your Lordship’s bounty, that he is, and perhaps ever must
remain, a stranger to your person, consequently no adulation is
to be apprehended from him——
* * * * *
He leaves it to the weak and oppressed, the widow and orphan, to
proclaim your Lordship’s virtues in your public capacity; that
which he would celebrate is of a private nature, namely, your
filial affection, which is so conspicuous, that he flatters
himself a Volume of Letters written by such a person as Mr.
STERNE, in which your noble father[15] is placed in a light so
truly amiable, cannot fail of engaging your Lordship’s gracious
acceptance and protection—in this hope, and upon this
foundation, he presumes to dedicate these papers to your
Lordship, and to have the honour of subscribing himself,
My Lord,
your Lordship’s
most obedient,
and most humble Servant,
THE EDITOR.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PREFACE.[16]
THE foul and infamous traffic, between dishonest booksellers, and
profligate scribblers, which has subsisted for more than a century, has
justly brought posthumous publications under suspicion, in England,
France, and more especially in Holland: ministers of state in every
European court, great generals, royal mistresses, authors of established
reputation, in a word, all such as have had the misfortune to advance
themselves to eminence, have been obliged to leave behind them parcels
of letters, and other memoirs, of the most secret and important
transactions of their times, in which, every fact beyond the information
of a news-paper, or coffee-house chat, is so faithfully misrepresented,
every character delineated with such punctual deviation from the truth,
and causes and effects which have no possible relation, are with such
amazing effrontery obtruded upon the public, that it is no wonder if men
of sense, who read for instruction as well as entertainment, generally
condemn them in the lump, never, or very rarely, affording them the
honour of a perusal,—the publisher of these letters, however, has not
the smallest apprehension that any part of this well grounded censure
can fall to his share; he deals not in surprising events to astonish the
reader, nor in characters (one excepted) which have figured on the great
theatre of the world; he purposely waves all proofs which might be drawn
concerning their authenticity, from the character of the gentleman who
had the perusal of the originals, and, with Eliza’s permission,
faithfully copied them at Bombay in the East Indies; from the testimony
of many reputable families in this city, who knew and loved Eliza,
caressed and admired Mr. Sterne, and were well acquainted with the
tender friendship between them; from many curious anecdotes in the
letters themselves, any one of which were fully sufficient to
authenticate them, and submits his reputation to the taste and
discernment of the commonest reader, who must, in one view, perceive
that these letters are genuine, beyond any possibility of doubt,—as the
public is unquestionably entitled to every kind of information
concerning the characters contained in these letters, which consists
with the duties of humanity and a good citizen, that is, a minute
acquaintance with those of whom honourable mention is made, or the
publisher is furnished with authorities to vindicate from Mr. Sterne’s
censures, which as a man of warm temper and lively imagination, he was
perhaps sometimes hurried into without due reflection, he persuades
himself that no party concerned, will or can be offended with this
publication, especially if it is considered that without such
information it would be cold and unentertaining; that by publishing
their merits he cannot be understood to intend them any injury, and
without it, he would in himself fail in his duty to the public.——Eliza,
the lady to whom these letters are addressed, is Mrs. Elizabeth Draper,
wife of Daniel Draper, Esq. counsellor at Bombay, and at present chief
of the English factory at Surat, a gentleman very much respected in that
quarter of the globe—she is by birth an East-Indian; but the
circumstance of being born in the country not proving sufficient to
defend her delicate frame against the heats of that burning climate, she
came to England for the recovery of her health, when by accident she
became acquainted with Mr. Sterne. He immediately discovered in her a
mind so congenial with his own, so enlightened, so refined, and so
tender, that their mutual attraction presently joined them in the
closest union that purity could possibly admit of; he loved her as his
friend, and prided in her as his pupil; all her concerns became
presently his; her health, her circumstances, her reputation, her
children, were his; his fortune, his time, his country, were at her
disposal, so far as the sacrifice of all or any of these might, in his
opinion, contribute to her real happiness. If it is asked whether the
glowing heat of Mr. Sterne’s affection never transported him to a flight
beyond the limits of pure Platonism, the publisher will not take upon
him absolutely to deny it; but this he thinks, so far from leaving any
stain upon that gentleman’s memory, that it perhaps includes his fairest
encomium; since to cherish the seeds of piety and chastity in a heart
which the passions are interested to corrupt, must be allowed to be the
noblest effort of a soul fraught and fortified with the justest
sentiments of religion and virtue.—Mr. and Mrs. James, so frequently and
honourably mentioned in these letters, are the worthy heads of an
opulent family in this city: their character is too well established to
need the aid of the publisher in securing the estimation they so well
deserve, and universally possess, yet he cannot restrain one
observation; that to have been respected and beloved by Mr. Sterne and
Mrs. Draper, is no inconsiderable testimony of their merit, and such as
it cannot be displeasing to them to see published to the world.——Miss
Light, now Mrs. Stratton, is on all accounts a very amiable young
lady—she was accidentally a passenger in the same ship with Eliza, and
instantly engaged her friendship and esteem; but being mentioned in one
of Mrs. Draper’s letters to Mr. Sterne, in somewhat of a comparative
manner with herself, his partiality for her, as she modestly expressed
it, took the alarm, and betrayed him into some expressions, the
coarseness of which cannot be excused. Mrs. Draper declares that this
lady was entirely unknown to him, and infinitely superior to his idea of
her: she has been lately married to George Stratton, Esq. counsellor at
Madrass.—The manner in which Mr. Sterne’s acquaintance with the
celebrated Lord Bathurst, the friend and companion of Addison, Swift,
Pope, Steele, and all the finest wits of the last age, commenced, cannot
fail to attract the attention of the curious reader: here, that great
man is social and unreserved, unshackled with that sedulity in
supporting a feigned character which exposes most of his rank to the
contempt of wise men, and the ridicule of their valets de chambre; here
he appears the same as in his hours of festivity and happiness with
Swift and Addison, superior to forms and ceremonies, and, in his
eighty-fifth year, abounding in wit, vivacity, and humanity: methinks,
the pleasure of such a gentleman’s acquaintance resembles that of
conversing with superior beings; but it is not fit to dwell longer on
this pleasing topic, lest it should anticipate the reader’s pleasure in
perusing the letter itself. One remark however it suggests, which may be
useful to old men in general, namely, that it appears by his Lordship’s
example, the sour contracted spirit observable in old age, is not
specifically an effect of years, altho’ they are commonly pleaded in its
excuse. Old men would therefore do well to correct this odious quality
in themselves; or, if that must not be, to invent a better apology for
it. It is very much to be lamented, that Eliza’s modesty was invincible
to all the publisher’s endeavours to obtain her answers to these
letters: her wit, penetration, and judgment, her happiness in the
epistolary style, so rapturously recommended by Mr. Sterne, could not
fail to furnish a rich entertainment for the public. The publisher could
not help telling her, that he wished to God she was really possessed of
that vanity with which she was charged; to which she replied, that she
was so far from acquitting herself of vanity, that she suspected that to
be the cause why she could not prevail on herself to submit her letters
to the public eye; for altho’ Mr. Sterne was partial to every thing of
her’s, she could not hope that the world would be so too. With this
answer he was obliged to be contented; yet cannot reflect without deep
concern, that this elegant accomplishment, so peculiarly adapted to the
refined and delicate understandings of ladies should be yet so rare,
that we can boast of only one Lady Wortley Montagu among us; and that
Eliza, in particular, could not be prevailed on to follow the example of
that admired lady.—The reader will remark that these letters have
various signatures; sometimes he signs Sterne, sometimes Yorick, and to
one or two he signs Her Bramin. Altho’ it is pretty generally known who
the Bramins are, yet lest any body should be at a loss, it may not be
amiss to observe, that the principal cast or tribe among the idolatrous
Indians are the Bramins, and out of the chief class of this cast comes
the priests so famous for their austerities, and the shocking torments,
and frequently death, they voluntarily expose themselves to, on a
religious account. Now, as Mr. Sterne was a clergyman, and Eliza an
Indian by birth, it was customary with her to call him her Bramin, which
he accordingly, in his pleasant moods, uses as a signature.——
* * * * *
It remains only to take some notice of the family, marked with
asterisks, on whom Mr. Sterne has thought proper to shed the bitterest
gall of his pen. It is however evident, even from some passages in the
letters themselves, that Mrs. Draper could not be easily prevailed on to
see this family in the same odious light in which they appeared to her
perhaps over-zealous friend. He, in the heat, or I may say, hurry of his
affection, might have accepted suspicious circumstances as real
evidences of guilt, or listened too unguardedly to the insinuations of
their enemies.
* * * * *
Be that as it may, as the publisher is not furnished with sufficient
authorities to exculpate them, he chuses to drop the ungrateful subject,
heartily wishing, that this family may not only be innocent of the
shocking treachery with which they are charged, but may be able to make
their innocence appear clearly to the world; otherwise, that no person
may be industrious enough to make known their name.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
LETTERS
FROM
YORICK TO ELIZA
LETTER I.[17]
ELIZA will receive my books with this. The sermons came all hot
from the heart: I wish that I could give them any title to be
offered to yours.—The others came from the head—I am more
indifferent about their reception.
I know not how it comes about, but I am half in love with you—I
ought to be wholly so; for I never valued (or saw more good
qualities to value) or thought more of one of your sex than of
you; so adieu.
Yours faithfully,
if not affectionately,
L. STERNE.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
LETTER II.
I Cannot rest, Eliza, though I shall call on you at half past
twelve, till I know how you do—May thy dear face smile, as thou
risest, like the sun of this morning. I was much grieved to hear
of your alarming indisposition yesterday; and disappointed too,
at not being let in.—Remember, my dear, that a friend has the
same right as a physician. The etiquettes of this town (you’ll
say) say otherwise.—No matter! Delicacy and propriety do not
always consist in observing their frigid doctrines.
I am going out to breakfast, but shall be at my lodgings by
eleven; when I hope to read a single line under thy own hand,
that thou art better, and wilt be glad to see thy Bramin.
9 o’clock.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
LETTER III.
I Got thy letter last night, Eliza, on my return from Lord
Bathurst’s, where I dined, and where I was heard (as I talked of
thee an hour without intermission) with so much pleasure and
attention, that the good old Lord toasted your health three
different times; and now he is in his eighty-fifth year, says he
hopes to live long enough to be introduced as a friend to my
fair Indian disciple, and to see her eclipse all other
nabobesses as much in wealth, as she does already in exterior
and (what is far better) in interior merit. I hope so too. This
nobleman is an old friend of mine.—You know he was always the
protector of men of wit and genius; and has had those of the
last century, Addison, Steele, Pope, Swift, Prior, &c. &c.
always at his table.—The manner in which his notice began of me,
was as singular as it was polite.—He came up to me, one day, as
I was at the Princess of Wales’s court. “I want to know you, Mr.
Sterne; but it is fit you should know, also, who it is that
wishes this pleasure. You have heard, continued he, of an old
Lord Bathurst, of whom your Popes and Swifts have sung and
spoken so much: I have lived my life with geniuses of that cast;
but have survived them; and, despairing ever to find their
equals, it is some years since I have closed my accounts, and
shut up my books, with thoughts of never opening them again; but
you have kindled a desire in me of opening them once more before
I die; which I now do; so go home and dine with me.”—This
nobleman, I say, is a prodigy; for at eighty-five he has all the
wit and promptness of a man of thirty. A disposition to be
pleased, and a power to please others beyond whatever I knew:
added to which, a man of learning, courtesy, and feeling.
He heard me talk of thee, Eliza, with uncommon satisfaction; for
there was only a third person, and of sensibility, with us.—And
a most sentimental afternoon, ’till nine o’clock, have we
passed! But thou, Eliza, wert the star that conducted and
enliven’d the discourse.—And when I talked not of thee, still
didst thou fill my mind, and warmed every thought I uttered; for
I am not ashamed to acknowledge I greatly miss thee.—Best of all
good girls! the sufferings I have sustained the whole night on
account of thine, Eliza, are beyond my power of words.—Assuredly
does Heaven give strength proportioned to the weight he lays
upon us! Thou hast been bowed down, my child, with every burden
that sorrow of heart, and pain of body, could inflict upon a
poor being; and still thou tellest me, thou art beginning to get
ease;—thy fever gone, thy sickness, the pain in thy side
vanishing also.—May every evil so vanish that thwarts Eliza’s
happiness, or but awakens thy fears for a moment!—Fear nothing,
my dear!—Hope every thing; and the balm of this passion will
shed its influence on thy health, and make thee enjoy a spring
of youth and chearfulness, more than thou hast hardly yet
tasted.
And so thou hast fixed thy Bramin’s portrait over thy
writing-desk; and wilt consult it in all doubts and
difficulties.——Grateful and good girl! Yorick smiles contentedly
over all thou dost; his picture does not do justice to his own
complacency!
Thy sweet little plan and distribution of thy time—how worthy of
thee! Indeed, Eliza, thou leavest me nothing to direct thee in;
thou leavest me nothing to require, nothing to ask—but a
continuation of that conduct which won my esteem, and has made
me thy friend for ever.
May the roses come quick back to thy cheeks, and the rubies to
thy lips! But trust my declaration, Eliza, that thy husband (if
he is the good, feeling man I wish him) will press thee to him
with more honest warmth and affection, and kiss thy pale, poor,
dejected face, with more transport, than he would be able to do,
in the best bloom of all thy beauty;—and so he ought, or I pity
him. He must have strange feelings, if he knows not the value of
such a creature as thou art!
I am glad Miss Light[18] goes with you. She may relieve you from
many anxious moments.—I am glad your ship-mates are friendly
beings. You could least dispense with what is contrary to your
own nature, which is soft and gentle, Eliza.—It would civilize
savages.—Though pity were it thou shouldst be tainted with the
office! How canst thou make apologies for thy last letter? ’tis
most delicious to me, for the very reason you excuse it. Write
to me, my child, only such. Let them speak the easy carelessness
of a heart that opens itself, any how, and every how, to a man
you ought to esteem and trust. Such, Eliza, I write to thee,—and
so I should ever live with thee, most artlessly, most
affectionately, if Providence permitted thy residence in the
same section of the globe; for I am, all that honour and
affection can make me,
Thy Bramin.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
LETTER IV.
I Write this, Eliza, at Mr. James’s, whilst he is dressing, and
the dear girl, his wife, is writing, beside me, to thee.—I got
your melancholy billet before we sat down to dinner. ’Tis
melancholy indeed, my dear, to hear so piteous an account of thy
sickness! Thou art encountered with evils enow, without that
additional weight! I fear it will sink thy poor soul, and body
with it, past recovery—Heaven supply thee with fortitude! We
have talked of nothing but thee, Eliza, and of thy sweet
virtues, and endearing conduct, all the afternoon. Mrs. James,
and thy Bramin, have mixed their tears a hundred times, in
speaking of thy hardships, thy goodness, thy graces.—The ****’s,
by heavens, are worthless! I have heard enough to tremble at the
articulation of the name.—How could you, Eliza, leave them (or
suffer them to leave you rather) with impressions the least
favourable? I have told thee enough to plant disgust against
their treachery to thee, to the last hour of thy life! Yet
still, thou toldest Mrs. James at last, that thou believest they
affectionately love thee.—Her delicacy to my Eliza, and true
regard to her ease of mind, have saved thee from hearing more
glaring proofs of their baseness—For God’s sake write not to
them; nor foul thy fair character with such polluted
hearts.—_They_ love thee! What proof? Is it their actions that
say so? or their zeal for those attachments, which do thee
honour, and make thee happy? or their tenderness for thy fame?
No—But they _weep_, and say _tender things_.—Adieu to all such
for ever. Mrs. James’s honest heart revolts against the idea of
ever returning them one visit.—I honour her, and I honour thee,
for almost every act of thy life, but this blind partiality for
an unworthy being.
Forgive my zeal, dear girl, and allow me a right which arises
only out of that fund of affection I have, and shall preserve
for thee to the hour of my death! Reflect, Eliza, what are my
motives for perpetually advising thee? think whether I can have
any, but what proceed from the cause I have mentioned! I think
you are a very deserving woman; and that you want nothing but
firmness, and a better opinion of yourself, to be the best
female character I know. I wish I could inspire you with a share
of that vanity your enemies lay to your charge (though to me it
has never been visible); because I think, in a well-turned mind,
it will produce good effects.
I probably shall never see you more; yet I flatter myself you’ll
sometimes think of me with pleasure; because you must be
convinced I love you, and so interest myself in your rectitude,
that I had rather hear of any evil befalling you, than your want
of reverence for yourself. I had not power to keep this
remonstrance in my breast.—It’s now out; so adieu. Heaven watch
over my Eliza!
Thine,
YORICK.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
LETTER V.
TO whom should Eliza apply in her distress, but to her friend
who loves her? why then, my dear, do you apologize for employing
me? Yorick would be offended, and with reason, if you ever sent
commissions to another, which he could execute. I have been with
Zumps[19]; and your piano forté must be tuned from the brass
middle string of your guittar, which is C.—I have got you a
hammer too, and a pair of plyers to twist your wire with; and
may every one of them, my dear, vibrate sweet comfort to my
hopes! I have bought you ten handsome brass screws, to hang your
necessaries upon: I purchased twelve; but stole a couple from
you to put up in my own cabin, at Coxwould—I shall never hang,
or take my hat off one of them, but I shall think of you. I have
bought thee, moreover, a couple of iron screws, which are more
to be depended on than brass, for the globes.
I have written, also, to Mr. Abraham Walker, pilot at Deal, that
I had dispatched these in a packet, directed to his care; which
I desired he would seek after, the moment the Deal machine
arrived. I have, moreover, given him directions, what sort of an
arm-chair you would want, and have directed him to purchase the
best that Deal could afford, and take it, with the parcel, in
the first boat that went off. Would I could, Eliza, so supply
all thy wants, and all thy wishes! It would be a state of
happiness to me.—The journal is as it should be—all but its
contents. Poor, dear, patient being! I do more than pity you;
for I think I lose both firmness and philosophy, as I figure to
myself your distresses. Do not think I spoke last night with too
much asperity of ****; there was cause; and besides, a good
heart ought not to love a bad one; and, indeed, cannot. But,
adieu to the ungrateful subject.
I have been this morning to see Mrs. James—She loves thee
tenderly, and unfeignedly.—She is alarmed for thee—She says thou
looked’st most ill and melancholy on going away. She pities
thee. I shall visit her every Sunday, while I am in town. As
this may be my last letter, I earnestly bid thee farewell.—May
the God of Kindness be kind to thee, and approve himself thy
protector, now thou art defenceless! And, for thy daily comfort,
bear in thy mind this truth, that whatever measure of sorrow and
distress is thy portion, it will be repaid to thee in a full
measure of happiness, by the Being thou hast wisely chosen for
thy eternal friend.
Farewell, farewell, Eliza; whilst I live, count upon me as the
most warm and disinterested of earthly friends.
YORICK.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
LETTER VI.
MY DEAREST ELIZA!
I Began a new journal this morning; you shall see it; for if I
live not till your return to England, I will leave it you as a
legacy. ’Tis a sorrowful page; but I will write cheerful ones;
and could I write letters to thee, they should be cheerful ones
too: but few, I fear, will reach thee! However, depend upon
receiving something of the kind by every post; till then, thou
wavest thy hand, and bid’st me write no more.
Tell me how you are; and what sort of fortitude Heaven inspires
you with. How are you accommodated, my dear? Is all right?
Scribble away, any thing, and every thing to me. Depend upon
seeing me at Deal, with the James’s, should you be detained
there by contrary winds.—Indeed, Eliza, I should with pleasure
fly to you, could I be the means of rendering you any service,
or doing you kindness. Gracious and merciful GOD! consider the
anguish of a poor girl.—Strengthen and preserve her in all the
shocks her frame must be exposed to. She is now without a
protector, but thee! Save her from all accidents of a dangerous
element, and give her comfort at the last.