sentimental Journey—to obey a more sentimental impulse in writing to
you—& giving you the present Picture of myself—my wishes—my Love, my
sincerity—my hopes—my fears—tell me, have I varied in any one Lineament,
from the first sitting—to this last—have I been less warm—less tender
and affectionate than you expected or could have wish’d me in any one of
’em—or, however varied in the expressions of what I was & what I felt,
have I not still presented the same air and face towards thee?—take it
as a Sample of what I ever shall be—My dear Bramine—& that is—such as my
honour, my Engagements & promisses & desires have fix’d me—I want You to
be on the other side of my little table, to hear how sweetly y^r. Voice
will be in Unison to all this—I want to hear what You have to say to
y^r. Yorick upon this Text.—what heavenly Consolation w^d. drop from
y^r. Lips—& how pathetically you w^d. enforce y^r. Truth & Love upon my
heart to free it from every Aching doubt—Doubt! did I say—but I have
none—and as soon w^d I doubt the Scripture I have preach’d on—as
question thy promisses or suppose one Thought in thy heart during thy
absence from me, unworthy of my Eliza—for if thou art false, my
Bramine—the whole world—and Nature itself are lyars—and I will trust to
nothing on this side of heaven—but turn aside from all Commerce with
expectation, & go quietly on my way alone towards a State where no
disappointments can follow me—you are grieved when I talk thus; it
implies what does not exist in either of us—so cross it out if thou
wilt—or leave it as a part of the picture of a heart that again
Languishes for Possession—and is disturbed at every Idea of its
uncertainty—So heaven bless thee—& ballance thy passions better than I
have power to regulate mine—farewel my dear Girl—I sit in dread of to
morrow’s post which is to bring me an acc^t. when _Madame_ is to
arrive.——
July 4^{th}. Hear nothing of her—so am tortured from post to post, for I
want to know certainly _the day & hour of this Judgment_—She is moreover
ill, as my Lydia writes me word—& I’m impatient to know whether ’tis
that—or what other Cause detains her, & keeps me in this vile state of
Ignorance—I’m pitied by every Soul in proportion as her Character is
detested—& her Errand known—She is coming, every one says, to flea poor
Yorick or stay him—& I am spirited up by every friend I have to sell my
Life dear & fight valiantly in defence both of my property & Life—Now my
Maxim, Eliza, is quietly [_sic_] in three[31]—“Spare my Life, and take
all I have[”]—If she is not content to decamp with that—One Kingdome
shall not hold us—for If she will not betake herself to France—I will
but these, I verlily [_sic_] believe my fears & nothing more—for she
will be as impatient to quit England—as I could with her—but of this—you
will know more, before I have gone thro’ this month’s Journal.—I get
2000 pounds for my Estate—that is, I had the offer this morning of it—&
think ’tis enough.—when that is gone—I will begin saving for thee—but in
Saving myself for thee, That & every other kind Act is implied.—get on
slowly with my Work—but my head is too full of other Matters—yet will I
finish it before I see London—for I am of too scrupulous honour to break
faith with the world—great Authors make no scruple of it—but if they are
great Authors—I’m sure they are little Men.—& I’m sure also of another
Point w^{ch}. concerns y^rself—& that is Eliza, that You shall never
find me one hair breadth a less Man than you [32] —farewell—I love thee
eternally—
July 5. Two letters from the South of France by this post, by which by
some fatality, I find not one of my Letters have got to them this
month—This gives me concern—because it has the aspect of an unseasonable
unkindness in me—to take no notice of what has the appearance at least
of a Civility in desiring to pay me a Visit—my daughter besides has not
deserved ill of me—& tho’ her mother has, I w^d. not ungenerously take
that Opportunity, which would most overwhelm her, to give any mark of my
resentment—I have besides long since forgiven her—& am the more inclined
now as she proposes a plan, by which I shall never more be disquieted—in
these 2 last, she renews her request to have leave to live where she has
transfer’d her fortune—& purposes, with my leave she says, to end her
days in the South of France—to all which I have just been writing her a
Letter of Consolation & good will—& to crown my professions, intreat her
to take post with my girl to be here time enough to enjoy York races—&
so having done my duty to them—I continue writing, to do it to thee
Eliza who art the _Woman of my heart_, & for whom I am ordering &
planning this, & every thing else—be assured my Bramine that ere every
thing is ripe for our Drama, I shall work hard to fit out & decorate a
little Theatre for us to act on—but not before a crouded house—no
Eliza—it shall be as secluded as the elysian fields—retirement is the
nurse of Love and kindness—& I will Woo & caress thee in it in such
sort, that every thicket & grotto we pass by _shall_ solicit the
remembrance of the mutual pledges We have exchanged of Affection with
one another—oh! these expectations—make me sigh as I recite them—& many
a heart-felt Interjection! do they cost me, as I saunter alone in the
tracks we are to tread together hereafter—still I think thy heart is
with me—& whilst I think so, I prefer it to all the Society this world
can offer—&’tis in truth my dear owing to this—that tho I’ve rec^d. half
a dozen Letters to press me to join my friends at Scarborough—that Ive
found pretences not to quit You _here_—and sacrifice the many sweet
occasions I have of giving my thoughts up to You—, for Company I cannot
rellish _since I have tasted_ my dear Girl, the _sweets of thine_.—
* * * * *
July 6.
Three long Months and three long days are passed & gone, since my Eliza
sighed on taking her Leave of Albions Cliffs, & of all in Albion, which
was dear to her—How oft have I smarted at the Idea, of that last longing
Look by w^{ch}. thou badest adieu to all thy heart sufferd at that
dismal Crisis—’twas the Separation of Soul & Body—& equal to nothing but
what passes on that tremendous Moment.—& like it in one Consequence,
that thou art in another world; where I w^d. give a world to follow
thee, or hear even an Acc^t. of thee—for this I shall write in a few
days to our dear friend M^{rs}. James—she possibly may have heard a
single Syllable or two ab^t. You—but it cannot be; the same must have
been directed towards Yoricks ear, to whom you w^d. have wrote the Name
of _Eliza_, had there been no time for more. I w^d almost now compound
w^{th}. Fate—& was I sure Eliza only breathd—I w^d. thank heaven &
acquiesce. I kiss your Picture—your Shaul—& every trinket I exchanged
with You—every day I live—alas! I shall soon be debarrd of that—in a
fortnight I must lock them up & clap my seal & y^{rs}. upon them in the
most secret Cabinet of my Bureau—You may divine the reason, Eliza!
adieu—adieu!
* * * * *
July 7.
—But not Yet—for I will find means to write to you every night whilst my
people are here—if I sit up till midnight, till they are asleep.—I
should not dare to face you, if I was worse than my word in the smallest
Item—& this Journal I promised You Eliza should be kept without a chasm
of a day in it—& had I my time to myself & nothing to do but gratify my
propensity—I sh^d. write from sun rise to sun set to thee—But a Book to
write—a Wife to receive & make Treaties with—an estate to sell—a Parish
to superintend—and a disquieted heart perpetually to reason with, are
eternal calls upon me—& yet I have you more in my mind than ever—and in
proportion as I am thus torn from y^r. embraces—_I cling the closer to
the Idea of you_. Your Figure is ever before my eyes—the sound of y^r.
voice vibrates with its sweetest tones the live long day in my ear—I can
see & hear nothing but my Eliza, remember this, when you think my
Journal too short & compare it not with thine, w^{ch}. tho’ it will
exceed it in length, can do no more than equal it in Love and truth of
esteem—for esteem thee I do beyond all the powers of eloquence to tell
thee how much—& I love thee my dear Girl, & prefer thy Love, to me more
than the whole world—
* * * * *
_night_—have not eat or drunk all day thro’ vexation of heart at a
couple of ungrateful unfeeling Letters from that Quarter, from whence,
had it pleased God, I should have look’d for all my Comforts—but he has
will’d they sh^d. come from the east—& he knows how I am satisfyed with
all his Dispensations—but with none, my dear Bramine, so much as
this—with w^{ch}. Cordial upon my Spirits—I go to bed, in hopes of
seeing thee in my Dreams.
* * * * *
July 8^{th}.
—eating my fowl, and my trouts & my cream & my strawberries, as
melancholly as a Cat; for want of you—by the by, I have got one which
sits quietly besides me, purring all day to my sorrows—& looking up
gravely from time to time in my face, as if she knew my Situation.—how
soothable my heart is Eliza, when such little things sooth it! for in
some pathetic sinkings I feel even some support from this poor Cat—I
attend to her purrings—& think they harmonize me—they are _pianissimo_
at least, & do not disturb me.—poor Yorick! to be driven, w^{th}. all
his sensibilities, to these resources—all powerful Eliza, that has had
this Magic^l. authority over him; to bend him thus to the dust—But I’ll
have my revenge, Hussy!
* * * * *
July 9. I have been all day making a sweet Pavilion in a retired Corner
of my garden,—but my Partner & Companion & friend for whom I make it, is
fled from me, & when she return to me again, Heaven who first brought us
together, best knows—when that hour is foreknown what a Paradise will I
plant for thee—till then I walk as Adam did whilst there was no
help-meet found for it, and could almost wish a days Sleep would come
upon me till that Moment When I can say as he did—“_Behold the Woman
Thou has given me for Wife_.” She shall be call’d La Bramine. Indeed
Indeed Eliza! my Life will be little better than a dream, till we
approach nearer to each other—I live scarse conscious of my existence—or
as if I wanted a vital part; & could not live above a few hours—& yet I
live, & live, & live on, for thy Sake, and the sake of thy truth to me;
which I measure by my own,—& I fight ag^{st}. every evil and every
danger, that I may be able to support & shelter thee from danger and
evil also.—upon my word, dear Girl, thou owest me much—but ’tis cruel to
dun thee when thou art not in a condition to pay—I think Eliza has not
run off in her Yoricks debt—
* * * * *
July 10.
I cannot suffer you to be longer upon the Water—in 10 days time, You
shall be at Madrass—the element roles in my head as much as y^{rs}., & I
am sick at the sight & smell of it—for all this, my Eliza, I feel in
Imagination & so strongly I can bear it no longer—on the 20^{th}.
therefore Ins^t. I begin to write to you as a terrestrial Being—I must
deceive myself—& think so I will notwithstanding all that Lascelles has
told me—but there is no truth in him.—I have just kiss’d y^r.
picture—even that sooths many an anxiety—I have found out the Body is
too little for the head—it shall not be rectified, till I sit by the
Original, & direct the Painter’s Pencil and that done, will take a
Scamper to _Enfield_ & see y^r. dear children—if You tire by the Way,
there are _one or two_ places to rest at.—I never stand out. God bless
thee—I am thine as _ever_
* * * * *
July 11.
Sooth me—calm me—pour thy healing Balm Eliza, into the sorest of
hearts—I’m pierced with the Ingratitude and unquiet Spirit of a restless
unreasonable Wife whom neither gentleness or generosity can conquer—She
has now entered upon a new plan of waging War with me, a thousand
miles—thrice a week this last month, has the quietest man under heaven
been outraged by her Letters—I have offer’d to give her every Shilling I
was worth except my preferment, to be let alone & left in peace by
her—Bad Woman! nothing must now purchace this, unless I borrow 400
p^{ds}. to give her & carry into france—more—I w^d. perish first, my
Eliza! ’ere I would give her a shilling of another man’s, w^{ch}. I must
do if I give her a shill^g. more than I am worth.—How I now feel the
want of thee! my dear Bramine—my generous unworldly honest creature—I
shall die for want of thee for a thousand reasons—every emergency &
every Sorrow each day brings along with it—tells me what a Treasure I am
bereft off,—whilst I want thy friendship & Love to keep my head up
sinking—Gods will be done, but I think she will send me to my grave.—She
will now keep me in torture till the end of Sept^r.—& writes me word to
day—She will delay her Journey two Months beyond her 1^st. Intention—it
keeps me in eternal suspence all the while—for she will come unawars at
last upon me—& then adieu to the dear sweets of my retirement.
How cruelly are our Lots drawn, my dear—both made for happiness—&
neither of us made to taste it! In feeling so acutely for my own
disapp^tment I drop blood for thine, I call thee in to my Aid—& thou
wantest mine as much—Were we together we sh^d. recover—but never, never
till then _nor by any other Recipe_.—
* * * * *
July 12.
Am ill all day with the Impressions of Yesterday’s account.—can neither
eat or drink or sit still & write or read—I walk like a disturbed Spirit
ab^t. my Garden—calling upon heaven & thee,—to come to my
Succour—could’st Thou but write one word to me, it would be worth half
the world to me—my friends write me millions—& every one invites me to
flee from my Solitude & come to them—I obey the commands of my friend
Hall who has sent over on purpose to fetch me—or he will come himself
for me—so I set off to morrow morning to take Sanctuary in Crasy
Castle—The news papers have sent me there already by putting in the
following paragraph
* * * * *
“We hear from Yorkshire, That Skelton Castle is the present Rendevouz,
of the most brilliant Wits of the Age—the admired Author of
Tristram—M^r. Garrick &c beening [_sic_] there; & M^r. Coleman & many
other men of Wit & Learning being every day expected”—when I get there,
w^{ch}. will be to morrow night, my Eliza will hear from her Yorick—her
Yorick—who loves her more than ever.
* * * * *
July 13. Skelton Castle. Your picture has gone round the Table after
supper—& y^r. health after it, my invaluable friend!—even the Ladies,
who hate grace in another, seemed struck with it in You—but Alas! you
are as a dead Person—& Justice (as in all such Cases) is paid you in
course—when thou returnest it will be rendered more sparingly—but I’ll
make up all deficiences—by honouring You more than ever Woman was
honourd by man—every good Quality That ever good heart possess’d—thou
possessest my dear Girl; & so sovereignly does thy temper & sweet
sociability, which harmonize all thy other properties make me thine,
that whilst thou art true to thyself and thy Bramin—he thinks thee worth
a world—& w^d. give a World was he master of it, for the undisturbed
possession of thee—Time and Chance are busy throwing this Die for me—a
fortunate Cast, or two, at the most, makes our fortune—it gives us each
other—& then for the World, I will not give a pinch of Snuff.—Do take
care of thyself—keep this prospect before thy eyes—have a view to it in
all y^r. Transactions, Eliza,—In a word Remember You are mine—and stand
answerable for all you say & do to me—I govern myself by the same Rule—&
such a History of myself can I lay before you as shall create no
blushes, but those of pleasure—’tis midnight—& so sweet Sleep to thee
the remaining hours of it. I am more thine, my dear Eliza! than ever—but
that cannot be—
* * * * *
July 14.
dining & feasting all day at M^r. Turner’s—his Lady a fine Woman
herself, in love w^{th}. your picture—O my dear Lady, cried I, did you
but know the Original—but what is she to you, Tristram—nothing; but that
I am in Love with her—et cætera——said She—no I have given over
dashes—replied I——I verily think my Eliza I shall get this Picture set,
so as to wear it, as I first purposed—ab^t. my neck—I do not like the
place ’tis in—it shall be nearer my heart—Thou art ever in its
centre—good night—
* * * * *
July 15—From home. (Skelton Castle) from 8 in the morning till late at
Supper—I seldom have put thee off, my dear Girl—& yet to morrow will be
as bad—
* * * * *
July 16.
for M^r. Hall has this Day left his Crasy Castle to come and sojourn
with me at Shandy Hall for a few days—for so they have long christend
our retired Cottage—we are just arrived at it & whilst he is admiring
the premisses—I have stole away to converse a few minutes with thee, and
in thy own dressing room—for I make every thing thine & call it so,
before hand, that thou art to be mistress of hereafter. This
_Hereafter_, Eliza, is but a melancholly term—but the Certainty of its
coming to us, brightens it up—pray do not forget my prophecy in the
Dedication of the Almanack—I have the utmost faith in it myself—but by
what impulse my mind was struck with 3 Years—heaven whom I believe it’s
author, best knows—but I shall see y^r. face before—but that I leave to
You—& to the Influence such a Being must have over all inferior ones—We
are going to dine with the Arch Bishop[33] to morrow—& from thence to
Harrogate for three days, whilst thou dear Soul art pent up in sultry
Nastiness—without Variety or change of face or Conversation—Thou shalt
have enough of both when I cater for thy happiness Eliza—& if an
Affectionate husband & 400 p^{ds}. a year in a sweeter Vally than that
of Jehosophat will do—less thou shalt never have—but I hope more—& were
it millions ’tis the same—twould be laid at thy feet—Hall is come in in
raptures with every thing—& so I shut up my Journal for to day & to
morrow for I shall not be able to open it where I go—adieu my dear Girl—
* * * * *
18—was yesterday all the day with our A. Bishop—this good Prelate who is
one of our most refined Wits & the most of a gentleman of our
order—oppresses me with his kindness—he shews in his treatment of me,
what he told me upon taking my Leave—that he loves me, & has a high
Value for me—his Chaplains tell me, he is perpetually talking of me—&
has such an opinion of my head & heart that he begs to stand Godfather
for my next Literary production—so has done me the hon^r. of putting his
name in a List which I am most proud of because my Eliza’s name is in
it. I have just a moment to scrawl this to thee, being at York—where I
want to be employed in taking you a little house, where the prophet may
be accommodated with a “_Chamber in the Wall apart with a stool & a
Candlestick_”—where his Soul can be at rest from the distractions of the
world, & lean only upon his kind hostesse. & repose all his Cares, &
melt them _along with hers_ on her sympathetic bosom.
* * * * *
July 19. Harrogate Spaws.—drinking the waters here till the 26^{th}.—to
no effect, but a cold dislike of every one of your sex—I did nothing,
but make comparisons betwixt thee my Eliza, & every woman I saw and
talk’d to—thou hast made me so unfit for every one else—than[34] I am
thine as much from necessity, as Love—I am thine by a thousand sweet
ties, the least of which shall never be relax’d—be assured my dear
Bramine of this—& repay me in so doing, the Confidence I repose in
thee—y^r. absence, y^r. distresses, your sufferings; your conflicts, all
make me rely but the more upon that fund in you, w^{ch}. is able to
sustain so much weight—Providence I know will relieve you from one part
of it—and it shall be the pleasure of my days to ease, my dear friend of
the other—I Love thee Eliza, more than the heart of Man ever loved
Woman’s—I even love thee more than I did, the day thou badest me
Farewell—Farewell!—Farewell! to thee again—I’m going from hence to York
Races.—
* * * * *
July 27. arrived at York.—where I had not been 2 hours before My heart
was overset with a pleasure, w^{ch}. beggard every other, that fate
could give me—save thyself—It was thy dear Packets from Iago—I cannot
give vent to all the emotions I felt even before I opend them—for I knew
thy hand—& my seal—w^{ch}. was only in thy possession—O ’tis from my
Eliza, said I.—I instantly shut the door of my Bed-chamber, & orderd
myself to be denied—& spent the whole evening, and till dinner the next
day, in reading over and over again the most interesting Acc^t.—& the
most endearing one that ever tried the tenderness of man—I read &
wept—and wept and read till I was blind—then grew sick, & went to bed—&
in an hour call’d again for the Candle—to read it once more—as for my
dear Girls pains & her dangers I cannot write ab^t. them—because I
cannot write my feelings or express them any how to my mind—O Eliza! but
I will talk them over with thee with a sympathy that shall woo thee, so
much better than I have ever done—That we will both be gainers in the
end—_I’ll love thee for the dangers thou hast past_—and thy Affection
shall go hand in hand w^{th}. me, because I’ll pity thee—as no man ever
pitied Woman—but Love like mine is never satisfied—else y^r. 2^d. Letter
from Iago—is a Letter so warm, so simple, so tender! I defy the world to
produce such another—by all that’s kind & gracious! I will entreat thee
Eliza so kindly—that thou shalt say, I merit much of it—nay all—for my
merit to thee, is my truth.
I now want to have this week of nonsensical Festivity over—that I may
get back, with my picture w^{ch}. I ever carry ab^t. me—to my retreat
and to Cordelia—when the days of our Afflictions are over, I oft amuse
my fancy, w^{th}. an Idea, that thou wilt come down to me by Stealth, &
hearing where I have walk’d out to—surprize me some sweet Shiney night
at Cordelia’s grave, & catch me in thy Arms over it—O my Bramin! my
Bramin!——
* * * * *
July 31—am tired to death with the hurrying pleasures of these Races—I
want still & _silent_ ones—so return home to morrow, in search of them—I
shall find them as I sit contemplating over thy passive picture; sweet
Shadow! of what is to come! for ’tis all I can now grasp—first and best
of woman kind! remember me, as I remember thee—’tis asking a great deal
my Bramine!—but I cannot be satisfied with less—farewell—fare—happy till
fate will let me cherish thee myself.—O my Eliza! thou writest to me
with an Angels pen—& thou wouldst win me by thy Letters, had I never
seen thy face or known thy heart.
* * * * *
Aug^{st}. 1. what a sad Story thou hast told me of thy Sufferings &
Despondences from S^t. Iago, till thy meeting w^th. the Dutch Ship—’twas
a sympathy above Tears—I trembled every Nerve as I went from line to
line—& every moment the Acc^t. comes across me—I suffer all I felt, over
& over again—will providence suffer all this anguish without end—&
without pity?—“_it no can be_”—I am tried my dear Bramine in the furnace
of Affliction as much as thou—by the time we meet, We shall be fit only
for each other—& should cast away upon any other Harbour.
* * * * *
Aug^{st}. 2. my wife uses me most unmercifully—every Soul advises me to
fly from her—but where can I fly If I fly not to thee? The Bishop of
Cork & Ross[35] has made me great offers in Ireland—but I will take no
step without thee—& till heaven opens us some track—He is the best of
feeling tender hearted men—knows our Story—sends You his Blessing—and
says if the Ship you return in touches at Cork (w^ch. many India men
do)—he will take you to his palace, till he can send for me to join
You—he only hopes, he says, to join us together for ever—but more of
this good man, and his attachment to me—hereafter and of and [_sic_]
couple of Ladies in the family &c.—&c.
* * * * *
Aug^t. 3. I have had an offer of exchanging two pieces of preferment I
hold here (but sweet Cordelia’s Parish is not one of ’em) for a living
of 350 p^{ds}. a year in Surry[36] ab^t. 30 miles from London—&
retaining Coxwould & my Prebendaryship—w^{ch}. are half as much more—the
Country also is sweet—but I will not—I cannot take any step unless I had
thee my Eliza for whose sake I live, to consult with—& till the road is
open for me as my heart wishes to advance—with thy sweet light Burden in
my Arms, I could get up fast the hill of preferment, if I chose it—but
without thee I feel Lifeless—and if a Mitre was offer’d me, I would not
have it, till I could have thee too, to make it sit easy upon my brow—I
want kindly to smooth thine, & not only wipe away thy tears but dry up
the Source of them for ever—
* * * * *
Aug^{st}. 4. Hurried backwards & forwards ab^t. the arrival of Madame,
this whole week—& then farewel I fear to this journal—till I get up to
London—& can pursue it as I wish—at present all I can write would be but
the History of my miserable feelings—She will be ever present—& if I
take up my pen for thee—something will jarr within me as I do it—that I
must lay it down again—I will give you one gen^l. Acc^t. of all my
sufferings together—but not in Journals—I shall set my wounds a-bleeding
every day afresh by it—& the Story cannot be too short—so worthiest
best, kindest & affec^{te}. of Souls farewell—every Moment will I have
thee present—& sooth my sufferings with the looks my fancy shall cloath
thee in—Thou shalt lye down & rise up with me—ab^t. my bed & ab^t. my
paths, & shalt see out all my Ways.—adieu—adieu—& remember one eternal
truth, My dear Bramine, w^{ch}. is not the worse, because I have told it
thee a thousand times before—That I am thine—& thine only, & for ever.
L. STERNE.
[Postscript.]