"This day," it ran, "is published, printed on superfine writing paper, and a new letter, in two volumes, price 58., neatly bound, 'The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman.' York. Printed for and sold by John Hinxham (successor to the late Mr. Hilyard,) Bookseller in Stonegate; J. Dodsley, in Pall-mall; and Mr. Cooper, in Paternoster-row, London; and by all the booksellers in Great Britain and Ireland." And this notice appeared but once or twice. But he was not content to trust to so simple a means of notoriety as this. On the last day of the year there was a concert at the York Assembly Rooms, at which were the "nobility and great folks," and the brilliant Prebend, no doubt receiving all the earlier fruits of local success. There, too, he met the young French emigrée lady, Miss Fourmantelle, and talked with her over the triumphs of the new book, and how he had sent up some copies to London. And the next day, the young French lady sat down and wrote to an influential London friend, a letter, whereof the text was the new book, pure and simple.

The London friend is entreated to get it and to read it, and, above all, to praise it partout, because his "good word in town will do the author, I am sure, great service." She owns that the graver people say, 'tis not fit for young ladies to read, so, perhaps, you'll think it not fit for a young lady to recommend." She then tells him, it is by a person whose name is Sterne, and praises him as a gentleman of great preferment, and has a great character in these parts as a man of learning and wit." She then half apologizes for this warm advocacy, by adding that "he is a kind and generous friend of mine, whom Providence has attached to me in this part of the world, where I came a stranger; and I could not think how I could make a better return than by endeavouring to make you a friend to him and his performance. This is all my excuse for this liberty, which I hope you will excuse." In short, a prettilywritten lady's letter.

But now follows a true Shandean discovery. There has been found among this young lady's letters a draft of this very London letter, in

VOL LXI.-NO. CCCLXV.

the actual handwriting of "the great character in these parts as a man of learning and wit!"

The book, however, was not to need such helps. It does not, indeed, seem certain that the "run" began at once, or, indeed, until Mr. Sterne himself came up to town in March, for it is not until the month of April that notices of its enthusiastic reception, then rife, are dropped in letters from London to the country. The second edition, too, was not out until the middle of the year, which, by a sort of rough calculation, would make the really serious demand about the month of March. A month's "rush for copies" would exhaust a small edition in these days; and in the fulsome memoir which appeared when Mr. Sterne first came upon town, it is stated that only a few copies were sent up to London at first, so little anticipation was there of anything like a serious demand at Mr. Dodsley's establishment.

XXVIII. PETTY ANNOYANCES.

IN the month of November he had taken a house "in the Minster-yard" for his wife and daughter, in order that the latter, being now some twelve years old, might have the advantage of such masters in the accomplishments as York could afford. She was to begin dancing forthwith. Mr. Sterne said if he could not give her a fortune, she should at least have a suitable education. Still, for all this hint at want of means, it is plain that he was in the habit of treating himself to visits to London, and had fixed an expedition for the March of the following year, as soon as the labour of publishing "Tristram" should have been off his hands.

It had been scarcely in the hands of the York lieges a month before the personalities, fancied or real, began to bear awkward fruit. He was worried by letters of expostulation, and a tide of good advice flowed in upon him from well-meaning friends. The genus irritabile of " our Sydenhams and Sangrados" were specially sore. A strange passage in the first volume, which has hopelessly mystified readers, was in that day perfectly intelligible, and resented. "Did not Dr. Kunastrokius," he writes, “that great man, at his leisure hours,

37

take the greatest delight imaginable in combing of asses' tails, and plucking the dead hairs out with his teeth, though he had tweezers always in his pockets?" This, it seems, was pointed at the celebrated Doctor Mead, whose intellects wandered a little at the close of his life, and whose malady took the shape of violent senile attachments. He was then in the habit of sitting for hours together combing the back hair of his "flames," and picking out the short hairs with his teeth. "This curious weakness," says Mr. Sterne in one of his letters, "was known by every chambermaid and footman within the bills of mortality." But until the present time neither footman, nor chambermaid, nor reader, nor professional critic, has conceived the true solution.*

There happened to be two country practitioners down in Mr. Sterne's neighbourhood who had been married to daughters of the famous physician; and charitable fingers speedily pointed out to them the passage in the new book reflecting on their relation. These gentlemen, however, were not too sensitive; and it was stated in the London papers that "they were no champions for his foible, and could meet Yorick without reproaches or blushings."

But an indignant doctor, a personal friend of Mr. Sterne, wrote promptly to protest against this outrage on the dead; for Doctor Mead was already gathered to his fathers. He insisted in many letters on the maxim, De mortuis, &c., and even hinted at "cowardice;" to whom the author writes an indignant justification of many pages, half serious, and altogether Shandean. Never was the charitable maxim refuted so pleasantly, which he describes as a nonsensical lullaby of some nurse put into Latin by some pedant, to be chanted by some hypocrites to the end of the world." The ruling passion is the special mark of character, and he "would as soon leave out a man's head as his hobby-horse." But "tisnot courage," says the doctor, "to attack a dead man who can't defend himself;" to which he most ingeniously ripostes, "Why do you doctors of the faculty attack such a one with your incision

knife?" a turn which might have been one of the retrenched passages of "Tristram."

This medical friend who writes from London, good-naturedly lets his clerical friend in the provinces know "the general opinion of the best judges, without exception" upon his book, which is to the effect "that it cannot be put into the hands of any woman of character," a verdict perfectly just in the abstract, but which, taken in reference to the tone of society then prevailing, was scarcely a fair criticism; for it was notorious that it was in the hands of the class that would now be considered women of character and propriety. Mr. Sterne insists that this view is taken merely from the "little world of your acquaintance," which it most likely was, "I hope," adds Mr. Sterne, "you except widows, doctor, for they are not all so squeamish; but I am told they are all really of my party, in return for some good offices done their interests in the 176th page of my second volume (he was here thinking of Mrs. Fergusson "my witty widow') ;.

"but for the chaste married, and chaste unmarried, they must not read my book. God take them under his protection in this fiery ordeal, and send us plenty of duennas to watch the workings of their humours till they have safely got through the whole work."

The London doctor owned, however, grudgingly enough, that the book would be read enough "to answer my design of raising a tax upon the public;" which seems, also, to bear out the view before expressed, of his interest in the work being dependent on the extent of the sale. This was just at the commencement of the month of February; so that "would be read enough was yet to come.

Still he was not yet done with the doctors. Through the whole of that letter runs an aigre wounded tone, a vehemence of self-defence, which shows, in spite of his careless assumption of indifference, how acutely he felt the storm of local criticism his satire had raised up. This personality, real or fancied, subjected him to a persecution almost whimsical in its incidents.

The picture of Doctor Slop was at once appropriated by nearly every sensitive Sangrado in the district; and the luckless author was waited on by injured members of the faculty, and called on with remonstrances, and even threats, to alter the personal strokes and colouring of his portrait. The "ingenious Doctor Burton," at whom, possibly, the wicked sketch was aimed, boldly disclaimed all consciousness of any resemblance in the picture to him; and thus extricated himself out of the difficulty. But there were others scarcely so politic. An amusing interview is said to have taken place between the author and one of the injured guild. The latter complained bitterly of "the indecent liberties" that had been taken with his character and person.

"Are you," asked Mr. Sterne very calmly, a man-midwife?"

66

"No," the medical remonstrant was constrained to answer.

Are you a Roman Catholic ?" "No." "Were you ever splashed and dirtied ?"

"Yes," answered the other eagerly; "and that is the very thing you have taken advantage of, to expose me."

This was truly comic and Shandean, and must have amused Yorick wonderfully. But he composed his face, and strove, with all gentleness, to reason his visiter out of the notion that any offence was intended. Finding, however, that this course had no effect, he is said to have dismissed the sensitive mediciner with this quiet caution:—

"Sir, I have not hurt you. But take care; I am not born yet, and you cannot know what I may do in the next two volumes."

A little bit of terrorism which, no doubt, freed him from his persecutors. Friends, too, were alarmed at this new and dangerous line, which bid fair to alienate friends and raise up enemies, and wrote him earnest remonstrances, hinting at other directions for his talents. The steady circuit of politics was more secure and more certain of profit, and will help to put by that "minimum in loculo,' or balance at banker's, which is so comforting a support. "But," said Mr. Sterne in reply with an earnest

ness which we may accept as genuine, allowing, of course, a little margin for that theatrical warmth and selfsatisfaction with which such declarations are made-" I thank God, though I don't abound, that I have enough for a clean shirt every day, and a mutton-chop; and my contentment with this has thus far (and I hope ever will) put me above stooping an inch for it. For estate-curse on it-I like it not to that degree, nor envy (you may be sure) any man who kneels in the dirt for it."

And it must be said, in justice to Mr. Sterne, that to this creed he was constant all through his life; this, too, in an age when such prostration in the dirt was very plentiful. He also supplements this by a declaration, which we may also accept as sincere, as to "the ends proposed in commencing author;" which were-first, "the hope of doing the world good by ridiculing what I thought deserving of it, or of disservice to sound learning ;" and, secondly, "I wrote not to be fed, but to be famous." Both ends were fortunately attained. His purse was handsomely lined in the same proportion as his fame extended.

A clerical friend also wrote to him nervously, about the irregular character of the new book. Mr. Fothirgill, a brother functionary of the cathedral, preached daily to him on the same text. "Get your preferment first," said this clergyman, taking what was certainly not very high moral ground, and then write and welcome."

66

And

All, however, pressed on him the necessity of a certain amount of castration, in case the book should run to a second edition. To these wellmeant remonstrances he answered very patiently, promised some excisionswill "use all reasonable caution, but so as not to spoil my book; that is, the air and originality of it, which must resemble the author." another clergyman, "a very able critic," endorsed this view heartily, adding forcibly that "that idea in his head would render the book not worth a groat." A very just remark; which Shakspereans, who turn with an unaccountable repugnance from the labours of the late Mr. Bowdler, will heartily endorse. There is no half measure in this work of deodorization. He denied with reason that he had gone as far as Swift. "He keeps a due

distance from Rabelais, and I keep a due distance from him." Still he was a good deal scared, and was inclined to give way. He tells his London medical friend, that the propriety of alteration is even then (30th January) sub judice. He has even been driven to the project of getting his book put into the hands of his archbishop, "if he comes down this summer." But, in truth, it was hard for him to know what to do; for were there not "men of wit" and "sound critics," ". relishing" most the very passages for whose suppression the more moral were clamouring? No wonder that, harassed in this fashion, he should own to being barely above the level of despair.

Had he but known what episcopal support he was hereafter to acquire, he, perhaps, would not have lost a moment in placing it in his Archbishop's hands. Still that prelate had yet to be told, by a brother prelate, that he had the English Rabelais in his diocese. His friends, however, stood firmly by him, encouraged him, and, with a few exceptions, even added to the flattering opinion they had originally entertained of his work.

There is one bit of consolation to cheer him. Even at this early date, before the book had time to make its way fairly, the most skilful actor of the day had penetration enough to discern its great and eccentric merits.

The famous manager and actor had read it, and was, no doubt, taken by its wonderfully dramatic character. His "favourable opinion" was promptly transmitted to the author, though with a certain ungraciousness. The candid friend who reported it to Mr. Sterne, hinting, that "he had done better in finding fault with it than in commending it."

For these injudicious but wellmeant remonstrances, which certainly took a rough and churlish shape, the country parson was presently-sooner indeed than he or the remonstrants were dreaming of to have satisfactory indemnity. Tristram Shandy" was now in the hands of the great public of London. Persons were ordering it from their booksellers; and the author

it being now close on the month of March, 1760-was packing his mails to go up to London.

Hitherto he had not lived for the world. Neither had the men and women of fashion, nor the world of metropolitan politics, nor indeed any of the great collected coteries, which confer degrees and make reputations, bestowed a thought upon the obscure Yorkshire cleric. Now all is about to be changed. Now, as he said in one of his sermons, 66 'the whole drama is opened"-the splendid glories of success, and of London homage, is waiting for him.

AFTER a severe struggle and resistance on the part of a powerful body of Pindarees, who had long possessed the fortress of Mundesoor, we had made ourselves masters of the place, and took it by assault, scaling the walls on one side as the enemy precipitately retreated over the opposite one. Not a few of their number bit the dust that day, and fell under the keen-edged sabres of the King's

Dragoons. So hastily had they fled, and so unexpected had been the result of the attack to them, that hardly any carried off anything but his weapons with him. Save for the women and children left behind—and these secreted themselves in every conceivable nook and corner-labour

ing under the false impression that we were as cruel a foe as their own people had proven themselves to be to others. Here and there, a more than half-starved dog, too weak to leave the sunshine or the dust-heap where they were stretched out, grinned and snarled feebly at us as we passed, and for the most part were put out of their misery by the bayonet or sword's point. Dead cats, dead rats, offal and garbage of all sorts and descriptions, were plentifully strewn about the narrow streets, now rendered still more inaccessible by the crumbling ruins of houses and other buildings that had suffered severely from the excellence of our artillery practice. Such houses as

remained intact had very little to boast of, either in the shape of external decorations or internal comforts of any description. A few frouzy old mats, some chutty-pots, some half-dozen festoons of onions, garlic, and chillies, all pendent from the ceiling, and a plantain leaf or two, which had possibly been procured to pack the ladies' wardrobes in case of an eventuality such as had occurred, (the gentlemen never burthened themselves with any description of clothing, save half-a-yard of calico round the waist), and a large jar or so of cocoa-nut oil and bamboo pickles-the former, an indispensable requisite in the toilet of a Pindaree, as he smeared himself from head to foot twice daily, for the double purpose of slipping out of the clutches of any sudden foe that might lay hands upon him, as also for keeping off the mosquitoes and fleas which swarmed day and night in this horrible den of assassins. Report said, however, that the Chief had immense wealth hidden somewhere about the place, and which he could not possibly have conveyed away with him; so all, save those on immediate duty, were divided into companies of tens and twelves, and, armed with pickaxes, as well as our usual weapons of defence, we spread ourselves over the place, and commenced a sifting search of every approachable spot in the fortress.

The prize agent always marched with us, and our chief was a terrible old Tartar in any cases of looting; one of our men who had secreted property he found had been made a terrible example of, and we had no wish to be placed in a similar predicament. Still, we knew that if the fates spared us through the campaign, we should eventually be entitled to a proportion of prize-money upon all goods captured. In those days, diamonds and costly stones set in rich jewellery, were abundant in the upper districts of India, and amongst the rajahs and native princes, who had inherited them as heirlooms through generations. The English residents, both civil and military, in John Company's service became nabobs-men of almost fabulous wealth in gold and precious stones, though how they acquired this wealth would not perhaps admit of scrutinous investigation. But John Company is dead

and gone, and nankeen tights have entirely disappeared from off the Indian stage. The English nabob is a thing of past days, and fortunately with his disappearance in a great measure also has vanished those sallow complexions, so certain an index of diseased liver, soaked in too much brandy-pawny, and at that time, Hodgson's pale ale. Some conception may be formed of what a trade Hodgson used to drive with the nankeen-breeched civilians and military in India when it is known, as a positive fact, that he was compelled to refuse a contract for a thousand pounds worth of ale, because his hands were too full quenching the thirst of sun-dried Indians, who were very alligators in this respect. As the corporal remarked to his comrade, newly landed at Calcutta, when this latter gruffly asked what kind of place the "Hingies" was: "Capital place, Bill! always a-dry and plenty to drink." So can testify every churchyard throughout the length and breadth of India.

But the days are past now for good and for ever, when that ancient English ballad, "The Old Maid," was adapted to the British in India. When the young lady's early suitor is described as

"The first was an admiral, a K.C.B.,
Late Governor of Trincomalee;
His guineas were yellow,
And so was his face,

So he would never do for me."

Full of golden expectations, we entered one of the gardens belonging to the great chief of the Pindarees. The fruit-trees were laden with the most delicious fruit, and in the enjoyment of this luxurious feast we had wellnigh forgotten the object of our search, but for a canny Scotchman of our party, who never lost sight of the main point. In poking about amongst a heap of rubbish, he stumbled across what looked like a newly-made grave. Subsequently his suspicions were aroused, and he called out for us to join. With pickaxe and spade we speedily made a clearing, and then we came upon a well, or rather shaft, of great depth, which had been planked over for better security. Down this place we soon managed to scramble, and found the bottom not only perfectly dry and well payed, but in