is as sharp as yours—­her heart as tender—­her constancy as great—­her virtues as heroic—­Heaven brought you not together to be tormented.  I could only answer her with a kind look, and a heavy sigh, and returned home to your lodgings (which I have hired till your return) to resign myself to misery.  Fanny had prepared me a supper—­she is all attention to me—­but I sat over it with tears; a bitter sauce, my L., but I could eat it with no other; for the moment she began to spread my little table, my heart fainted within me.  One solitary plate, one knife, one fork, one glass!  I gave a thousand pensive, penetrating looks at the chair thou hadst so often graced, in those quiet and sentimental repasts, then laid down my knife and fork, and took out my handkerchief, and clapped it across my face, and wept like a child.  I could do so this very moment, my L.; for, as I take up my pen, my poor pulse quickens, my pale face glows, and tears are trickling down upon the paper, as I trace the word L——.  O thou! blessed in thyself, and in thy virtues, blessed to all that know thee—­to me most so, because more do I know of thee than all thy sex.  This is the philtre, my L., by which thou hast charmed me, and by which thou wilt hold me thine, while virtue and faith hold this world together.  This, my friend, is the plain and simple magic, by which I told Miss ——­ I have won a place in that heart of thine, on which I depend so satisfied, that time, or distance, or change of everything which might alarm the hearts of little men, create no uneasy suspense in mine.  Wast thou to stay in S——­ these seven years, thy friend, though he would grieve, scorns to doubt, or to be doubted—­’tis the only exception where security is not the parent of danger.

I told you poor Fanny was all attention to me since your departure—­contrives every day bringing in the name of L. She told me last night (upon giving me some hartshorn), she had observed my illness began the very day of your departure for S——­; that I had never held up my head, had seldom, or scarce ever, smiled, had fled from all society; that she verily believed I was broken-hearted, for she had never entered the room, or passed by the door, but she heard me sigh heavily; that I neither eat, or slept, or took pleasure in anything as before.  Judge then, my L., can the valley look so well, or the roses and jessamines smell so sweet as heretofore?  Ah me! but adieu—­the vesper bell calls me from thee to my GOD.

To DAVID GARRICK

Le chevalier Shandy

Paris, 19 March, 1762.

DEAR GARRICK,