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! TRISTRAM. Yours, XC. TO THE SAME. 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 Sentimental Journey, etc. 19 I tears. I dreamt I was sitting under the canopy of Indolence, and that thou camest into the room with a shawl in thy hand, and told me my spirit had flown to thee in the Downs, with tidings of my fate; and that you had come to administer what consolation filial affection could bestow, and to receive my parting breath and blessing. With that you folded the shawl about my waist, and, kneeling, supplicated my attention. awoke; but in what a frame! Oh! my God! "But thou wilt number my tears and put them all into my bottle." Dear girl! I see thee, thou art for ever present to my fancy embracing my feeble knees, and rising 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!"—Blessings 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 not 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 shewn 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 couldst 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* (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 straight rule of conduct, that thou hast heard from my lips in a thousand forms but I concentre 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! * By the Newspapers of the times it appears that the 'Earl of Chatham East-Indiaman sailed from Deal, April 3, 1767. 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 a 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 illume 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. XCI. TO MISS STERNE. -- Bond-street, April 9, 1767. THIS letter, my dear Lydia, will distress thy good heart, for from the beginning thou wilt perceive no entertaining strokes of humour in it I cannot be cheerful when a thousand melancholy ideas surround me. I have met with a loss of near fifty pounds, which I was taken in for in an extraordinary manner but what is that loss in comparison of one I may experience? - Friendship is the balm and cordial of life, and without it, 'tis a heavy load not worth sustaining. I am unhappy thy mother and thyself at a distance from me, and what can compensate for such a destitution? persuade her to come and fix in too short to waste in separation in one country, and I in another, suppose it proceeds from choice For God's sake, England, for life is and whilst she lives many people will besides, I want thee near me, thou child and darling of my heart! I am in a melancholy mood, and my Lydia's eyes will smart with weeping, when I tell her the cause that now affects me. I am apprehensive the dear friend I mentioned in my last letter is going into a decline I was with her two days ago, and I never beheld a being so altered she has a tender frame, and looks like a drooping lily, for the roses are fled from her cheeks - I can never see or talk to this incomparable woman without bursting into tears I have a thousand obligations to her, and I owe her more than her whole sex, if not all the world put together She has a delicacy in her way of thinking that few possess our conversations are of the most interesting nature, and she talks to me of quitting this world with more composure than others think of living in it. I have wrote an epitaph, of which I send thee a copy - "Tis expressive of her modest worth but may Heaven restore her! and may she live to write mine! Columns and labour'd urns but vainly shew An idle scene of decorated woe. The sweet companion, and the friend sincere, In heart-felt numbers, never meant to shine, "Twill flow whilst gentle goodness has one friend, Or kindred tempers have a tear to lend. So Say all that is kind of me to thy mother, and believe me, my Lydia, that I love thee most truly, adieu L. S. I am what I ever was, and hope ever shall be, Thy affectionate Father, As to Mr., by your description he is a fat fool. I beg you will not give up your time to such a being. Send me some batons pour les dents none good here. there are |