the money into France to purchace peace to myself—& a certainty of never
having it interrupted by M^{rs}. Sterne—who when She is sensible I have
given her all I can part with—will be at rest herself—Indeed her plan to
purchace annuities in france—is a pledge of Security to me—That She will
live her days out there—otherwise She could have no end in transporting
this two thousand pounds out of England—nor w^d. I consent but upon that
plan—but I may be at rest!—if my imagination will but let me—Hall says
’tis no matter where she lives; If we are but separate,’tis as good as
if the Ocean rolled between us—& so I should argue to another
Man—but,’tis an Idea w^{ch}. won’t do so well for me—& tho’ nonsensical
enough—Yet I shall be most at rest when there is that Bar between Us—was
I never so sure, I sh^d. never be interrupted by her, in England—but I
may be at rest I say, on that head—for they have left all their Cloaths
& plate and Linen behind them in france—& have joined in the most
earnest Entreaty, That they may return & fix in france—to w^{ch}. I have
give my word & honour—You will be bound with me Eliza! I hope, for
performance of my promise—I never yet broke it, in cases where Interest
or pleasure could have tempted me,—and shall hardly do it now, when
tempted only by misery.—In Truth Eliza! thou art the Object to w^{ch}.
every act of mine is directed—You interfere in every Project—I rise—I go
to sleep with this on my Brain—how will my dear Bramine approve of
this?—w^{ch}. way will it conduce to make her happy? and how will it be
a proof of my affection to her? are all the Enquiries I make—y^r.
Honour, y^r. Conduct, y^r. Truth & regard for my esteem—I know will
equally direct every Step—& movement of y^r. Desires—& with that
Assurance, is it, my dear Girl, That I sustain Life.—But when will those
Sweet eyes of thine, run over these Declarations?—how—& with whom are
they to be entrusted; to be conveyed to You?—unless M^{rs}. James’s
friendship to us, finds some expedient—I must wait—till the first
evening I’m with You—when I shall present You w^{th}. them as a better
Picture of me, than Cosway could do for You …—have been dismally ill all
day—owing to my course of Medicines w^{ch}. are too strong & forcing for
this gawsy Constitution of mine—I mend with them however—good God! how
is it with You?——
* * * * *
June 12. I have return’d from a delicious walk of Romance, my Bramine,
which I am to tread a thousand times over with You swinging upon my
arm—’tis to my Convent—& I have pluckd up a score [of] Bryars by the
roots w^{ch}. grew near the edge of the foot way, that they might not
scratch or incommode you—had I been sure of y^r. taking that walk with
me the very next day, I could not have been more serious in my
employm^t.—dear Enthusiasm?—thou bringst things forward in a moment,
w^{ch}. Time keeps for Ages back—I have you ten times a day besides me—I
talk to you Eliza, for hours together—I take y^r. Council—I hear your
reasons—I admire you for them!—to this magic of a warm Mind, I owe all
that’s worth living for, during this State of our Trial—Every Trinket
you gave or exchanged w^{th}. me has its force—y^r. Picture is
Y^rself—all Sentiment, Softness & Truth—It speaks—it listens—’tis
concerned—it resignes—Dearest Original! how like unto thee does it
seem—& will seem—till thou makest it vanish, by thy presence—I’m but so,
so—but advancing in health—to meet you—to nurse you, to nourish you
ag^{st}. you come—for I fear, You will not arrive, but in a State that
calls out to Yorick for support—Thou art Mistress, Eliza, of all the
powers he has to sooth & protect thee—for thou art Mistress of his
heart; his affections; and his reason—& beyond that, except a paltry
purse, he has nothing worth giving thee—.
* * * * *
June 13.
This has been a year of presents to me—my Bramine—How many presents have
I rec^d. from You in the first place?—L^d. Spencer has loaded me with a
grand Ecritoire of 40 Guineas—I am to receive this week a fourty
Guinea-present of a gold Snuff Box, as fine as Paris can fabricate one
with an Inscription on it, more valuable, than the Box itself—I have a
present of a portrait, (which by the by I have immortalized in my
Sentimental Journey) worth them both—I say nothing of a gold Stock
buccle & Buttons—tho’ I rate them above rubies, because they were
Consecrated by the hand of Friendship, as She fitted them to me.—I have
a present of the Sculptures upon poor Ovid’s Tomb, who died in Exile,
tho’ he wrote so well upon the Art of Love—These are in six beautiful
Pictures executed on Marble at Rome—& these Eliza, I keep sacred as
Ornaments for y^r. Cabinet, on Condition I hang them up.—and last of
all, I have had a present, Eliza! this Year, of a Heart so finely
set—with such rich materials—& Workmanship—That Nature must have had the
chief hand in it—If I am able to keep it—I shall be a rich Man—If I lose
it—I shall be poor indeed—so poor! I shall stand begging at y^r.
gates.—But what can all these presents portend—That it will turn out a
fortunate earnest, of what is to be given me hereafter.
* * * * *
June 14.
I want you to comfort me my dear Bramine—& reconcile my mind to 3 months
misery—some days I think lightly of it—on others—my heart sinks down to
the earth—but ’tis the last Trial of conjugal Misery—& I wish it was to
begin this moment, That it might run its period the faster—for sitting
as I do, expecting sorrow—is suffering it—I am going to Hall to be
philosophizd with for a week or ten Days on this point—but one hour with
you would calm me more & furnish me with stronger Supports under this
weight upon my Spirits, than all the world put together—Heaven! to what
distressful Encountres hast thou thought fit to expose me—& was it not,
that thou hast bless’d me with a chearfulness of disposition—& thrown an
object in my way, That is to render that Sun Shine perpetual—Thy
dealings with me, would be a mystery.
* * * * *
June 15—from morning to night every mom^t. of this day held in Bondage
at my friend L^d. ffauconberg’s—so have but a moment left to close the
day, as I do every one—with wishing thee a sweet nights rest—would I was
at the feet of y^r. Bed fanning breezes to You, in y^r.
Slumbers—Mark!—you will dream of me this night—& if it is not recorded
in your Journal—I’ll say, you could not recollect it the day
following—adieu.—
* * * * *
June 16.
My Chaise is so large—so high—so long—so wide—so Crawford’s-like, That I
am building a coach house on purpose for it—do you dislike it for this
gigantick size?—now I remember, I heard you once say—You hated a small
post Chaise—w^{ch}. you must know determined my Choice to this—because I
hope to make you a present of it—& if you are squeamish I shall be as
squeamish as You, & return you all y^r. presents,—but one—w^{ch}. I
cannot part with—and what that is—I defy you to guess. I have bought a
milch Asse this afternoon—& purpose to live by Suction, to save the
expences of houskeeping—& have a Score or two guineas in my purse, next
* * * * *
June 17.
I have brought y^r. name _Eliza!_ and Picture into my work[28]—where
they will remain—when You & I are at rest for ever—Some Annotator or
explainer of my works in this place will take occasion, to speak of
the Friendship w^{ch}. subsisted so long & faithfully betwixt Yorick &
the Lady he speaks of—Her Name he will tell the world was Draper—a
Native of India—married there to a gentleman in the India Service of
that Name—who brought her over to England for the recovery of her
health in the Year 65—where She continued to April the Year 1767. It
was ab^t. three months before her Return to India, That our Author’s
acquaintance & hers began. M^{rs}. Draper had a great thirst for
knowledge—was handsome—genteel—engaging—and of such gentle
dispositions & so enlightened an understanding,—That Yorick (whether
he made much opposition is not known) from an acquaintance—soon became
her Admirer—they caught fire, at each other at the same time—& they
w^d. often say, without reserve to the world, & without any Idea of
saying wrong in it, That their Affections for each other were
_unbounded_—M^r. Draper dying in the Year * * * * * This Lady return’d
to England & Yorick the Year after becoming a Widower—They were
married—& retiring to one of his Livings in Yorkshire, where was a
most romantic Situation—they lived & died happily—and are spoke of
with honour in the parish to this day—
[Illustration]
* * * * *
June 18.
How do you like the History, of this couple, Eliza?—is it to your
mind?—or shall it be written better some sentimental Evening after your
return—’tis a rough sketch—but I could make it a pretty picture, as the
outlines are just—we’ll put our heads together & try what we can do.
This last Sheet has put it out of my power, ever to send you this
Journal to India—I had been more guarded—but that You have often told
me, ’twas in vain to think of writing by Ships w^{ch}. sail in March,—as
you hoped to be upon y^r. return again by their arrival at Bombay—If I
can write a Letter I will—but this Journal must be put into Eliza’s
hands by Yorick only—God grant you to read it soon.—
* * * * *
June 19.
I never was so well and alert, as I find myself this day—tho’ with a
face as pale & clear as a Lady after her Lying in. Yet you never saw me
so Young by 5 Years—& If you do not leave Bombay soon—You’ll find me as
young as Y^rself—at this rate of going on——Summon’d from home—adieu.
* * * * *
June 20.
I think my dear Bramine—That nature is turn’d upside down—for Wives go
to visit Husbands, at greater perils & take longer journies to pay them
this Civility now a days out of ill Will—than good—Mine is flying post a
Journey of a thousand Miles—with as many miles to go back—merely to see
how I do, & whether I am fat or lean—& how far are you going to see y^r.
Helpmate—and at such hazards to Y^r. Life, as few Wives’ best affections
w^d. be able to surmount—But Duty & Submission Eliza govern thee—by what
impulses my Rib is bent towards me—I have told you—& yet I w^d. to God,
Draper but rec^d. & treated you with half the courtesy & good nature—I
wish you was with him—for the same reason I wish my Wife at
Coxwould—That She might the sooner depart in peace—She is ill—of a
Diarhea which she has from a weakness on her bowels ever since her
paralitic Stroke—Travelling post in hot weather, is not the best remedy
for her—but my girl says—she is determined to venture—She wrote me word
in Winter, She w^d. not leave france, till her end approach’d—surely
this journey is not prophetic! but twould invert the order of Things on
the other side of this Leaf—and what is to be on the next _Leaf_—The
Fates, Eliza only can tell us—rest satisfied.
* * * * *
June 21.
have left off all medicines—not caring to tear my frame to pieces with
’em—as I feel perfectly well.—set out for Crasy Castle to morrow
morning—where I stay ten days—take my Sentimental Voyage—and this
Journal with me, as certain as the two first Wheels of my Chariot—I
cannot go on without them.—I long to see y^{rs}.—I shall read it a
thousand times over If I get it before y^r. arrival—What w^d. I now give
for it—tho’ I know there are _circumstances_ in it, That will make my
heart bleed & waste within me—_but if all blows over_—’tis enough—we
will not recount our Sorrows, but to shed tears of Joy over them—O
Eliza! Eliza! Heaven nor any Being it created, never so possessed a
Man’s heart—as thou possessest mine—use it kindly—Hussy—that is,
eternally be true to it.
* * * * *
June 22. Ive been as far as York to day with no Soul with me in my
Chase, but y^r. Picture—for it has a _Soul_ I think—or something like
one which has talk’d to me, & been the best Company I ever took a
Journey with (always excepting a Journey I once took with a friend of
y^{rs}. to Salt hill, & Enfield Wash—The pleasure I had in those
Journies, have left _Impressions_ upon my Mind, which will last my
Life—You may tell her as much when You see her—she will not take it
ill—I set out early to morrow morning to see M^r. Hall—but take my
Journal along with me.
* * * * *
June 24^{th}.
As pleasant a Journey as I am capable of taking Eliza! without thee—Thou
shalt take it with me when time & tide serve hereafter, & every other
Journey w^{ch}. ever gave me pleasure, shall be rolled over again with
thee besides me—Amo’s Vale shall look gay again upon Eliza’s Visit—and
the Companion of her Journey, will grow young again as he sits upon her
Banks with Eliza seated besides him—I have this and a thousand little
parties of pleasure—& systems of living out of the common high road of
Life, hourly working in my fancy for you—there wants only the _Dramatis
Personæ_ for the performance—the play is wrote—the Scenes are painted—&
the Curtain ready to be drawn up.—the whole Piece waits for thee, my
Eliza—
* * * * *
June 25.—In a course of continual visits & Invitations
here—_Bombay-Lascelles_ dined here to day (his Wife yesterday brought to
bed)—(he is a poor sorry soul!) but has taken a house two miles from
Crasy Castle—What a Stupid, selfish, unsentimental set of Beings are the
Bulk of our Sex! by Heaven! not one man out of 50, informd with
feelings—or endow’d either with heads or hearts able to possess & fill
the mind—of such a Being as thee,—with one Vibration like its own—I
never see or converse with one of my Sex—but I give this point a
reflection—how w^d. such a creature please my Bramine? I assure thee
Eliza I have not been able to find one, whom I thought could please
You—the turn of Sentiment, with w^{ch}. I left y^r. Character
possess’d—must improve, hourly upon You—Truth, fidelity, honour & Love
mix’d up with Delicacy, garrantee one another—and a taste so improved as
y^{rs}, by so delicious fare, can never degenerate—I shall find you, my
Bramine, if possible, more valuable & lovely than when you first caught
my esteem and kindness for You—and tho’ I see not this change—I give you
so much Credit for it—that at this moment, my heart glowes more warmly
as I think of you—& I find myself more your Husband than contracts can
make us—I stay here till the 29^{th}.—had intended a longer Stay—but
much company & Dissipation rob me of the only comfort my mind takes,
w^{ch}. is in retirement, where I can think of You Eliza! and enjoy you
quietly & without Interruption—’tis the way We must expect all that is
to be had of _real_ enjoyment in this vile world—which being miserable
itself—seems so confederated ag^{st}. the happiness of the Happy, that
they are forced to secure it in private—Vanity must still be had;—&
that, Eliza! every thing w^{th}. it, w^{ch}. Yorick’s sense, or
generosity has to furnish to one he loves so much as thee—need I tell
thee—Thou wilt be as much a Mistress of—as thou art eternally of thy
Yorick—adieu—adieu—
* * * * *
June 26—eleven at night—out all the day—dined with a large Party—shewd
y^r. Picture from the fullness of my heart—highly admired—alas! said I
did you but see the Original!—good night.—
* * * * *
June 27.
Ten in the morning, with my Snuff open at the Top of this sheet,—& your
gentle sweet face opposite to mine, & saying “what I write will be
cordially read”—possibly you may be precisely engaged at this very hour,
the same way—and telling me some interesting Story ab^t. y^r. health,
y^r. sufferings—y^r. heart aches—and other Sensations w^{ch}.
friendship—absence & uncertainty create within you. for my own part, my
dear Eliza, I am a prey to every thing in its turn—& was it not for that
sweet clew of hope w^{ch}. is perpetual opening me a way which is to
lead me to thee thro’ all this Labyrinth—was it not for this, my Eliza!
how could I find rest for this bewilderd heart of mine?—I sh^d. wait for
you till September came—& if you did not arrive with it—sh^d. sicken &
die—but I will live for thee—so count me Immortal—3 India Men arrived
within ten days—will none of ’em bring me Tidings of You?—but I am
foolish—but ever thine—my dear, dear Bramine.
* * * * *
June 28.
O what a tormenting night have my dreams led me ab^t. You Eliza—M^{rs}.
Draper a Widow!—with a hand at Liberty to give!—and gave it to
another!—She told me—I must acquiesce—it could not be otherwise.
Acquiese! cried I, waking in agonies—God be prais’d cried I—’tis a
dream—fell asleep after—dreamd You was married to the Captain of the
Ship—I waked in a fever—but ’twas the Fever in my blood which brought on
this painful chain of Ideas—for I am ill to day—& for want of more
cheary Ideas, I torment my Eliza with these—whose Sensibility will
suffer, if Yorick could dream but of her Infidelity! & I suffer Eliza in
my turn, & think my self at pres^t. little better than an old woman or a
Dreamer of Dreams in the Scripture Language—I am going to ride myself
into better health & better fancies with Hall—whose Castle lying near
the Sea—We have a Beach as even as a mirrour of 5 miles in Length before
it, where we daily run races in our Chaises; with one wheel in the Sea,
& the other in the Sand—O Eliza, w^{th}. w^t. fresh ardour & impatience
when I’m viewing the element, do I sigh for thy return—But I need no
_memento’s_ of my Destitution & misery for want of thee—I carry them
ab^t. me,—& shall not lay them down—(for I worship & I do Idolize these
tender sorrows) till I meet thee upon the Beech & present the
handkerchiefs staind with blood w^{ch}. broke out from my heart upon
y^r. departure—This token of what I felt at that Crisis, Eliza, shall
never, never be wash’d out. Adieu my dear Wife—you are still
mine—notwithstanding all the Dreams & Dreamers in the World.—M^r.
Lascells dined w^{th}. us—Mem^d. I have to tell you a Conversation—I
will not write it—
* * * * *
June 29. am got home from Halls—to Coxwould—O ’tis a delicious retreat!
both from its beauty, & air of Solitude; & so sweetly does every thing
ab^t it invite y^r. mind to rest from its Labours and be at peace with
itself & the world—That ’tis the only place, Eliza, I could live in at
this juncture—I hope one day, You will like it as much as y^r.
Bramine—It shall be decorated & made more worthy of You—by the time fate
encourages me to look for you—I have made you a sweet Sitting Room (as I
told You) already—and am projecting a good Bed-Chamber adjoining it,
with a pretty dressing room for You, which connects them together—& when
they are finish’d, will be as sweet a set of romantic apartments, as You
ever beheld—the Sleeping room will be very large—The dressing room,
thro’ w^{ch}. You pass into y^r. Temple, will be little—but Big enough
to hold a dressing Table—a couple of chairs, with room for y^r. Nymph to
stand at her ease both behind and on either side of you—w^{th}. spare
Room to hang a dozen petticoats—gowns, &c—& Shelves for as many
Bandboxes—y^r. little Temple I have described—and what it will hold—but
if it ever it holds You & I, my Eliza—the Room will not be too little
for us—but We shall be _too big_ for the Room.—
* * * * *
June 30.—’Tis now a quarter of a year (wanting 3 days) since You
sail’d from the Downs—in one month more—You will be (I trust) at
Madras—& there you will stay I suppose 2 long long months, before you
set out for Bombay—’Tis there I shall want to hear from you,—most
impatiently—because the most interesting Letters must come from Eliza
when she is there—at present, I can hear of y^r. health, & tho’ that
of all Acc^{ts}. affects me most—yet still I have hopes taking their
Rise from that—& those are—What Impression you can make upon M^r.
Draper, towards setting you at Liberty—& leaving you to pursue the
best measures for y^r. preservation—and these are points, I w^d. go to
Aleppo, to know certainty[29]: I have been possess’d all day & night
with an opinion, That Draper will change his behaviour totally towards
you—That he will grow friendly & caressing—and as he knows y^r. nature
is easily to be won with gentleness, he will practice it to turn you
from y^r. purpose of quitting him—In short when it comes to the point
of y^r. going from him to England—it will have so much the face, if
not the reality, of an alienation on y^r. side from India for ever, as
a place you cannot live at—that he will part with You by no means, he
can prevent—You will be cajolled my dear Eliza thus out of y^r.
Life—but what serves it to write this, unless means can be found for
You to read it—If you come not—I will take the Safest Cautions I can
to have it got to You—& risk every thing, rather than You should not
know how much I think of You—& how much stronger hold you have got of
me, than ever.—Dillon has obtain’d his fair Indian—& has this post
wrote a kind Letter of enquiry after Yorick and his Bramine—he is a
good Soul—& interests himself much in our fate—I have wrote him a
whole Sheet[30] of paper ab^t. us—it ought to have been copied into
this Journal—but the uncertainty of y^r. ever reading it, makes me
omit that, with a thousand other things, which when we meet, shall
beguile us of many a long winters night.—_those precious Nights!_—my
Eliza! You rate them as high as I do—& look back upon the manner the
hours glided over our heads in them, with the same Interest & Delight
as the Man you _spent them with_—They are all that remains to
us—except the _Expectation_ of their return—the Space between us is a
dismal Void—full of doubts & suspence—Heaven & its kindest Spirits, my
dear rest over y^r. thoughts by day—& free them from all disturbance
at night adieu—adieu Eliza!—I have got over this Month—so fare wel to
it, & the Sorrows it has brought with it—the next month, I prophecy
will be worse.
* * * * *
July 1.—But who can foretell what a month may produce—Eliza—I have no
less than seven different chances—not one of w^{ch}. is improbable—and
any one of [’em] would set me much at Liberty—& some of ’em render me
compleatly happy—as they w^d. facilitate & open the road to thee—what
these chances are I leave thee to conjecture, my Eliza—some of them You
cannot divine—tho’ I once hinted them to You—but those are pecuniary
chances arising out of my Prebend—& so not likely to stick in thy
brain—nor could they occupy mine a moment, but on thy acc^t. … I hope
before I meet thee Eliza on the Beach, to have every thing plan’d; that
depends on me properly—& for what depends upon him who orders every
Event for us, to him I leave & trust it—We shall be happy at last I
know—’tis the Corner Stone of all my Castles—&’tis all I bargain for. I
am perfectly recovered—or more than recover’d—for never did I feel such
Indications of health or Strength & promptness of mind—notwithstanding
the Cloud hanging over me of a Visit—& all its tormenting
consequences—Hall has wrote an affecting little poem upon it—the next
time I see him, I will get it, & transcribe it in this Journal, for
You.... He has persuaded me to trust her with no more than fifteen
hundred pounds into Franc[e]—twil purchase 150 p^{ds}. a year—& to let
the rest come annually from myself—the advice is wise enough, If I can
get her off with it—I’ll summon up the Husband a little (if I can)—&
keep the 500 p^{ds}. remaining for emergencies—who knows, Eliza, what
sort of Emergencies may cry out for it—I conceive some—& you Eliza are
not backward in Conception—so may conceive others. _I wish I was in
Arno’s Vale!_—
* * * * *
July 2^d.—But I am in the Vale of Coxwould & wish You saw in how
princely a manner I live in it—’tis a Land of Plenty—I sit down alone to
Venison, fish or wild foul—or a couple of fouls—with curds, and
strawberrys & cream, (and all the simple clean plenty w^{ch}. a rich
Vally can produce,—with a Bottle of wine on my right hand (as in Bond
street) to drink y^r. health—I have a hundred hens & chickens ab^t my
yard—and not a parishoner catches a hare a rabbit or a Trout—but he
brings it as an offering—In short ’tis a golden Vally—& will be the
golden Age when You govern the rural feast, my Bramine, & are the
Mistress of my table & spread it with elegancy and that natural grace &
bounty w^{th}. w^{ch}. heaven has distinguish’d You.…
—Time goes on slowly—every thing stands still—hours seem days & days
seem Years whilst you lengthen the Distance between us—from Madras to
Bombay—I shall think it shortening—and then desire & expectation will be
upon the rack again—come—come—
* * * * *
July 3^d.