rest is all of a like strain, intermixed with many lies and much malice. I own that I was very anxious about this affair, but this letter has totally relieved me. I write in a hurry, merely to satisfy your curiosity. I hope soon to see you, and am, &c. CLIV. Ignatius Sancho was an emancipated negro, who, having been struck with a passage in one of Sterne's sermons, describing the misery and injustice of slavery, addressed a letter to him. The author of Tristram Shandy,' touched with the poor Black's enthusiastic compliments and simple eloquence, replied: Lawrence Sterne to Ignatius Sancho. Coxwold: July 27, 1766. There is a strange coincidence, Sancho, in the little events (as well as in the great ones) of this world; for I had been writing a tender tale of the sorrows of a friendless poor negro-girl; and my eyes had scarce done smarting with it, when your letter of recommendation, in behalf of so many of her brethren and sisters, came to me ;—but why her brethren ?—or yours, Sancho,—any more than mine? It is by the finest tints and most insensible gradations that Nature descends from the fairest face about St. James's to the sootiest complexion in Africa.-At which tint of these is it, that the ties of blood are to cease? and how many shades must we descend lower still in the scale, ere mercy is to vanish with them? But 'tis no uncommon thing, my good Sancho, for one half of the world to use the other half of it like brutes, and then endeavour to make them so. For my own part, I never look westward (when I am in a pensive mood at least) but I think of the burdens which our brothers and sisters are there carrying; and, could I ease their shoulders from one ounce of them, I declare I would set out this hour upon a pilgrimage to Mecca for their sakes; which, by the by, Sancho, exceeds your walk of ten miles in about the same proportion that a visit of humanity should one of mere form. However, if you meant my Uncle Toby, more he is your debtor. If I can weave the tale I have wrote into the work I am about, 'tis at the service of the afflicted-and a much greater matter; for, in serious truth, it casts a sad shade upon the world, that so great a part of it are, and have been so long, bound in chains of darkness, and in chains of misery, and I cannot but both respect and felicitate you, that, by so much laudable diligence, you have broke the one;—and that, by falling into the hands of so good and merciful a family, Providence has rescued you from the other. And so, good-hearted Sancho, adieu! and, believe me, I will not forget your letter. Yours, L. STERNE. CLV. Lawrence Sterne was in London, carrying his 'Sentimental Journey' through the press, about the time this letter was written. He was dying slowly of consumption, lonely and wretched amid all his social triumphs. His wife and his daughter Lydia, to whom he was much attached, were away from him, alienated, it is to be feared, by his misconduct. The 'incomparable woman' he alludes to was Mrs. Eliza Draper, who plays such an important part in his correspondence. Lawrence Sterne 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? For God's sake, persuade her to come and fix in England, for life is too short to waste in separation; and, whilst she lives in one country and I in another, many people will suppose it proceeds from choice; 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. 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 show The sweet companion, and the friend sincere, "Twill flow whilst gentle goodness has one friend, Or kindred tempers have a tear to lend. Say all that is kind of me to thy mother, and believe me, my Lydia, that I love thee most truly. Sɔ adieu. I am what I ever was, and hope ever shall be, L. STERNE. As to Mr. M―, by your description he is a fat fool. I beg you will not give up your time to such a being. Send me some bâtons pours les dents; there are none good here. CLVI. William Shenstone, one of the most pleasing of our minor poets and the author of the once famous Pastoral Ballad,' here inculcates with much elegance and good sense the value of social intercourse as a necessary ingredient to man's happiness. A bachelor and a recluse himself he scarcely practised what he preached, though his inconsistency in this case so far from diminishing adds rather to his authority on the subject with which he deals. William Shenstone to Mr. Graves. [1745.] Dear Mr. Graves,-There is not a syllable you tell me concerning yourself in your last letter, but what applied to me is most literally true. I am sensible of the daily progress I make towards insignificancy, and it will not be many years before you see me arrived at the ne plus ultra. I believe it is absolutely impossible for me to acquire a considerable degree of knowledge, though I can understand things well enough at the time I read them. I remember a preacher at St. Mary's (I think it was Mr. E- -) made a notable distinction betwixt apprehension and comprehension. If there be a real difference, probably it may find a place in the explication of my genius. I envy you a good general insight into the writings of the learned. I must aim at nothing higher than a well-concealed ignorance.-I was thinking, upon reading your letter, where it was that you and Mr. Whistler and I went out of the road of happiness. It certainly was where we first deviated from the turnpike-road of life. Wives, children, alliances, visits, &c. are necessary objects of our social passions; and whether or no we can, through particular circumstances, be happy with, I think it plain enough that it is not possible to be happy without them. All attachments to inanimate beauties, to curiosities, and ornaments, satiate us presently.-The fanciful tribe has the disadvantage to be naturally prone to err in the choice of lasting pleasures : and when our passions have habitually wandered, it is too difficult to reduce them into their proper channels. When this is the case, nothing but the change or variety of amusements stands any chance to make us easy, and it is not long ere the whole species is exhausted. I agree with you entirely in the necessity of a sociable life in order to be happy: I do not think it much a paradox, that any company is better than none. I think it obvious enough as to the present hour; and as to any future influence, solitude has exceeding savage effects on our dispositions.—I have wrote out my elegy: I lay no manner of stress but upon the piety of it.— Would it not be a good kind of motto, applied to a person you know, that might be taken from what is said of Ophelia in Hamlet, I tell thee, faithless priest, A ministering angel shall Ophelia be I have amused myself often with this species of writing since you The writer is obviously quoting from memory, and not altogether correctly. saw me; partly to divert my present impatience, and partly as it will be a picture of most that passes in my mind; a portrait which friends may value.-I should be glad of your profile: if you have objections, I drop my request.—I should be heartily glad if you would come and live with me, for any space of time that you could find convenient. But I will depend on your coming over with Mr. Whistler in the spring. I may possibly take a jaunt towards you ere long: the road would furnish me out some visits; and, by the time I reached you, perhaps, afford me a kind of climax of happiness. If I do not, I shall perhaps be a little time at Bath. I do not speak of this last as a scheme from which I entertain great expectations of pleasure. It is long since I have considered myself as undone. The world will not perhaps consider me in that light entirely, till I have married my maid. Adieu! CLVII. Richard Jago was in his day (1715-1781) a poet of some repute, though his principal claim to notice now is his intimacy with Shenstone. The tenderness and grace which characterise many of Shenstone's poems seem to be reflected in the prose of the present letter, which is evidently the work of an amiable and sincere man. William Shenstone to Richard Jago. November 15, 1752. Dear Mr. Jago,-Could I with convenience mount my horse, and ride to Harbury this instant, I should much more willingly do so than begin this letter. Such terrible events have happened to us, since we saw each other last, that, however irksome it may be to dwell upon them, it is in the same degree unnatural to substitute any subject in their place. I do sincerely forgive your long silence, my good friend, indeed I do; though it gave me uneasiness. I hope you do the same by mine. I own, I could not readily account for the former period of yours, any otherwise than by supposing that I had said, or done something, in the levity of my heart, which had given you disgust; but being conscious to myself of the most sincere regard for you, and believing it could never be discredited for any trivial inadvertences, I remember, I continued still in expectation of a letter, and did not dream of writing till such time as I had received one. I trusted you would |