admired, you could not fail. Dear Sir, think in me you behold the uplifted hands of thousands of my brother Moors. Grief (you pathetically observe) is eloquent: figure to yourself their attitudes, hear their supplicating addresses! alas! you cannot refuse. Humanity must comply; in which hope, I beg permission to subcribe myself,

Reverend Sir, &c.

I. S.

LETTER LXXV.

From Mr. Sterne, to Ignatius Sancho.

COXWOULD, 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 endeavor 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.

LETTER LXXVI.

To Mr. W.

COXWOULD, Dec. 23, 1766.

THANKS, my dear W—, for your letter. I am just preparing to come and greet you and many other friends in town. I have drained my inkstandish to the bottom; and, after I have published, shall set my face, not towards Jerusalem, but towards the Alps. I find I must once more fly from death whilst I have strength. I shall go to Naples, and see whether the air of that place will not set this poor frame to rights. As to the project of getting a bear to lead, I think I have enough to do to govern myself; and however profitable it might be (according to your opinion) I am sure it would be unpleasurable. Few are the minutes of life; and I do not think that I have any to throw away on any one being. I shall spent nine or ten months in Italy, and call upon my wife and daughter in France, at my return; so shall be back by the King's birth-day. What a project! and now, my dear friend, am I going to York; not for the sake of society, nor to walk by the side of the muddy Ouse, but to recruit myself of the most violent spitting of blood that ever mortal man experienced; because I had rather (in case it is ordained so) die there than in a post-chaise on the road. If the amour of my uncle Toby do not please you, I am mistaken; and so with a droll story I will finish this letter. A sensible friend of mine, with whom, not long ago, I spent some hours in conversation, met an apothecary (an acquaintance of ours).

The latter asked him how he did? "Why ill, very ill: I have been with Sterne, who has given me such a dose of Attic Salt, that I am in a fever." "Attic salt, Sir! Attic salt! I have Glauber salt, I have Epsom salt in my shop, &c. Oh! I suppose 'tis some French salt. I wonder you would trust his report of the medicine: he cares not what he takes himself." I fancy I see you smile. I long to be able to be in London, and embrace my friends there; and shall enjoy myself a week or ten days at Paris with my friends, particularly the Baron d'Holbach, and the rest of the joyous set. As to the females; no, I will not say a word about them; only I hate borrowed characters, taken up as a woman does her shift, for the purpose she intends to effectuate. Adieu, adieu. I am yours, whilst,

L. STERNE.

DEAR P-:

LETTER LXXVII.

To Mr. Panchaud, at Paris.

LONDON, Feb. 13, 1767.

I PAID yesterday (by Mr. Becket) a hundred guineas, or pounds, I forget which, to Mr. Selwin: but you must remit to Mrs. Sterne, at Marseilles, a hundred louis before she leaves that place, which will be in less than three weeks. Have you got the ninth volume of Shandy?* it is liked the best of all here. I am going to publish a Sentimental Journey through France and Italy. The undertaking is protected and highly encouraged by all our noblesse; 'tis subscribed for at a great rate; 'twill be an original, in large quarto; the subscription half a guinea. If you can procure me the honor of a few names of men of science or fashion, I shall thank you; they will appear in good company, as all the nobility here almost have honored me with their names. My kindest remembrance to Mr. Foley. Respects to Baron d'Holbach, and believe me ever, ever yours, L. STERNE.

Alluding to the first edition.

LETTER LXXVIII.

To Miss Sterne.

OLD BOND STREET, Feb. 28, 1767. AND 80, my Lydia, thy mother and thyself are returning back again from Marseilles to the banks of the Sorgue, and there thou wilt sit and fish for trouts. I envy you the sweet situation. Petrarch's tomb I should like to pay a sentimental visit to. The Fountain of Vaucluse, by thy description, must be delightful. I am also much pleased with the account you give me of the Abbé de Sade; you find great comfort in such a neighbor. I am glad he is so good as to correct thy translation of my Sermons. Dear girl, go on, and make me a present of thy work: but why not the House of Mourning? 'tis one of the best. I long to receive the Life of Petrarch and his Laura, by your Abbé; but I am out of all patience with the answer the Marquis made the Abbé; 'twas truly coarse; and I wonder he bore it with any Christian patience. But to the subject of your letter. I do not wish to know who was the busy fool who made your mother uneasy about Mrs. 'tis true, I have a friendship for her, but not to infatuation. I believe I have judgment enough to discern hers, and every woman's faults. I honor thy mother for her answer. That she wished not to be informed; and begged him to drop the subject. Why do you say that your mother wants money? Whilst I have a shilling, shall you not have ninepence out of it? I think, if I have my enjoyments, I ought not to grudge you yours. I shall not begin my Sentimental Journey till I get to Coxwould. I have laid a plan for something new, quite out of the beaten track. I wish I had you with me, and I would introduce you to one of the most amiable and gentlest of beings, whom I have just been with; not Mrs. but a Mrs. J, the wife of as worthy a man as I ever met with; I esteem them both. He possesses every manly virtue; honor and bravery are his characteristics, which have distinguished him nobly in several instances. I shall make you better acquainted with his character, by sending Orme's History, with the books you desired, and it is well worth your reading; for Orme is an elegant writer, and a just one; he pays no man a compliment at the expense

of truth. Mrs. Jis kind and friendly; of a sentimental turn of mind, and so sweet a disposition, that she is too good for the world she lives in. Just God! if all were like her, what a life would this be! Heaven, my Lydia, for some wise purpose, has created different beings. I wish my dear child knew her; thou art worthy of her friendship, and she already loves thee; for I sometimes tell her what I feel for thee. This is a long letter. Write soon, and never let your letters be studied ones; write naturally, and then you will write well. I hope your mother has got quite well of her ague. I have sent her some of Huxham's tincture of the bark. I will order you a guitar, since the other is broke. Believe me, my Lydia, that I am yours affectionately, L. STERNE.

DEAR SIR:

LETTER LXXIX.

To Mr. Panchaud, at Paris.

LONDON, Feb. 27, 1767.

My daughter begs a present of me, and you must know I can deny her nothing. It must be strung with cat-gut and of five chords, si chiama in Italiano la chitera di cinque corde. She cannot get such a thing at Marseilles; at Paris one may have every thing. Will you be so good to my girl as to make her happy in this affair, by getting some musical body to buy one, and send it her to Avignon, directed to Monsieur Teste? I wrote last week to desire you would remit Mrs. S a hundred louis: 'twill be all, except the guitar, I Send me your account, and I will pay Mr. Selwin. Direct to me at Mr. Becket's. All kind respects to my friend Mr. F. and your sister.

shall owe you.

Yours cordially,

L. STERNE.