What a sad scratch of a letter! — but I am weak, my dear friends, both in body and mind — so God bless you — you will see me enter like a ghost — so I tell you before-hand not to be frightened. — I am, my dear friends, with the truest attachment and esteem, ever yours,
L. STERNE.
LETTER CX. TO LADY P.
Mount Coffee-house, Tuesday 3 o’Clock.
THERE is a strange mechanical effect produced in writing a billet-doux within a stone-cast of the lady who engrosses the heart and soul of an inamorato — for this cause (but mostly because I am to dine in this neighbourhood) have I, Tristram Shandy, come forth from my lodgings to a coffee-house the nearest I could find to my dear Lady— ‘s house, and have called for a sheet of gilt paper, to try the truth of this article of my creed — Now for it —
O my dear lady — what a dishclout of a soul hast thou made of me? — I think, by the bye, this is a little too familiar an introduction, for so unfamiliar a situation as I stand in with you — where heaven knows, I am kept at a distance — and despair of getting one inch nearer you, with all the steps and windings I can think of to recommend myself to you — Would not any man in his senses run diametrically from you — and as far as his legs would carry him, rather than thus causelessly, foolishly, and fool-hardily expose himself afresh — and afresh, where his heart and his reason tells him he shall be sure to come off loser, if not totally undone? — Why would you tell me you would be glad to see me? — Does it give you pleasure to make me more unhappy — or does it add to your triumph, that your eyes and lips have turned a man into a fool, whom the rest of the town is courting as a wit? — I am a fool — the weakest, the most ductile, the most tender fool, that ever woman tried the weakness of — and the most unsettled in my purposes and resolutions of recovering my right mind. — It is but an hour ago, that I kneeled down and swore I never would come near you — and after saying my Lord’s Prayer for the sake of the close, of not being led into temptation — out I sallied like any Christian hero, ready to take the field against the world, the flesh, and the devil; not doubting but I should finally trample them all down under my feet — and now am I got so near you — within this vile stone’s cast of your house — I feel myself drawn into a vortex, that has turned my brain upside downwards, and though I had purchased a box ticket to carry me to Miss ******* benefit, yet I know very well, that was a single line directed to me, to let me know Lady — would be alone at seven, and suffer me to spend the evening with her, she would infallibly see every thing verified I have told her. — I dine at Mr. C — r’s in Wigmore-street, in this neighbourhood, where I shall stay till seven, in hopes you purpose to put me to this proof If I hear nothing by that time I shall conclude you are better disposed of — and shall take a sorry hack, and sorrily jogg on to the play — Curse on the word. I know nothing but sorrow — except this one thing, that I love you (perhaps foolishly, but)
most sincerely, L. STERNE.
LETTER CXI. TO MR. AND MRS. J — .
Old Bond Street, January 1.
NOT knowing whether the moisture of the weather will permit me to give my kind friends in Gerrard Street a call this morning for five minutes — I beg leave to send them all the good wishes, compliments, and respects I owe them. — I continue to mend, and doubt not but this, with all other evils and uncertainties of life, will end for the best. I send all compliments to your fire sides this Sunday night — Miss Ascough the wise, Miss Pigot the witty, your daughter the pretty, and so on. — If Lord O — is with you, I beg my dear Mrs. J — will present the enclosed to him— ‘twill add to the millions of obligations I already owe you. — I am sorry that I am no subscriber to Soho this season — it deprives me of a pleasure worth twice the subscription — but I am just going to send about this quarter of the town, to see if it is not too late to procure a ticket, undisposed of, from some of my Soho friends, and if I can succeed, I will either send or wait upon you with it by half an hour after three to-morrow — if not, my friend will do me the justice to believe me truly miserable. — I am half engaged, or more, for dinner on Sunday next, but will try to get disengaged in order to be with my friends. — If I cannot, I will glide like a shadow uninvited to Gerrard Street some day this week, that we may eat our bread and meat in love and peace together. — God bless you both! — I am with the most sincere regard,
Your ever obliged, L. STERNE.
LETTER CXII. TO THE SAME.
Old Bond Street, Monday.
My dear Friends,
I Have never been a moment at rest since I wrote yesterday about this Soho ticket — I have been at a Secretary of State to get one — have been upon one knee to my friends Sir G — M — , Mr. Lascelles — and Mr. Fitzmaurice — without mentioning five more — I believe I could as soon get you a place at court, for every body is going — but I will go out and try a new circle — and if you do not hear from me by a quarter after three, you may conclude I have been unfortunate in my supplications. — I send you this state of the affair, lest my silence should make you think I had neglected what I promised — but no — Mrs. J — knows me better, and would never suppose it would be out of the head of one who is with so much truth
Her faithful friend, L. STERNE.
LETTER CXIII. TO THE SAME.
Thursday, Old Bond Street.
A Thousand thanks, and as many excuses, my dear friends, for the trouble my blunder has given you. By a second note I am astonish’d I could read Saturday for Sunday, or make any mistake in a card wrote by Mrs. J — s, in which my friend is as unrival’d, as in a hundred greater excellencies.
I am now tyed down neck and heels (twice over) by engagements every day this week, or most joyfully would have trod the old pleasing road from Bond to Gerrard Street. — My books will be to be had on Thursday, but possibly on Wednesday in the afternoon. — I am quite well, but exhausted with a room full of company every morning till dinner — How do I lament I cannot eat my morsel (which is always sweet) with such kind friends! — The Sunday following I will assuredly wait upon you both — and will come a quarter before four, that I may have both a little time, and a little day light, to see Mrs. J— ‘s picture. — I beg leave to assure my friends of my gratitude for all their favours, with my sentimental thanks for every token of their good will. — Adieu, my dear friends —
I am truly yours, L. STERNE.
LETTER CXIV. TO L. S. ESQ.
Old Bond Street, Wednesday.
Dear Sir,
YOUR commendations are very flattering. I know no one whose judgement I think more highly of, but your partiality for me is the only instance in which I can call it in question. — Thanks, my good sir, for the prints — I am much your debtor for them — if I recover from my ill state of health, and live to revisit Coxwould this summer, I will decorate my study with them, along with six beautiful pictures I have already of the sculptures on poor Ovid’s tomb, which were executed on marble at Rome. — It grieves one to think such a man should have dy’d in exile, who wrote so well on the art of love. — Do not think me encroaching if I sollicit a favour— ’tis either to borrow, or beg (to beg if you please) some of those touched with chalk which you brought from Italy — I believe you have three sets, and if you can spare the imperfect one of cattle on colour’d paper, ‘twill answer my purpose, which is namely this, to give a friend of ours. — You may be ignorant she has a genius for drawing, and whatever she excells in, she conceals, and her humility adds lustre to her accomplishments — I presented her last year with colours, and an apparatus for painting, and gave her several lessons before I left town. — I wish her to follow this art, to be a compleat mistress of it — and it is singular enough, but not more singular than true, that she does not know how to make a cow or a sheep, tho’ she draws figures and landscapes perfectly well; which makes me wish her to copy from good prints. — If you come to town next week, and dine where I am engaged next Sunday, call upon me and take me with you — I breakfast with Mr. Beauclerc, and am engaged for an hou
r afterwards with Lord O — so let our meeting be either at your house or my lodgings — do not be late, for we will go half an hour before dinner, to see a picture executed by West, most admirably — he has caught the character of our friend — such goodness is painted in that face, that when one looks at it, let the soul be ever so much un-harmonized, it is impossible it should remain so. — I will send you a set of my books — they will take with the generality — the women will read this book in the parlour, and Tristram in the bedchamber. — Good night, dear sir — I am going to take my whey, and then to bed. Believe me,
Yours most truly, L. STERNE.
LETTER CXV.
February 20, Old Bond Street.
My dearest Lydia,
MY Sentimental Journey, you say, is admired in York by every one — and ’tis not vanity in me to tell you that it is no less admired here — but what is the gratification of my feelings on this occasion? — the want of health bows me down, and vanity harbours not in thy father’s breast — this vile influenza — be not alarm’d, I think I shall get the better of it — and shall be with you both the first of May, and if I escape ‘twill not be for a long period, my child — unless a quiet retreat and peace of mind can restore me. — The subject of thy letter has astonish’d me. — She could but know little of my feelings, to tell thee, that under the supposition I should survive thy mother, I should bequeath thee as a legacy to — . No, my Lydia! ’tis a lady, whose virtues I wish thee to imitate, that I shall entrust my girl to — I mean that friend whom I have so often talk’d and wrote about — from her you will learn to be an affectionate wife, a tender mother, and a sincere friend — and you cannot be intimate with her, without her pouring some part of the milk of human kindness into your breast, which will serve to check the heat of your own temper, which you partake in a small degree of. — Nor will that amiable woman put my Lydia under the painful necessity to fly to India for protection, whilst it is in her power to grant her a more powerful one in England. — But I think, my Lydia, that thy mother will survive me — do not deject her spirits with thy apprehensions on my account. — I have sent you a necklace, buckles, and the same to your mother. — My girl cannot form a wish that is in the power of her father, that he will not gratify her in — and I cannot in justice be less kind to thy mother. — I am never alone — The kindness of my friends is ever the same — I wish tho’ I had thee to nurse me — but I am deny’d that. — Write to me twice a week, at least. — God bless thee, my child, and believe me ever, ever thy
Affectionate father, L. S.
LETTER CXVI. TO MRS. J — .
Tuesday.
YOUR poor friend is scarce able to write — he has been at death’s door this week with a pleurisy — I was bled three times on Thursday, and blister’d on Friday — The physician says I am better — God knows, for I feel myself sadly wrong, and shall, if I recover, be a long while of gaining strength. — Before I have gone thro’ half this letter, I must stop to rest my weak hand above a dozen times. — Mr. J — was so good to call upon me yesterday. I felt emotions not to be described at the sight of him, and he overjoy’d me by talking a great deal of you. — Do, dear Mrs. J — , entreat him to come tomorrow, or next day, for perhaps I have not many days, or hours, to live — I want to ask a favour of him, if I find myself worse — that I shall beg of you, if in this wrestling I come off conqueror — my spirits are fled— ’tis a bad omen — do not weep my dear Lady — your tears are too precious to shed for me — bottle them up, and may the cork never be drawn. — Dearest, kindest, gentlest, and best of women! may health, peace, and happiness prove your handmaids. — If I die, cherish the remembrance of me, and forget the follies which you so often condemn’d — which my heart, not my head betray’d me into. Should my child, my Lydia want a mother, may I hope you will (if she is left parentless) take her to your bosom? — You are the only woman on earth I can depend upon for such a benevolent action. — I wrote to her a fortnight ago, and told her what I trust she will find in you. — Mr. J — will be a father to her — he will protect her from every insult, for he wears a sword which he has served his country with, and which he would know how to draw out of the scabbard in defence of innocence — Commend me to him — as I now commend you to that Being who takes under his care the good and kind part of the world. — Adieu — all grateful thanks to you and Mr. J — .
Your poor affectionate friend, L. STERNE.
LETTER CXVII. TO MR. B.
Exeter, July, 1775.
SIR,
THIS was quite an Impromptu of Yorick’s after he had been thoroughly soused. — He drew it up in a few moments without stopping his pen. I should be glad to see it in your intended collection of Mr. Sterne’s memoirs, &c. If you should have a copy of it, you will be able to rectify a misapplication of a term that Mr. Sterne could never be guilty of, as one great excellence of his writings lies in the most happy choice of metaphors and allusions — such as shewed his philosophic judgement, at the same time that they displayed his wit and genius — but it is not for me to comment on, or correct so great an original. I should have sent this fragment as soon as I saw Mrs. Medalle’s advertisement, had I not been at a distance from my papers. I expect much entertainment from this posthumous work of a man to whom no one is more indebted for amusement and instruction, than,
Sir,
Your humble servant, S. P.
AN IMPROMPTU.
No — not one farthing would I give for such a coat in wet weather, or dry — If the sun shines you are sure of being melted, because it closes so tight about one — if it rains it is no more a defence than a cobweb — a very sieve, o’ my conscience! that lets through every drop, and like many other things that are put on only for a cover, mortifies you with disappointment and makes you curse the impostor, when it is too late to avail one’s self of the discovery. Had I been wise I should have examined the claim the coat had to the title of
“defender of the body”
— before I had trusted my body in it — I should have held it up to the light like other suspicious matters I have seen, how much it was likely to admit of that which I wanted to keep out — whether it was no more than such a frail, flimsy contexture of flesh and blood, as I am fated to carry about with me through every tract of this dirty world, could have comfortably and safely dispensed within so short a journey — taking into my account the chance of spreading trees — thick hedges o’erhanging the road — with twenty other coverts that a man may thrust his head under — if he is not violently pushed on by that d — d stimulus — you know where — that will not let a man sit still in one place for half a minute together — but like a young nettlesome tit is eternally on the fret, and is for pushing on still farther — or if the poor scared devil is not hunted tantivy by a hue and cry with gives and a halter dangling before his eyes — now in other cases he has not a minute to throw away in standing still, but like king Lear must brave
“the peltings of a pitiless storm”
and give heaven leave to
“rumble its belly full — spit fire — or spout rain”
— as spitefully as it pleaseth, without finding the inclination or the resolution to slacken his pace lest something should be lost that might have been gained, or more gotten than he well knows how to get rid of — Now had I acted with as much prudence as some other good folks — I could name many of them who have been made b — ps within my remembrance for having been hooded and muffled up in a larger quantity of this dark drab of mental manufacture than ever fell to my share — and absolutely for nothing else — as will be seen when they are undressed another day — Had I had but as much as might have been taken out of their cloth without lessening much of the size, or injuring in the least the shape, or contracting aught of the doublings and foldings, or continuing to a less circumference, the superb sweep of any one cloak that any one b — p ever wrapt himself up in — I should never have given this coat a place upon my shoulders. I should have seen by the light at one glance, ho
w little it would keep out of rain, by how little it would keep in of darkness — This a coat for a rainy day? do pray madam hold it up to that window — did you ever see such an illustrious coat since the day you could distinguish between a coat and a pair of breeches? — My lady did not understand derivatives, and so she could not see quite through my splendid pun. Pope Sixtus would have blinded her with the same
“darkness of excessive light.”
What a flood of it breaks in thro’ this rent? what an irradiation beams through that? what twinklings — what sparklings as you wave it before your eyes in the broad face of the sun? Make a fan out of it for the ladies to look at their gallants with at church — It has not served me for one purpose — it will serve them for two — This is coarse stuff — of worse manufacture than the cloth — put it to its proper use, for I love when things sort and join well — make a philtre of it — while there is a drop to be extracted — I know but one thing in the world that will draw, drain, or suck like it — and that is — neither wool nor flax — make — make any thing of it, but a vile, hypocritical coat for me — for I never can say sub Jove (whatever Juno might) that
Complete Works of Laurence Sterne Page 113
