of Colours & apparatus for painting:—Long Conversation about thee my
Eliza—sunk my heart w{th}. an infamous acc^t. of Draper & his detested
Character at Bombay—for what a wretch art thou hazarding thy life, my
dear friend, & what thanks is his nature capable of returning?—thou wilt
be repaid with Injuries & Insults! Still there is a blessing in store
for the meek and gentle, and Eliza will not be disinherited of it: her
Bramin is kept alive by this hope only—otherwise he is so sunk both in
Spirits and looks, Eliza would scarce know him again. Dined alone again
to day; & begin to feel a pleasure in this kind of resigned misery
arising from this situation of heart unsupported by aught but its own
tenderness—Thou owest me much Eliza!—& I will have patience; for thou
wilt pay me all—But the Demand is equal; much I owe thee, & with much
shalt thou be requited.——sent for a Chart of the Atlantic Ocean, to make
conjectures upon what part of it my Treasure was floating—O! ’tis but a
little way off—and I could venture after it in a Boat, methinks—I’m sure
I could, was I to know Eliza was in distress—but fate has chalk’d out
other roads for us—We must go on with many a weary step, each in his
separate heartless track, till Nature——
* * * * *
Ap: 18.
This day set up my Carriage,—new Subject of heartache, That Eliza is not
here to share it with me.
Bought Orm’s account of India—why? Let not my Bramine ask me—her heart
will tell her why I do this, & every Thing—
* * * * *
Ap: 19—poor sick-headed, sick hearted Yorick! Eliza has made a shadow of
thee—I am absolutely good for nothing, as every mortal is who can think
& talk but upon one thing!—how I shall rally my powers alarms me; for
Eliza thou has melted them all into one—the power of loving thee & with
such ardent affection as triumphs over all other feelings—was with our
faithful friend all the morning; & dined with her & James—What is the
Cause, that I can never talk ab^t. my Eliza to her, but I am rent in
pieces—I burst into tears a dozen different times after dinner, & such
affectionate gusts of passion, That she was ready to leave the room,—&
sympathize in private for us—I weep for you both, said she (in a
whisper,) for Eliza’s anguish is as sharp as yours—her heart as
tender—her constancy as great—heaven join your hands I’m sure
together!—James was occupied in reading a pamphlet upon the East India
affairs—so I answerd her with a kind look, a heavy sigh, and a stream of
tears—what was passing in Eliza’s breast, at this affecting
Crisis?—something kind, and pathetic,! I will lay my Life.
* * * * *
8 o’clock—retired to my room, to tell my dear this—to run back the hours
of Joy I have pass’d with her—& meditate upon those w^{ch}. are still in
reserve for Us.—By this time M^r. James tells me, You will have got as
far from me, as the Maderas—& that in two months more, you will have
doubled the Cape of good hope—I shall trace thy track every day in the
map, & not allow one hour for contrary Winds, or Currants—every engine
of nature shall work together for us—’Tis the Language of Love—& I can
speak no other. & so, good night to thee, & may the gentlest delusions
of love impose upon thy dreams, as I forbode they will, this night, on
those of thy Bramine.
* * * * *
Ap: 20. Easter Sunday.
was not disappointed—yet awoke in the most acute pain—Something Eliza is
wrong with me—you should be ill, out of Sympathy—& yet you are too ill
already—my dear friend—all day at home in extream dejection.
* * * * *
Ap: 21. The Loss of Eliza, and attention to that one Idea, brought on a
fever—a consequence, I have for some time, forseen—but had not a
sufficient Stock of cold philosophy to remedy—to satisfy my friends,
call’d in a Physician—Alas! alas! the only Physician, & who carries the
Balm of my Life along with her,—is Eliza.—why did I suffer thee to go
from me? surely thou hast more than once call’d thyself my Eliza, to the
same account—twil cost us both dear! but it could not be otherwise—We
have submitted—we shall be rewarded. ’Twas a prophetic spirit, w^{ch}.
dictated the acc^t. of Corp^l. Trim’s uneasy night when the fair Beguin
ran in his head,—for every night & almost every Slumber of mine, since
the day we parted, is a repe[ti]tion of the same description—dear Eliza!
I am very ill—very ill for thee—but I could still give thee greater
proofs of my affection, parted with 12 Ounces of blood, in order to
quiet what was left in me—’tis a vain experiment,—physicians cannot
understand this; ’tis enough for me that Eliza does—I am worn down my
dear Girl to a Shadow, & but that I’m certain thou wilt not read this,
till I’m restored—thy Yorick would not let the Winds hear his
Complaints——4 o’clock—sorrowful meal! for ’twas upon our old dish.—we
shall live to eat it, my dear Bramine, with comfort.
* * * * *
8 at night, our dear friend M^{rs}. James, from the forbodings of a good
heart, thinking I was ill; sent her maid to enquire after me—I had
alarm’d her on Saturday; & not being with her on Sunday,—her friendship
supposed the Condition I was in—She suffers most tenderly for Us, my
Eliza!—& we owe her more than all the Sex—or indeed both Sexes, if not,
all the world put together—adieu! my sweet Eliza! for this night—thy
Yorick is going to waste himself on a restless bed, where he will turn
from side to side a thousand times—& dream by Intervals of things
terrible & impossible—That Eliza is false to Yorick, or Yorick is false
to Eliza.
* * * * *
Ap: 22^d.—rose with utmost difficulty—my Physician order’d me back to
bed as soon as I had got a dish of Tea—was bled again; my arm broke
loose & I half bled to death in bed before I felt it. O! Eliza! how did
thy Bramine mourn the want of thee to tye up his wounds, & comfort his
dejected heart—still something bids me hope—and hope, I will—& it shall
be the last pleasurable sensation I part with.
* * * * *
4 o’clock. They are making my bed—how shall I be able to continue my
Journal in it?—If there remains a chasm here—think Eliza, how ill thy
Yorick must have been.—this moment rec^d. a Card from our dear friend,
beging me to take [care] of a Life so valuable to my friends—but most
so—she adds, to my poor dear Eliza.—not a word from the Newnhams! but
they had no such exhortations in their harts, to send thy Bramine—adieu
to em!
* * * * *
Ap: 23.—a poor night, and am only able to quit my bed at 4 this
afternoon—to say a word to my dear—& fulfill my engagement to her, of
letting no day pass over my head without some kind communication with
thee—faint resemblance, my dear girl, of how our days are to pass, when
one kingdom holds us—visited in bed by 40 friends, in the Course of the
Day—is not one warm affectionate call, of that friend, for whom I
sustain Life, worth ’em all?—What thinkest thou my Eliza.
* * * * *
Ap: 24.
So ill, I could not write a word all this morning—not so much, as Eliza!
farewel to thee;—I’m going——am a little better.
——so shall not depart, as I apprehended—being this morning something
better—& my Symptoms become milder, by a tolerable easy night.—and now,
if I have strength & Spirits to trail my pen down to the bottom of the
page, I have as whimsical a Story to tell you, and as comically
dis-astrous as ever befell one of our family——Shandy’s nose—his name—his
Sash-Window—are fools to it. It will serve at _least_ to amuse you. The
Injury I did myself in catching cold upon James’s pouder, fell, you must
know, upon the worst part it could—the most painful, & most dangerous of
any in the human Body—It was on this Crisis, I call’d in an able Surgeon
& with him an able physician (both my friends) to inspect my
disaster—’tis a venerial Case, cried my two Scientifick friends——’tis
impossible at least to be that, replied I—for I have had no commerce
whatever with the Sex—not even with my wife, added I, these 15 years—You
are * * * * * however my good friend, said the Surgeon, or there is no
such Case in the world—what the Devil! said I without knowing Woman—we
will not reason ab^t. it, said the Physician, but you must undergo a
course of Mercury,—I’ll lose my life first, said I—& trust to Nature, to
Time—or at the worst—to Death,—so I put an end with some Indignation to
the Conference; and determined to bear all the torments I underwent, &
ten times more rather than, submit to be treated as a _Sinner_, in a
point where I had acted like a _Saint_. Now as the father of mischief
w^d. have it, who has no pleasure like that of dishonouring the
righteous—it so fell out, That from the moment I dismiss’d my Doctors—my
pains began to rage with a violence not to be express’d, or
supported—every hour became more intolerable—I was got to bed—cried out
& raved the whole night—& was got up so near dead, That my friends
insisted upon my sending again for my Physician & Surgeon—I told them
upon the word of a man of Strict honour, They were both mistaken as to
my case—but tho’ they had reason’d wrong—they might act right—but that
sharp as my sufferings were, I felt them not so sharp as the Imputation,
w^{ch}. a venerial treatment of my case, laid me under—They answerd that
these taints of the blood laid dormant 20 years—but that they would not
reason with me in a matter wherein I was so delicate—but would do all
the office for w^{ch}. they were call’d in—& namely, to put an end to my
torment, w^{ch}. otherwise would put an end to me.—& so have I been
compell’d to surrender myself—& thus Eliza is your Yorick, y^r.
Bramine—your friend with all his sensibilities, suffering the
chastisement of the grossest Sensualist—Is it not a most ridiculous
Embarassm^t. as ever Yorick’s Spirit could be involved in—’Tis needless
to tell Eliza, that nothing but the purest consciousness of Virtue,
could have tempted Eliza’s friend to have told her this Story—Thou art
too good my Eliza to love aught but Virtue—& too discerning not to
distinguish the open character w^{ch}. bears it, from the artful &
double one w^{ch}. affects it—This, by the way, w^d. make no bad
anecdote in T. Shandy’s Life—however I thought at least it would amuse
you, in a country where _less Matters_ serve.—This has taken me three
Sittings—it ought to be a good picture—I’m more proud, That it is a true
one. In ten Days I shall be able to get out—my room always full of
friendly Visitors—& my rapper eternally going with Cards & enquiries
after me. I sh^d. be glad of the Testimonies—without the Tax.
Every thing convinces me, Eliza, We shall live to meet again—So—Take
care of y^r. health, to add to the comfort of it.
* * * * *
Ap: 25. after a tolerable night, I am able, Eliza, to sit up and hold a
discourse with the sweet Picture thou hast left behind thee of thyself,
& tell it how much I had dreaded the catastrophe, of never seeing its
dear Original more in this world—never did that look of sweet
resignation appear so eloquent as now; it has said more to my heart—&
cheard it up more effectually above little fears & _may be’s_—Than all
the Lectures of philosophy I have strength to apply to it, in my present
Debility of mind and body.—as for the latter—my men of Science, will set
it properly agoing again—tho’ upon what principles—the Wise Men of
Gotham know as much as they—If they _act right_—what is it to me, how
_wrong they think_, for finding my machine a much less tormenting one to
me than before, I become reconciled to my Situation, and to their Ideas
of it——but don’t you pity me, after all, my dearest and my best of
friends? I know to what an amount thou wilt shed over me, this tender
Tax—&’tis the Consolation springing out of that, of what a good heart it
is which pours this friendly balm on mine, That has already, & will for
ever heal every evil of my Life. And what is becoming, of my Eliza, all
this time!—where is she sailing?—what Sickness or other evils have
befallen her? I weep often my dear Girl, for thee my Imagination
surrounds them with[24]—What w^d. be the measure of my Sorrow, did I
know thou wast distressed?—adieu—adieu—& trust my dear friend—my dear
Bramine, that there still wants nothing to kill me in a few days, but
the certainty, That thou wast suffering, what I am—& yet I know thou art
ill—but when thou returnest back to England, all shall be set right—so
heaven waft thee to us upon the wings of Mercy—that is, as speedily as
the winds & tides can do thee this friendly office. This is the 7^{th}.
day That I have tasted nothing better than Water gruel—am going, at the
solicitation of Hall, to eat of a boild fowl—so he dines with me on
it—and a dish of Macaruls—
* * * * *
7 o’clock—I have drank to thy Name Eliza! everlasting peace & happiness
(for my Toast) in the first glass of Wine I have adventured to drink. My
friend has left me— & I am alone,—like thee in thy solitary Cabin after
thy return from a tasteless meal in the round house & like thee I fly to
my Journal, to tell thee, I never prized thy friendship so high, or
loved thee more—or wish’d so ardently to be a Sharer of all the weights
w^{ch}. Providence has laid upon thy tender frame—Than this moment—when
upon taking up my pen, my poor pulse quickend—my pale face glowed—and
tears stood ready in my Eyes to fall upon the paper, as I traced the
word Eliza. O Eliza! Eliza! ever best & blessed of all thy Sex! blessed
in thyself and in thy Virtues—& blessed and endearing to all who know
thee—to Me, Eliza, most so; because I _know more_ of thee than any
other—This is the true philtre by which Thou hast charm’d me & wilt for
ever charm & hold me thine, whilst Virtue & faith hold this world
together;’tis the simple Magic, by which I trust, I have won a place in
that heart of thine on w^{ch}. I depend so satisfied, That Time &
distance, or change of every thing w^{ch}. might allarm the little
hearts of little men, create no uneasy suspence in mine—It scorns to
doubt—& scorns to be doubted—’tis the only exception—where Security is
not the parent of Danger.
My Illness will keep me three weeks longer in town.—but a Journey in
less time would be hazardous, unless a short one across the Desert
w^{ch}. I should set out upon to morrow, could I carry a Medicine with
me which I was sure would prolong one month of y^r. Life—or should it
happen——
—but why make Suppositions?—when Situations happen—’tis time enough to
shew thee That thy Bramin is the truest & most friendly of mortal
Spirits, & capable of doing more for his Eliza, than his pen will suffer
him to promise.
* * * * *
Ap: 26. Slept not till three this morning—was in too delicious Society
to think of it; for I was all the time with thee besides me, talking
over the projess [_sic_] of our friendship, & turning the world into a
thousand shapes to enjoy it. got up much better for the
Conversation—found myself improved in body & mind & recruited beyond any
thing I look’d for; my Doctors, stroked their beards, & look’d ten per
C^t. wiser upon feeling my pulse, & enquiring after my Symptoms—am still
to run thro’ a Course of Van Sweeten’s corrosive Mercury, or rather Van
Sweeten’s Course of Mercury is to run thro’ me—I shall be sublimated to
an etherial Substance by the time my Eliza sees me—she must be
sublimated and uncorporated too, to be able to see me—but I was always
transparent & a Being easy to be seen thro’, or Eliza had never loved me
nor had Eliza been of any other _Cast_ herself could her Bramine have
held _Communion_ with her. hear every day from our worthy sentimental
friend—who rejoyces to think that the Name of Eliza is still to vibrate
upon Yorick’s ear—this, my dear Girl, many who loved me dispair’d
off—poor Molly who is all attention to me—& every day brings in the name
of poor M^{rs}. Draper, told me last night, that She and her Mistress
had observed, I had never held up my head, since the Day you last dined
with me—That I had seldom laughed or smiled—had gone to no
Diversions—but twice or thrice at the most, dined out—That they thought
I was broken hearted, for she never entered the room or passed by the
door, but she heard me sigh heavily—That I neither eat or slept or took
pleasure in any Thing as before, except writing——The Observation will
draw a sigh Eliza, from thy feeling heart—& yet, so thy heart w^d. wish
to have it—’tis fit in truth We suffer equally nor can it be
otherwise—when the causes of anguish in two hearts are so proportion’d,
as in ours.—; Surely—Surely—Thou art mine Eliza! for dear have have I
bought thee!
* * * * *
Ap: 27. Things go better with me, Eliza! and I shall be reestablished
soon, except in bodily weakness; not yet being able to rise from thy arm
chair, & walk to the other corner of my room, & back to it again without
fatigue—I shall double my Journey to morrow, & if the day is warm the
day after be got into my Carriage & be transported into Hyde park for
the advantage of air and exercise—wast thou but besides me, I could go
to Salt hill, I’m sure, & feel the journey short & pleasant.—another
Time! * * * * * * * —the present, alas! is not ours. I pore so much on
thy Picture—I have it _off by heart_—dear Girl—oh ’tis sweet!’tis
kind!’tis reflecting!’tis affectionate! ’tis——thine my Bramine—I say my
matins & Vespers to it—I quiet my Murmurs, by the Spirit which speaks in
it—“all will end well my Yorick.”—I declare my dear Bramine I am so
secured & wrapt up in this Belief, That I would not part with the
Imagination, of how happy I am to be with thee, for all the offers of
present Interest or Happiness the whole world could tempt me with; in
the loneliest cottage that Love & Humility ever dwelt in, with thee
along with me, I could possess more refined Content, Than in the most
glittering Court; & with thy Love & fidelity, taste truer joys, my
Eliza, & make thee also partake of more, than all the senseless parade
of this silly world could compensate to either of us—with this, I bound
all my desires & worldly views—what are they worth without Eliza? Jesus!
grant me but this, I will deserve it—I will make my Bramine as Happy, as
thy goodness wills her—I will be the Instrument of her recompense for
the sorrows & disappointments thou has suffer’d her to undergo; & if
ever I am false, unkind or un-gentle to her, so let me be dealt with by
thy Justice.
* * * * *
9 o’clock, I am preparing to go to bed my dear Girl, & first pray for
thee, & then to Idolize thee for two wakeful hours upon my pillow—I
shall after that, I find dream all night of thee, for all the day have I
done nothing but think of thee—something tells, that thou hast this day,
been employed in the same way. good night, fair Soul—& may the sweet God
of sleep close gently thy eyelids—& govern & direct thy
Slumbers—adieu—adieu, adieu!
* * * * *
Ap: 28. I was not deceived Eliza! by my presentiment that I should find
thee out in my dreams; for I have been with thee almost the whole night,
alternately soothing Thee, or telling thee my sorrows—I have rose up
comforted & strengthened—& found myself so much better, that I orderd my
Carriage, to carry me to our mutual friend—Tears ran down her cheeks
when she saw how pale & wan I was—never gentle creature sympathized more
tenderly—I beseech you, cried the good Soul, not to regard either
difficulties or expences, but fly to Eliza directly—I see you will dye
without her—save y^rself for her—how shall I look her in the face? What
can I say to her, when on her return I have to tell her, That her Yorick
is no more!—Tell her my dear friend, said I, That I will meet her in a
better world—& that I have left this, because I could not live without
her; tell Eliza, my dear friend, added I—That I died broken hearted—and
that you were a Witness to it—as I said this, She burst into the most
pathetic flood of Tears—that ever kindly Nature shed. You never beheld
so affecting a Scene—’twas too much for Nature! oh! she is good—I love
her as my Sister!—& could Eliza have been a witness, hers would have
melted down to Death & scarse have been brought back, an Extacy so
celestial & savouring of another world.—I had like to have fainted, & to
that Degree was my heart & soul affected, it was w^{th}. difficulty I
could reach the street door; I have got home, & shall lay all day upon
my Sopha—& to morrow morning my dear Girl write again to thee; for I
have not strength to drag my pen—
* * * * *
Ap: 29.
I am so ill to day, my dear, I can only tell you so—I wish I was put
into a Ship for Bombay—I wish I may otherwise hold out till the hour We
might otherwise have met—I have too many evils upon me at once—& yet I
will not faint under them—Come!—Come to me soon my Eliza & save me!
* * * * *
Ap: 30. Better to day—but am too much visited & find my strength wasted
by the attention I must give to all concern’d for me—I will go Eliza, be
it but by ten mile Journeys, home to my thatched Cottage—& there I shall
have no respit—for I shall do nothing but think of thee—and burn out
this weak Taper of Life by the flame thou hast superadded to it—fare
well my dear * * * * —to morrow begins a new month—& I hope to give thee
in it, a more sunshiny side of myself—Heaven! how is it with my Eliza—
* * * * *
May 1.
got out into the park to day—Sheba there on Horseback; pass’d twice by
her without knowing her—she stop’d the 3^d. time—to ask me how I did—I
w^d. not have askd you, Solomon! said She, but y^r. Looks affected
me—for you’re half dead I fear—I thank’d Sheba very kindly, but
w^{th}out any emotion but what sprung from gratitude—Love alas! was fled
with thee Eliza!—I did not think Sheba could have changed so much in
grace & beauty—Thou hadst shrunk poor Sheba away into Nothing, but a
good natured girl, without powers or charms—I _fear_ your wife is dead;
quoth Sheba—no, you don’t _fear_ it Sheba said I—Upon my word Solomon! I
would quarrel with You, was you not so ill—If you knew the cause of my
Illness, Sheba, replied I, you w^d. quarrel but the more with me—You
lie, Solomon! answerd Sheba, for I know the Cause already—& am so little
out of Charity with You upon it—That I give you leave to come & drink
Tea with me before you leave Town—you’re a good honest Creature
Sheba—no! you Rascal, I am not—but I’m in Love, as much as you can be
for y^r. Life—I’m glad of it Sheba! said I—You Lie, said Sheba, & so
canter’d away.—O my Eliza, had I ever truely loved another (w^{ch}. I
never did) Thou hast long ago, cut the Root of all Affection in me—&
planted & waterd & nourish’d it, to bear fruit only for thyself—Continue
to give me proofs I have had and shall preserve the same rights over
thee my Eliza! and if I ever murmur at the sufferings of Life after
that, Let me be numbered with the ungrateful.—I look now forwards with
Impatience for the day thou art to get to Madras—& from thence shall I
want to hasten thee to Bombay—where heaven will make all things Conspire
to lay the Basis of thy health & future happiness—be true my dear girl,
to thy self—& the rights of Self preservation which Nature has given
thee—persevere—be firm—be pliant—be placid—be courteous—but still be
true to thy self—& never give up y^r. Life,—or suffer the disquieting
altercations, or small outrages you may undergo in this momentous point,
to weigh a Scruple in the Ballance—Firmness—& fortitude & perseverance
gain almost impossibilities—& _Skin_ for _Skin_, saith Job, _nay all
that a Man has, will he give_ for his Life—oh my Eliza! That I could
take the Wings of the Morning, & fly to aid thee in _this_ virtuous
Struggle. went to Ranelagh at 8 this night, and sat still till ten—came
home ill.
* * * * *
May 2^d.
I fear I have relapsed—sent afresh for my Doctor—who has confined me to
my sopha—being able neither to walk, stand or sit upright, without
aggravating my Symptoms—I’m still to be treated as if I was a Sinner—&
in truth have some appearances so strongly implying it, That was I not
conscious I had had no Commerce with the Sex these 15 Years, I would
decamp to morrow for Montpellier in the South of France, where Maladies
of this sort are better treated & all taints more radically driven out
of the Blood—than in this Country; but If I continue long ill—I am still
determined to repair there—not to undergo a Cure of a distemper I cannot
have, but for the bettering my Constitution by a better Climate.—I write
this as I lie upon my back—in w^{ch}. posture I must continue, I fear
some days—If I am able—will take up my pen again before night—
* * * * *
4 o’clock.—an hour dedicated to Eliza! for I have dined alone—& ever
since the Cloath has been laid, have done nothing but call upon thy dear
Name—and ask why ’tis not permitted thou shouldst sit down, & share my
Macarel & fowl—there would be enough, said Molly as she placed it upon
the Table to have served both You & poor M^{rs}. Draper—I never bring in
the knives & forks, added she, but I think of her—There was no more
trouble with you both, than w^{th}. one of You—I never heard a high or a
hasty word from either of You—You were surely made, added Molly, for one
another, you are both so kind so quiet & so friendly—Molly furnished me
with Sause to my Meat—for I wept my plate full, Eliza! & now I have
begun, could shed tears till Supper again—& then go to bed weeping for
thy absence till morning. Thou hast bewitch’d me with powers, my dear
Girl, from which no power shall unlose me—and if fate can put this
Journel of my Love into thy hands, before we meet, I know with what
warmth it will inflame the kindest of hearts, to receive me. peace be
with thee, my Eliza, till that happy moment!
* * * * *