upon me, as I look up to it. I am just returned from our dear
Mrs. James’s, where I have been talking of thee for three
hours.—She has got your picture, and likes it: but Marriot, and
some other judges, agree that mine is the better, and expressive
of a sweeter character. But what is that to the original? yet I
acknowledge that hers is a picture for the world, and mine is
calculated only to please a very sincere friend, or sentimental
philosopher.—In the one, you are dressed in smiles, with all the
advantages of silks, pearls, and ermine;—in the other, simple as
a vestal—appearing the good girl nature made you;—which, to me,
conveys an idea of more unaffected sweetness, than Mrs. Draper,
habited for conquest, in a birthday suit, with her countenance
animated, and her dimples visible.—If I remember right, Eliza,
you endeavoured to collect every charm of your person into your
face, with more than _common_ care, the day you sat for Mrs.
James—Your colour, too, brightened; and your eyes shone with
more than usual brilliancy. I then requested you to come simple
and unadorned when you sat for me—knowing (as I see with
_unprejudiced_ eyes) that you could receive no addition from the
silk-worm’s aid, or jeweller’s polish. Let me now tell you a
truth, which, I believe, I have uttered before.—When I first saw
you, I beheld you as an object of compassion, and as a very
plain woman. The mode of your dress (tho’ fashionable)
disfigured you.—But nothing now could render you such, but the
being solicitous to make yourself admired as a handsome one.—You
are not handsome, Eliza, nor is yours a face that will please
the tenth part of your beholders,—but are something more; for I
scruple not to tell you, I never saw so intelligent, so
animated, so good a countenance; nor was there (nor ever will
be), that man of sense, tenderness, and feeling, in your company
three hours, that was not (or will not be) your admirer, or
friend, in consequence of it; that is, if you assume, or
assumed, no character foreign to your own, but appeared the
artless being nature designed you for. A something in your eyes,
and voice, you possess in a degree more persuasive than any
woman I ever saw, read, or heard of. But it is that bewitching
sort of nameless excellence, that men of nice sensibility alone
can be touched with.
Were your husband in England, I would freely give him five
hundred pounds (if money could purchase the acquisition), to let
you only sit by me two hours in a day, while I wrote my
Sentimental Journey. I am sure the work would sell so much the
better for it, that I should be reimbursed the sum more than
seven times told.—I would not give nine pence for the picture of
you, the Newnhams have got executed—It is the resemblance of a
conceited, made-up coquette. Your eyes, and the shape of your
face (the latter the most perfect oval I ever saw), which are
perfections that must strike the most indifferent judge, because
they are equal to any of GOD’S works in a similar way, and finer
than any I beheld in all my travels, are manifestly injured by
the affected leer of the one, and strange appearance of the
other; owing to the attitude of the head, which is a proof of
the artist’s, or your friend’s false taste. The ****’s, who
verify the character I once gave of teazing, or sticking like
pitch, or bird-lime, sent a card that they would wait on Mrs.
**** on Friday.—She sent back, she was engaged.—Then to meet at
Ranelagh, to night.—She answered, she did not go.—She says, if
she allows the least footing, she never shall get rid of the
acquaintance; which she is resolved to drop at once. She knows
them. She knows they are not her friends, nor yours; and the
first use they would make of being with her, would be to
sacrifice you to her (if they could) a second time. Let her not
then; let her not, my dear, be a greater friend to thee, than
thou art to thyself. She begs I will reiterate my request to
you, that you will not write to them. It will give her, and thy
Bramin, inexpressible pain. Be assured, all this is not without
reason on her side. I have my reasons too; the first of which
is, that I should grieve to excess, if Eliza wanted that
fortitude her Yorick has built so high upon. I said I never more
would mention the name to thee; and had I not received it, as a
kind of charge, from a dear woman that loves you, I should not
have broke my word. I will write again to morrow to thee, thou
best and most endearing of girls! A peaceful night to thee. My
spirit will be with thee through every watch of it.
Adieu.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
LETTER VII.
I Think you could act no otherwise than you did with the young
soldier. There was no shutting the door against him, either in
politeness or humanity. Thou tellest me he seems susceptible of
tender impressions: and that before Miss Light has sailed a
fortnight, he will be in love with her.—Now I think it a
thousand times more likely that he attaches himself to thee,
Eliza; because thou art a thousand times more amiable. Five
months with Eliza; and in the same room; and an amorous son of
Mars besides!—“_It can no be, masser._” The sun, if he could
avoid it, would not shine upon a dunghill; but his rays are so
pure, Eliza, and celestial,—I never heard that they were
polluted by it.—Just such will thine be, dearest child, in this,
and every such situation you will be exposed to, till thou art
fixed for life.—But thy discretion, thy wisdom, thy honour, the
spirit of thy Yorick, and thy own spirit, which is equal to it,
will be thy ablest counsellors.
Surely, by this time, something is doing for thy
accommodation.—But why may not clean washing and rubbing do,
instead of painting your cabin, as it is to be hung? Paint is so
pernicious, both to your nerves and lungs, and will keep you so
much longer too, out of your apartment; where, I hope, you will
pass some of your happiest hours.—
I fear the best of your ship-mates are only genteel by
comparison with the contrasted crew, with which thou must behold
them. So was—you know who!—from the same fallacy that was put
upon the judgment, when—but I will not mortify you. If they are
decent, and distant, it is enough; and as much as is to be
expected. If any of them are more, I rejoice;—thou wilt want
every aid; and ’tis thy due to have them. Be cautious only, my
dear, of intimacies. Good hearts are open, and fall naturally
into them. Heaven inspire thine with fortitude, in this, and
every deadly trial! Best of GOD’S works, farewell! Love me, I
beseech thee; and remember me for ever!
I am, my Eliza, and will ever be, in the most comprehensive
sense,
Thy friend,
YORICK.
P.S. Probably you will have an opportunity of writing to me by
some Dutch or French ship, or from the Cape de Verd Islands—it
will reach me some how.—
------------------------------------------------------------------------
LETTER VIII.
MY DEAR ELIZA!
OH! I grieve for your cabin.—And the fresh painting will be
enough to destroy every nerve about thee. Nothing so pernicious
as white lead. Take care of yourself, dear girl; and sleep not
in it too soon. It will be enough to give you a stroke of an
epilepsy.
I hope you will have left the ship; and that my Letters may
meet, and greet you, as you get out of your postchaise, at
Deal.—When you have got them all, put them, my dear, into some
order.—The first eight or nine, are numbered: but I wrote the
rest without that direction to thee; but thou wilt find them
out, by the day or hour, which, I hope, I have generally
prefixed to them. When they are got together, in chronological
order, sew them together under a cover. I trust they will be a
perpetual refuge to thee, from time to time; and that thou wilt
(when weary of fools, and uninteresting discourse) retire, and
converse an hour with them, and me.
I have not had power, or the heart, to aim at enlivening any one
of them, with a single stroke of wit or humour; but they contain
something better; and what you will feel more suited to your
situation—a long detail of much advice, truth, and knowledge. I
hope, too, you will perceive loose touches of an honest heart,
in every one of them; which speak more than the most studied
periods; and will give thee more ground of trust and reliance
upon Yorick, than all that laboured eloquence could supply. Lean
then thy whole weight, Eliza, upon them and upon me. “May
poverty, distress, anguish, and shame, be my portion, if ever I
give thee reason to repent the knowledge of me.”——With this
asseveration, made in the presence of a just God, I pray to him,
that so it may speed with me, as I deal candidly, and honourably
with thee! I would not mislead thee, Eliza; I would not injure
thee, in the opinion of a single individual, for the richest
crown the proudest monarch wears.
Remember, that while I have life and power, whatever is mine,
you may style, and think, yours.—Though sorry should I be, if
ever my friendship was put to the test thus, for your own
delicacy’s sake.—Money and counters are of equal use, in my
opinion; they both serve to set up with.
I hope you will answer me this letter; but if thou art debarred
by the elements, which hurry thee away, I will write one for
thee; and knowing it is such a one as thou would’st have
written, I will regard it as my Eliza’s.
Honour, and happiness, and health, and comforts of every kind,
sail along with thee, thou most worthy of girls! I will live for
thee, and my Lydia—be rich for the dear children of my
heart—gain wisdom, gain fame, and happiness, to share with
them—with thee—and her, in my old age.—Once for all, adieu.
Preserve thy life; steadily pursue the ends we proposed; and let
nothing rob thee of those powers Heaven has given thee for thy
well-being.
What can I add more, in the agitation of mind I am in, and
within five minutes of the last postman’s bell, but recommend
thee to Heaven, and recommend myself to Heaven with thee, in the
same fervent ejaculation, “that we may be happy, and meet again;
if not in this world, in the next.”—Adieu,—I am thine, Eliza,
affectionately, and everlastingly,
YORICK.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
LETTER IX.
I Wish to God, Eliza, it was possible to postpone the voyage to
India, for another year.—For I am firmly persuaded within my own
heart, that thy husband could never limit thee with regard to
time.
I fear that Mr. B—— has exaggerated matters.—I like not his
countenance. It is absolutely killing.—Should evil befal thee,
what will he not have to answer for? I know not the being that
will be deserving of so much pity, or that I shall hate more. He
will be an outcast, alien—In which case I will be a father to
thy children, my good girl!—therefore take no thought about
them.—
But, Eliza, if thou art so very ill, still put off all thoughts
of returning to India this year.—Write to your husband—tell him
the truth of your case.—If he is the generous, humane man you
describe him to be, he cannot but applaud your conduct.—I am
credibly informed, that his repugnance to your living in England
arises only from the dread, which has entered his brain, that
thou mayest run him in debt, beyond thy appointments, and that
he must discharge them—that such a creature should be sacrificed
for the paltry consideration of a few hundreds, is too, too
hard! Oh! my child! that I could, with propriety indemnify him
for every charge, even to the last mite, that thou hast been of
to him! With joy would I give him my whole subsistence—nay,
sequester my livings, and trust the treasures Heaven has
furnished my head with, for a future subsistence.—
You owe much, I allow, to your husband,—you owe something to
appearances, and the opinion of the world; but, trust me, my
dear, you owe much likewise to yourself.—Return therefore, from
Deal, if you continue ill.—I will prescribe for you, gratis.—You
are not the first woman, by many, I have done so for, with
success. I will send for my wife and daughter, and they shall
carry you, in pursuit of health, to Montpelier, the wells of
Bancois, the Spa, or whither thou wilt. Thou shalt direct them,
and make parties of pleasure in what corner of the world fancy
points out to thee. We shall fish upon the banks of Arno, and
lose ourselves in the sweet labyrinths of its vallies.—And then
thou shouldst warble to us, as I have once or twice heard
thee.—“I’m lost, I’m lost”—but we should find thee again, my
Eliza.—Of a similar nature to this, was your physician’s
prescription: “Use gentle exercise, the pure southern air of
France, or milder Naples—with the society of friendly, gentle
beings.” Sensible man! He certainly entered into your feelings.
He knew the fallacy of medicine to a creature, whose ILLNESS HAS
ARISEN FROM THE AFFLICTION OF HER MIND. Time only, my dear, I
fear you must trust to, and have your reliance on; may it give
you the health so enthusiastic a votary to the charming goddess
deserves.
I honour you, Eliza, for keeping secret some things, which if
explained, had been a panegyric on yourself. There is a dignity
in venerable affliction which will not allow it to appeal to the
world for pity or redress. Well have you supported that
character, my amiable, philosophic friend! And, indeed, I begin
to think you have as many virtues as my uncle Toby’s widow.—I
don’t mean to insinuate, hussy, that _my_ opinion is no better
founded than his was of Mrs. Wadman; nor do I conceive it
possible for any _Trim_ to convince me it is equally
fallacious.—I am sure, while I have my reason, it is
not.—Talking of widows—pray, Eliza, if ever you are such, do not
think of giving yourself to some wealthy nabob—because I design
to marry you myself.—My wife cannot live long—she has sold all
the provinces in France already—and I know not the woman I
should like so well for her substitute as yourself.—’Tis true, I
am ninety-five in constitution, and you but twenty-five—rather
too great a disparity this!—but what I want in youth, I will
make up in wit and good humour.—Not Swift so loved his Stella,
Scarron his Maintenon, or Waller his Sacharissa, as I will love,
and sing thee, my wife elect! All those names, eminent as they
were, shall give place to thine, Eliza. Tell me, in answer to
this, that you approve and honour the proposal, and that you
would (like the Spectator’s mistress) have more joy in putting
on an old man’s slipper, than associating with the gay, the
voluptuous, and the young.—Adieu, my Simplicia!
Yours,
TRISTRAM.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
LETTER X.
MY DEAR ELIZA!
I Have been within the verge of the gates of death.—I was ill
the last time I wrote to you, and apprehensive of what would be
the consequence.—My fears were but too well founded; for, in ten
minutes after I dispatched my letter, this poor, fine-spun frame
of Yorick’s gave way, and I broke a vessel in my breast, and
could not stop the loss of blood till four this morning. I have
filled all thy India handkerchiefs with it.—It came, I think,
from my heart! I fell asleep through weakness. At six I awoke,
with the bosom of my shirt steeped in tears. I dreamt I was
sitting under the canopy of Indolence, and that thou earnest
into the room, with a shaul in thy hand, and told me, my spirit
had flown to thee in the Downs, with tidings of my fate; and
that you were come to administer what consolation filial
affection could bestow, and to receive my parting breath and
blessing.—With that you folded the shaul about my waist, and,
kneeling, supplicated my attention. I awoke; but in what a
frame! Oh! my God! “But thou wilt number my tears, and put them
all into thy bottle.”—Dear girl! I see thee,—thou art for ever
present to my fancy,—embracing my feeble knees, and raising thy
fine eyes to bid me be of comfort: and when I talk to Lydia, the
words of Esau, as uttered by thee, perpetually ring in my
ears—“Bless _me_ even also, my father!”—Blessing attend thee,
thou child of my heart!
My bleeding is quite stopped, and I feel the principle of life
strong within me; so be not alarmed, Eliza—I know I shall do
well. I have eat my breakfast with hunger; and I write to thee
with a pleasure arising from that prophetic impression in my
imagination, that “all will terminate to our heart’s content.”
Comfort thyself eternally with this persuasion, “that the best
of beings (as thou hast sweetly expressed it) could not, by a
combination of accidents, produce such a chain of events, merely
to be the source of misery to the leading person engaged in
them.” The observation was very applicable, very good, and very
elegantly expressed. I wish my memory did justice to the wording
of it.—Who taught you the art of writing so sweetly, Eliza?—You
have absolutely exalted it to a science! When I am in want of
ready cash, and ill health will permit my genius to exert
itself, I shall print your letters, as finished essays, “by an
unfortunate Indian lady.” The style is new; and would almost be
a sufficient recommendation for their selling well, without
merit—but their sense, natural ease, and spirit, is not to be
equalled, I believe, in this section of the globe; nor, I will
answer for it, by any of your country-women in yours.—I have
shewed your letter to Mrs. B—, and to half the literati in
town.—You shall not be angry with me for it, because I meant to
do you honour by it.—You cannot imagine how many admirers your
epistolary productions have gained you, that never viewed your
external merits. I only wonder where thou could’st acquire thy
graces, thy goodness, thy accomplishments—so connected! so
educated! Nature has surely studied to make thee her peculiar
care—for thou art (and not in my eyes alone) the best and
fairest of all her works.—
And so this is the last letter thou art to receive from me;
because the Earl of Chatham[20] (I read in the papers) is got to
the Downs; and the wind, I find, is fair. If so—blessed woman!
take my last, last farewell!—Cherish the remembrance of me;
think how I esteem, nay how affectionately I love thee, and what
a price I set upon thee! Adieu, adieu! and with my adieu—let me
give thee one streight rule of conduct, that thou hast heard
from my lips in a thousand forms—but I concenter it in one word,
REVERENCE THYSELF.
Adieu, once more, Eliza! May no anguish of heart plant a wrinkle
upon thy face, till I behold it again! May no doubt or
misgivings disturb the serenity of thy mind, or awaken a painful
thought about thy children—for they are Yorick’s—and Yorick is
thy friend for ever!—Adieu, adieu, adieu!
P.S. Remember, that Hope shortens all journies, by sweetening
them—so sing my little stanza on the subject, with the devotion
of an hymn, every morning when thou arisest, and thou wilt eat
thy breakfast with more comfort for it.
Blessings, rest, and Hygeia go with thee! May’st thou soon
return, in peace and affluence, to illumine my night! I am, and
shall be, the last to deplore thy loss, and will be the first to
congratulate and hail thy return.—
FARE THEE WELL!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE JOURNAL TO ELIZA
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
Tomb of Eliza Draper in Bristol Cathedral.
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE JOURNAL TO ELIZA
THIS Journal wrote under the fictitious names of Yorick & Draper—and
sometimes of the Bramin & Bramine—but ’tis a Diary of the miserable
feelings of a person separated from a Lady for whose Society he
languish’d—The real Names—are foreign—& the acc^t. a copy from a french
Mans^t.—in M^r. S——’s hands—but wrote as it is, to cast a Viel over
them—There is a Counterpart—which is the Lady’s acc^t. what transactions
daily happend—& what Sentiments occupied her mind, during this
Separation from her admirer—these are worth reading—the translator
cannot say so much in fav^r. of Yoricks which seem to have little merit
beyond their honesty & truth.[21]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTINUATION OF THE BRAMINES JOURNAL.
([S]he saild 23[22])
Sunday Ap: 13.[23]
WROTE the last farewel to Eliza by M^r. Wats who sails this day for
Bombay—inclosed her likewise the Journal kept from the day we parted, to
this—so from hence continue it till the time we meet again—Eliza does
the same, so we shall have mutual testimonies to deliver hereafter to
each other, That the Sun has not more constantly rose & set upon the
earth, than we have thought of & remember’d, what is more chearing than
Light itself—eternal Sunshine! Eliza!—dark to me is all this world
without thee! & most heavily will every hour pass over my head, till
that is come w^{ch}. brings thee, dear Woman back to Albion. Dined with
Hall &c. at the brawn’s head—the whole Pandamonium assembled—supp’d
together at Halls—worn out both in body & mind, & paid a severe
reckoning all the night.
* * * * *
Ap: 14. Got up tottering & feeble—then is it Eliza, that I feel the want
of thy friendly hand & friendly Council—& yet, with thee beside me, thy
Bramin would lose the merit of his virtue—he could not err—but I will
take thee upon any terms Eliza! I shall be happy here—& I will be so
just, so kind to thee, I will deserve not to be miserable hereafter—a
Day dedicated to Abstinence & reflection—& what object will employ the
greatest part of mine—full well does my Eliza know.
* * * * *
Munday. Ap: 15.
Worn out with fevers of all kinds, but most, by that fever of the heart
with w^{ch}. I’m eternally wasting, & shall waste till I see Eliza
again—dreadful Suffering of 15 months!—it may be more—great Controuler
of Events! surely thou wilt proportion this, to my Strength, and to that
of my Eliza. Pass’d the whole afternoon in reading her Letters, &
reducing them to the order in which they were wrote to me—staid the
whole evening at home—no pleasure or Interest in either Society or
Diversions—What a change, my dear Girl, hast thou made in me!—but the
Truth is, thou hast only turn’d the tide of my passions a new way—they
flow Eliza to thee—& ebb from every other Object in this world—& Reason
tells me they do right—for my heart has rated thee at a Price, that all
the world is not rich enough to purchase thee from me, at. In a high
fever all the night.
* * * * *
Ap: 16. and got up so ill, I could not go to M^{rs}. James as I had
promised her—took James’s Powder however—& leand the whole day with my
head upon my hand, sitting most dejectedly at the Table with my Eliza’s
Picture before me—sympathizing & soothing me—O my Bramine! my Friend! my
Help-mate!—for that (if I’m a prophet) is the Lot mark’d out for thee;—&
such I consider thee now, & thence it is, Eliza, I share so righteously
with thee in all the evil or good which befalls thee—But all our portion
is Evil now, & all our hours grief—I look forwards towards the Elysium
we have so often and rapturously talk’d of—Cordelia’s spirit will fly to
tell thee in some sweet Slumber, the moment the door is open’d for thee
& The Bramin of the Vally, shall follow the track wherever it leads him,
to get to his Eliza, & invite her to his Cottage—
* * * * *
5 in the afternoon—I have just been eating my Chicking, sitting over my
repast upon it, with Tears—a bitter Sause—Eliza! but I could eat it with
no other—when Molly spread the Table Cloath, my heart fainted within
me—one solitary plate—one knife—one fork—one Glass!—O Eliza! ’twas
painfully distressing,—I gave a thousand pensive penetrating Looks at
the Arm chair thou so often graced on these quiet, sentimental Repasts—&
sighed & laid down my knife & fork,—& took out my handkerchief, clap’d
it across my face & wept like a child—I shall read the same affecting
acc^t. of many a sad Dinner w^{ch}. Eliza has had no power to taste of,
from the same feelings & recollections, how She and her Bramin have eat
their bread in peace and Love together.
* * * * *