pitiful with its tale of a broken body and a sick heart: "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 tears." All through the _Journal_ that follows are indications of wasted health and of the perplexities of life that were closing in upon him. Only at rare intervals the worries are forgotten, and we get a picture of serener moments. One day, July 2nd, he grows genuinely idyllic, and it may not be amiss to copy out his note just as he penned it: But I am in the Vale of Coxwould & wish You saw in how princely a manner I live in it--tis a Land of Plenty--I sit down alone to Venison, fish or wild fowl--or a couple of fowls--with curds, and strawberrys & cream, (and all the simple clean plenty w^{ch.} a rich Vally can produce)--with a Bottle of wine on my right hand (as in Bond street) to drink y^{r.} health--I have a hundred hens & chickens [he sometimes spelt it _chickings_] ab^{t.} my yard--and not a parishoner catches a hare a rabbit or a Trout--but he brings it as an offering--In short tis a golden Vally--& will be the golden Age when You govern the rural feast, my Bramine, & are the Mistress of my table & spread it with elegancy and that natural grace & bounty w^{th.} w^{ch.} heaven has distinguish'd You... --Time goes on slowly--every thing stands still--hours seem days & days seem Years whilst you lengthen the Distance between us--from Madras to Bombay--I shall think it shortening--and then desire & expectation will be upon the rack again--come--come-- But Eliza never came until Yorick had gone on a longer journey than Bombay. In England once more, she traded on her relation to the famous writer, and then reviled him. She associated with John Wilkes, and afterwards with the Abbé Raynal, who writ an absurd, pompous eulogy on "the Lady who has been so celebrated as the Correspondent of Mr. Sterne." It is engraved on her tomb in Bristol Cathedral that "genius and benevolence were united in her"; but the long letter composed in the vein of Mrs. Montagu and now printed from her manuscript belies the first, and her behaviour after Sterne's death makes a mockery of the second.