was, the hopes of doing the world good by ridiculing what I thought deserving of it — or of disservice to sound learning, &c. — how I have succeeded my book must shew — and this I leave entirely to the world — but not to that little world of your acquaintance, whose opinion, and sentiments you call the general opinion of the best judges without exception, who all affirm (you say) that my book cannot be put into the hands of any woman of character. (I hope you except widows, doctor — for they are not all so squeamish — but I am told they are all really of my party in return for some good offices done their interests in the 176th page of my second volume) But for the chaste married, and chaste unmarried part of the sex — they must not read my book! Heaven forbid the stock of chastity should be lessen’d by the life and opinions of Tristram Shandy — yes, his opinions — it would certainly debauch ‘em! God take them under his protection in this fiery trial, and send us plenty of Duenas to watch the workings of their humours, ‘till they have safely got thro’ the whole work. — If this will not be sufficient, may we have plenty of Sangrados to pour in plenty of cold water, till this terrible fermentation is over — as for the nummum in loculo, which you mention to me a second time, I fear you think me very poor, or in debt — I thank God tho’ I don’t abound — that I have enough for a clean shirt every day — and a mutton chop — and my contentment with this, has thus far (and I hope ever will) put me above stooping an inch for it, for —
estate. — Curse on it, I like it not to that degree, nor envy (you may be sure) any man who kneels in the dirt for it — so that howsoever I may fall short of the ends proposed in commencing author — I enter this protest, first that my end was honest, and secondly, that I wrote not be fed, but to be famous. I am much obliged to Mr. Garrick for his very favourable opinion — but why, dear Sir, had he done better in finding fault with it than in commending it? to humble me? an author is not so soon humbled as you imagine — no, but to make the book better by castrations — that is still sub judice, and I can assure you upon this chapter, that the very passages, and descriptions you propose, that I should sacrifice in my second edition, are what are best relish’d by men of wit, and some others whom I esteem as sound criticks — so that upon the whole, I am still kept up, if not above fear, at least above despair, and have seen enough to shew me the folly of an attempt of castrating my book to the prudish humours of particulars. I believe the short cut would be to publish this letter at the beginning of the third volume, as an apology for the first and second. I was sorry to find a censure upon the insincerity of some of my friends — I have no reason myself to reproach any one man — my friends have continued in the same opinions of my books which they first gave me of it — many indeed have thought better of ‘em, by considering them more; few worse.

  I am, Sir, Your humble servant, LAURENCE STERNE.

  LETTER XIII. TO THE B — OF G — .

  York, June 9, 1760.

  My Lord,

  NOT knowing where to send two sets of my Sermons, I could think of no better expedient, than to order them into Mr. Berrenger’s hands, who has promised me that he will wait upon your Lordship with them, the first moment he hears you are in town. The truest and humblest thanks I return to your Lordship for the generosity of your protection, and advice to me; by making a good use of the one, I will hope to deserve the other; I wish your Lordship all the health and happiness in this world, for I am

  Your Lordship’s Most obliged and Most grateful Servant, L. STERNE.

  P.S. I am just sitting down to go on with Tristram, &c. — the scribblers use me ill, but they have used my betters much worse, for which may God forgive them.

  LETTER XIV. TO THE REV. MR. STERNE.

  Prior-Park, June 15, 1760.

  Reverend Sir,

  I HAVE your favour of the 9th Instant, and am glad to understand, you are got safe home, and employ’d again in your proper studies and amusements. You have it in your power to make that, which is an amusement to yourself and others, useful to both: at least, you should above all things, beware of its becoming hurtful to either, by any violations of decency and good manners; but I have already taken such repeated liberties of advising you on that head, that to say more would be needless, or perhaps unacceptable.

  Whoever is, in any way, well received by the public, is sure to be annoy’d by that pest of the public, profligate scribblers. This is the common lot of successful adventurers; but such have often a worse evil to struggle with, I mean the over-officiousness of their indiscreet friends. There are two Odes, as they are call’d, printed by Dodsley. Whoever was the author, he appears to be a monster of impiety and lewdness — yet such is the malignity of the scribblers, some have given them to your friend Hall; and others, which is still more impossible, to yourself; tho’ the first Ode has the insolence to place you both in a mean and a ridiculous light. But this might arise from a tale equally groundless and maglignant, that you had shewn them to your acquaintances in M. S. before they were given to the public. Nor was their being printed by Dodsley the likeliest means of discrediting the calumny.

  About this time, another, under the mask of friendship, pretended to draw your character, which was since published in a Female Magazine, (for dulness, who often has as great a hand as the devil, in deforming God’s works of the creation, has made them, it seems, male and female) and from thence it was transformed into a Chronicle. Pray have you read it, or do you know its author?

  But of all these things, I dare say Mr. Garrick, whose prudence is equal to his honesty or his talents, has remonstrated to you with the freedom of a friend. He knows the inconstancy of what is called the Public, towards all, even the best intentioned, of those who contribute to its pleasure, or amusement. He (as every man of honour and discretion would) has availed himself of the public favour, to regulate the taste, and, in his proper station, to reform the manners of the fashionable world; while by a well judged oeconomy, he has provided against the temptations of a mean and servile dependency, on the follies and vices of the great.

  In a word, be assured, there is no one more sincerely wishes your welfare and happiness, than,

  Reverend Sir,

  W. G.

  LETTER XIV. TO MY WITTY WIDOW, MRS. F — .

  Coxwould, Aug. 3, 1760.

  Madam,

  WHEN a man’s brains are as dry as a squeez’d Orange — and he feels he has no more conceit in him than a Mallet, ’tis in vain to think of sitting down, and writing a letter to a lady of your wit, unless in the honest John-Trot-Stile of, yours of the 15th instant came safe to hand, &c. which, by the bye, looks like a letter of business; and you know very well, from the first letter I had the honour to write to you, I am a man of no business at all. This vile plight I found my genius in, was the reason I have told Mr. — , I would not write to you till the next post — hopeing, by that time to get some small recruit, at least of vivacity, if not wit, to set out with; — but upon second thoughts, thinking a bad letter in season — to be better than a good one, out of it — this scrawl is the consequence, which, if you will burn the moment you get it — I promise to send you a fine set essay in the stile of your female epistolizers, cut and trim’d at all points. — God defend me from such, who never yet knew what it was to say or write one premeditated word in my whole life — for this reason I send you with pleasure, because wrote with the careless irregularity of an easy heart. — Who told you Garrick wrote the medley for Beard?— ’Twas wrote in his house, however, and before I left town. — I deny it — I was not lost two days before I left town. — I was lost all the time I was there, and never found till I got to this Shandy castle of mine. — Next winter I intend to sojourn amongst you with more decorum, and will neither be lost or found any where.

  Now I wish to God, I was at your elbow — I have just finished one volume of Shandy, and I want to read it to some one who I know can taste and relish humour — this by the way, is a little impudent in me — for I take the thing for granted, which their high mightinesses the world have yet to determine — but I mean no such thing — I could wish only to have your opinion — shall I, in truth, give you mine? — I dare not — but I will; provided you keep it to yourself — know then, that I think there is more laughable humour, — with equal degree of Cervantick satire — if not more than in the last — but we are bad judges of the merit of our children.

  I return you a thousand thanks for your friendly congratulations upon my habitation — and I will take care, you shall never wish me but well, for I am, madam,

  With great esteem and truth, Your most obliged L. STERNE.

  P.S. I have wrote this so vilely and so precipitately, I fear you must carry it to a decypherer — I beg you’ll do me the honour to write — otherwise you draw me in, instead of Mr. — drawing you into a scrape — for I should sorrow to have a taste of so agreeable a correspondent — and no more.

  Adieu.

  LETTER XV. TO LADY — .

  Coxwold, Sept, 21, 1761.

  I RETURN to my new habitation, fully determined to write as hard as can be, and thank you most cordially, my dear lady, for your letter of congratulation upon my Lord Fauconberg’s having presented me with the curacy of this place — though your congratulation comes somewhat of the latest, as I have been possessed of it some time. — I hope I have been of some service to his Lordship, and he has sufficiently requited me.— ’Tis seventy guineas a year in my pocket, though worth a hundred — but it obliges me to have a
curate to officiate at Sutton and Stillington.— ’Tis within a mile of his Lordship’s seat, and park. ’Tis a very agreeable ride out in the chaise, I purchased for my wife. — Lyd has a poney which she delights in. — Whilst they take these diversions, I am scribbling away at my Tristram. These two volumes are, I think, the best. — I shall write as long as I live, ’tis, in fact, my hobby-horse: and so much am I delighted with my uncle Toby’s imaginary character, that I am become an enthusiast. — My Lydia helps to copy for me — and my wife knits and listens as I read her chapters. — The coronation of his Majesty (whom God preserve!) has cost me the value of an Ox, which is to be roasted whole in the middle of the town, and my parishioners will, I suppose, be very merry upon the occasion. — You will then be in town — and feast your eyes with a sight, which ’tis to be hoped will not be in either of our powers to see again — for in point of age we have about twenty years the start of his Majesty. — And now, my dear friend, I must finish this — and with every wish for your happiness conclude myself your most sincere well-wisher and friend,

  L. STERNE.

  LETTER XVI. TO J — H — S — , ESQ.

  Coxwould, — , 1761.

  Dear H — ,

  I REJOICE you are in London — rest you there in peace; here ’tis the devil. — You was a good prophet. — I wish myself back again, as you told me I should — but not because a thin death-doing pestiferous north-east wind blows in a line directly from crazy-castle turret full upon me in this cuckoldly retreat, (for I value the north-east wind and all its powers not a straw) — but the transition from rapid motion to absolute rest was too violent. — I should have walked about the streets of York ten days, as a proper medium to have passed thro’, before I entered upon my rest. — I staid but a moment, and I have been here but a few, to satisfy me I have not managed my miseries like a wise man — and if God, for my consolation under them, had not poured forth the spirit of Shandeism into me, which will not suffer me to think two moments upon any grave subject, I would else, just now lay down and die — die — and yet, in half an hour’s time, I’ll lay a guinea, I shall be as merry as a monkey — and as mischievous too, and forget it all — so that this is but a copy of the present train running cross my brain. — And so you think this cursed stupid — but that, my dear H. depends much upon the quotâ horâ of your shabby clock, if the pointer of it is in any quarter between ten in the morning or four in the afternoon — I give it up — or if the day is obscured by dark engendering clouds of either wet or dry weather, I am still lost — but who knows but it may be five — and the day as fine a day as ever shone upon the earth since the destruction of Sodom — and peradventure your honour may have got a good hearty dinner to-day, and eat and drank your intellectuals into a placidulish and a blandulish amalgama — to bear nonsense, so much for that.