they were call’d in—& namely, to put an end to my torment, w^{ch}. otherwise would put an end to me.—& so have I been compell’d to surrender myself—& thus Eliza is your Yorick, y^r. Bramine—your friend with all his sensibilities, suffering the chastisement of the grossest Sensualist—Is it not a most ridiculous Embarassm^t. as ever Yorick’s Spirit could be involved in—’Tis needless to tell Eliza, that nothing but the purest consciousness of Virtue, could have tempted Eliza’s friend to have told her this Story—Thou art too good my Eliza to love aught but Virtue—& too discerning not to distinguish the open character w^{ch}. bears it, from the artful & double one w^{ch}. affects it—This, by the way, w^d. make no bad anecdote in T. Shandy’s Life—however I thought at least it would amuse you, in a country where _less Matters_ serve.—This has taken me three Sittings—it ought to be a good picture—I’m more proud, That it is a true one. In ten Days I shall be able to get out—my room always full of friendly Visitors—& my rapper eternally going with Cards & enquiries after me. I sh^d. be glad of the Testimonies—without the Tax. Every thing convinces me, Eliza, We shall live to meet again—So—Take care of y^r. health, to add to the comfort of it. * * * * * Ap: 25. after a tolerable night, I am able, Eliza, to sit up and hold a discourse with the sweet Picture thou hast left behind thee of thyself, & tell it how much I had dreaded the catastrophe, of never seeing its dear Original more in this world—never did that look of sweet resignation appear so eloquent as now; it has said more to my heart—& cheard it up more effectually above little fears & _may be’s_—Than all the Lectures of philosophy I have strength to apply to it, in my present Debility of mind and body.—as for the latter—my men of Science, will set it properly agoing again—tho’ upon what principles—the Wise Men of Gotham know as much as they—If they _act right_—what is it to me, how _wrong they think_, for finding my machine a much less tormenting one to me than before, I become reconciled to my Situation, and to their Ideas of it——but don’t you pity me, after all, my dearest and my best of friends? I know to what an amount thou wilt shed over me, this tender Tax—&’tis the Consolation springing out of that, of what a good heart it is which pours this friendly balm on mine, That has already, & will for ever heal every evil of my Life. And what is becoming, of my Eliza, all this time!—where is she sailing?—what Sickness or other evils have befallen her? I weep often my dear Girl, for thee my Imagination surrounds them with[24]—What w^d. be the measure of my Sorrow, did I know thou wast distressed?—adieu—adieu—& trust my dear friend—my dear Bramine, that there still wants nothing to kill me in a few days, but the certainty, That thou wast suffering, what I am—& yet I know thou art ill—but when thou returnest back to England, all shall be set right—so