For THE GENERAL ADVERTISER.
The outline of a plan for establishing a most respectable body of Seamen to the number 20,000, to be ever ready for the manning a fleet upon twelve days notice.
THE proposer is humbly of opinion, that his plan is capable of many wholesome improvements, which he thinks would prove no unprofitable study, even to the Lords of the Admiralty.
Ist, Let the number of seamen, now upon actual service, be each man inrolled upon his Majesty’s books, at the rate of 5l. per annum for life; let them also receive the same quarterly, or half-yearly, upon personal application.
IIdly, Let books be opened for them in all his Majesty’s different yards and sea ports, and there their dwelling, age, time they have served, &c. to be fairly entered; each man to bring a certificate from his ship, signed by the captain, or some one he shall please to depute.
IIIdly, As an encouragement to his Majesty’s service and population at the same time, let there be instituted in each of the ship-yards, or ports, &c. of these Kingdoms, a kind of asylum, or house of refuge, for the sons of these honest tars, to be received therein at the age of six years; there to be taught navigation, or, after the common school learning, to be bound to such parts of ship-building as they by nature are most inclined to; such as chuse sea service, to be disposed on board his Majesty’s ships at fifteen years old, and to be enrolled upon the pension-books after ten years faithful service, unless better provided for.
Might not there be some plan hit on to employ the daughters, as well as sons of poor sailors? Does not our Fisheries (if they should ever happen to be attended to) open many doors of useful employment for both sexes?
To defray the above, I would advise the following methods:
First, The pension of 5l. per man for 20,000, amounts only to 100,000l.: let this be taken from the Irish list; it will surely be better employed, than in the present mode for Pensioners of noble blood.
Secondly, Let the book and office keepers at the different yards, ports, &c. be collected from under-officers who have served with reputation; it will be a decent retreat for them in the evening of life, and only a grateful reward for past service.
May some able hand, guided by a benevolent heart, point out and strongly recommend something of this sort, that the honoured name of England may be rescued from the scandalous censure of man-stealing, and from the ingratitude also of letting their preservers perish in the time of peace!
I am, Sir, yours, &c.
Africanus.
LETTER XLIII.
TO MR. M——.
July 27, 1777.
GO-TO!—the man who visits church twice in one day, must either be religious—curious—or idle—whichever you please, my dear friend;—turn it the way which best likes you, I will cheerily subscribe to it.—By the way, H——n was inspired this morning; his text was from Romans—chapter the—verse the—both forgot;—but the subject was to present heart, mind, soul, and all the affections—a living sacrifice to God;—he was most gloriously animated, and seemed to have imbibed the very spirit and manners of the Great Apostle. Our afternoon Orator was a stranger to me—he was blest with a good, clear, and well-toned articulate voice:—he preached from the Psalms—and took great pains to prove that God knew more than we—that letters were the fountain of our knowledge—that a man in Westminster was totally ignorant of what was going forward in Whitechapel—that we might have some memory of what we did last week—but have no sort of conjecture of what we shall do to-morrow, &c. &c.—Now H——n’s whole drift was, that we should live the life of angels here—in order to be so in reality hereafter:—the other good soul gave us wholesome matter of fact;—they were both right—(but I fear not to speak my mind to my M——, who, if he condemns my head, will, I am sure, acquit my heart.)—You have read and admired Sterne’s Sermons—which chiefly inculcate practical duties, and paint brotherly love—and the true Christian charities—in such beauteous glowing colours—that one cannot help wishing to feed the hungry—cloathe the naked, &c. &c.—I would to God, my friend, that the great lights of the church would exercise their oratorical powers upon Yorick’s plan:—the heart and passions once listed under the banners of blest philanthropy—would naturally ascend to the redeeming God—flaming with grateful rapture.—Now I have observed among the modern Saints—who profess to pray without ceasing—that they are so fully taken up with pious meditations—and so wholy absorbed in the love of God—that they have little if any room for the love of man:—if I am wrong, tell me so honestly—the censure of a friend is of more value than his money—and to submit to conviction, is a proof of good sense.—I made my bow to-night to Mrs. H——; the rest of the rogues were out—bright-eyed S—— and all.—Mrs. H—— says that you are hypped—nonsense!—few can rise superior to pain—and the head, I will allow, is a part the most sensible, if affected;—but even then you are not obliged to use more motion than you like—though I can partly feel the aukward sensations and uneasy reflections, which will often arise upon the least ail of so precious a member as the eye—yet certain I am, the more you can be master of yourself (I mean as to chearfulness, if not gaiety of mind) the better it will of course be with you.—I hope G—— is well—and that you ride often to see him I make no doubt.—I like the monkey—I know not for why, nor does it signify a button—but sure he is good-tempered and grateful;—but what’s that to me?—Good-night:——the clock talks of eleven.
Yours, &c.
I. SANCHO.
LETTER XLIV.
TO MR. M——.
July 23, 1777.
YES—too true it is—for the many (aye, and some of those many carry their heads high) too true for the miserable—the needy—the sick—for many, alas! who now may have no helper—for the child of folly poor S——, and even for thy worthless friend Sancho.—It is too true, that the Almighty has called to her rich reward—she who, whilst on earth, approved herself his best delegate.—How blind, how silly, is the mortal who places any trust or hope in aught but the Almighty!—You are just, beautifully just, in your sketch of the vicissitudes of worldly bliss.—We rise the lover—dine the husband—and too oft, alas! lay down the forlorne widower.—Never so struck in my life;—it was on Friday night, between ten and eleven, just preparing for my concluding pipe—the Duke of M——’s man knocks.—“Have you heard the bad news?”—No.—“The Dutchess of Queensbury died last night!”—I felt fifty different sensations—unbelief was uppermost—when he crushed my incredibility, by saying he had been to know how his Grace did—who was also very poorly in health.—Now the preceding day, Thursday (the day on which she expired) I had received a very penitential letter from S——, dated from St. Helena;—this letter I inclosed in a long tedious epistle of my own—and sent to Petersham, believing the family to be all there.—The day after you left town her Grace died;—that day week she was at my door—the day after I had the honour of a long audience in her dressing-room.—Alas! this hour blessed with health—crowned with honors—loaded with riches, and encircled with friends—the next reduced to a lump of poor clay—a tenement for worms!—Earth re-possesses part of what she gave—and the freed spirit mounts on wings of fire:—her disorder was a stoppage—she fell ill the evening of the Friday that I last saw her—continued in her full senses to the last.—The good she had done reached the skies long before her lamented death—and are the only heralds that are worth the pursuit of wisdom:—as to her bad deeds, I have never heard of them.—Had it been for the best, God would have lent her a little longer to a foolish world, which hardly deserved so good a woman;—for my own part, I have lost a friend—and perhaps ’tis better so.—“Whatever is,” &c. &c.—I wish S—— knew this heavy news, for many reasons.—I am inclined to believe her Grace’s death is the only thing that will most conduce to his reform.—I fear neither his gratitude nor sensibility will be much hurt upon hearing the news—it will act upon his fears, and make him do right upon a base principle.—Hang him! he teazes me whenever I think of him.—I supped last night with St——; he called in just now, and says he has a right to be remembered to you.—You and he are two old monkeys—the more I abuse and rate you, the better friend you think me.—As you have found out that your spirits govern your head—you will of course contrive every method of keeping your instrument in tune;—sure I am that bathing—riding—walking—in succession—the two latter not violent—will brace your nerves—purify your blood—invigorate its circulation:—add to the rest continency—yes, again I repeat it, continency;—before you reply, think—re-think—and think again—look into your Bible—look in Young—peep into your own breast—if your heart warrants what your head counsels—act then boldly.—Oh! apropos—pray thank my noble friend Mrs. H—— for her friendly present of C— J—; it did Mrs. Sancho service, and does poor Billy great good—who has (through his teeth) been plagued with a cough—which I hope will not turn to the whooping sort;—the girls greet you as their respected school-master.—As to your spirited kind offer of a F——, why when you please—you know what I intend doing with it.
Poor Lady S——, I find, still lingers this side the world.—Alas! when will the happy period arrive, that the sons of mortality may greet each other with the joyful news, that sin, pain, sorrow, and death, are no more; skies without clouds, earth without crimes, life without death, world without end!—peace, bliss, and harmony, where the Lord God—All in all—King of kings—Lord of lords—reigneth—omnipotent—for ever—for ever!—may you, dear M——, and all I love—yea the whole race of Adam, join with my unworthy weak self, in the stupendous—astonishing—soul-cheering Hallelujahs!—where Charity may be swallowed up in Love—Hope in Bliss—and Faith in glorious Certainty!—We will mix, my boy, with all countries, colours, faiths—see the countless multitudes of the first world—the myriads descended from the—Ark—the Patriarchs—Sages—Prophets—and Heroes! My head turns round at the vast idea! we will mingle with them, and try to untwist the vast chain of blessed Providence—which puzzles and baffles human understanding. Adieu.
Yours, &c.
I. SANCHO.
LETTER XLV.
TO MR. M——.
August 8, 1777.
“Know your own self, presume not God to scan;
“The only science of mankind, is man.”
THERE is something so amazingly grand—so stupendously affecting—in the contemplating the works of the Divine Architect, either in the moral or the intellectual world, that I think one may rightly call it the cordial of the soul—it is the physic of the mind—and the best antidote against weak pride—and the supercilious murmurings of discontent.—Smoaking my morning pipe, the friendly warmth of that glorious planet the sun—the leniency of the air—the chearful glow of the atmosphere—made me involuntarily cry, “Lord, what is man, that thou in thy mercy art so mindful of him! or what the son of man, that thou so parentally carest for him!” David, whose heart and affections were naturally of the first kind (and who indeed had experienced blessings without number), pours forth the grateful sentiments of his enraptured soul in the sweetest modulations of pathetic oratory;—the tender mercies of the Almighty are not less to many of his creatures—but their hearts, unlike the royal disposition of the Shepherd King, are cold, and untouched with the sweet ray of gratitude.—Let us, without meanly sheltering our infirmities under the example of others—perhaps worse taught—or possessed of less leisure for self-examination—let us, my dear M——, look into ourselves—and, by a critical examination of the past events of our lives, fairly confess what mercies we have received—what God in his goodness hath done for us—and how our gratitude and praise have kept pace in imitation of the son of Jesse.—such a research would richly pay us—for the end would be conviction—so much on the side of miraculous mercy—such an unanswerable proof of the superintendency of Divine Providence, as would effectually cure us of rash despondency—and melt our hearts—with devotional aspirations—till we poured forth the effusions of our souls in praise and thanksgiving.—When I sometimes endeavour to turn my thoughts inwards, to review the power or properties the indulgent all-wise Father has endow’d me with, I am struck with wonder and with awe—worm, poor insignificant reptile as I am, with regard to superior beings—mortal like myself.—Amongst, and at the very head of our riches, I reckon the power of reflection:—Where? where, my friend, doth it lie?—Search every member from the toe to the nose—all—all ready for action—but all dead to thought—it lies not in matter—nor in the blood—it is a party, which though we feel and acknowledge, quite past the power of definition—it is that breath of life which the Sacred Architect breathed into the nostrils of the first man—image of his gracious Maker—and let it animate our torpid gratitude—it rolls on, although diminished by our cruel fall, through the whole race.—“We are fearfully and wonderfully made,” &c. &c. were the sentiments of the Royal Preacher upon a self-review—but had he been blessed with the full blaze of the Christian dispensation—what would have been his raptures?—The promise of never, never-ending existence and felicity, to possess eternity—“glorious, dreadful thought!” to rise, perhaps, by regular progression, from planet to planet—to behold the wonders of immensity—to pass from good to better—increasing in goodness—knowledge—love—to glory in our Redeemer—to joy in ourselves—to be acquainted with prophets, sages, heroes, and poets of old times—and join in symphony with angels!—And now, my friend, thou smilest at my futile notions—why preach to thee?—For this very good and simple reason, to get your thoughts in return.—You shall be my philosopher—my Mentor—my friend;—you, happily disengaged from various cares of life and family, can review the little world of man with steadier eye, and more composed thought, than your friend, declining fast into the vale of years, and beset with infirmity and pain.—Write now and then, as thought prompts, and inclination leads—refute my errors—where I am just, give me your plaudit.—Your welfare is truly dear in my sight;—and if any man has a share in my heart, or commands my respect and esteem, it is I—— M——.
Witness my mark,
I. SANCHO.
LETTER XLVI.
TO MR. M——.
August 14, 1777.
MY dear M——, I know full well thy silence must proceed from ill health. To say it concerns me, is dull nonsense—self-love without principle will inspire even Devils with affection;—by so much less as thou apprehendest thy friend has diabolical about him—so may’st thou judge of his feelings towards thee.—Why wilt thou not part with thy hair? most assuredly I do believe it would relieve thee past measure—thou dost not fancy thy strength (like Sampson’s the Israelite) lieth in thy hair. Remember he was shorn thro’ folly—he lost his wits previous to his losing his locks—do thou consent to lose thine, in order to save thy better judgement,—I know no worse soul sinking pain than the head-ach, though (thank heaven) I am not often visited with it.—I long to see thee—and will soon, if in my power:—some odd folks would think it would have been but good manners to have thanked you for the fawn—but then, says the punster, that would have been so like fawn-ing—which J. M—— loves not, no, nor Sancho either;—’tis the hypocrite’s key to the great man’s heart—’tis the resource of cowardly curs—and deceitful b—p—s—it is the spaniel’s sort—and man’s disgrace—it is—in short, the day is so hot—that I cannot say at present any more about it—but that the fawn was large, fresh, and worthy the giver, the receiver, and the joyous souls that eat it.—Billy has suffered much in getting his teeth—I have just wished him joy by his mother’s desire, who says that he took resolution at last, and walked to her some few steps quite alone. Albeit it gave me no small pleasure—yet, upon consideration, what I approve of now, perhaps, (should I live to see him at man’s estate) I might then disapprove—unless God’s grace should as ably support him through the quick-sands—rocks—and shoals of life—as it has happily the honest being I am now writing to.—God give you health!—your own conduct will secure peace—your friends bread.—As to honors, leave it with titles—to knaves—and be content with that of an honest man,
“the noblest work of God.”
Shave—shave—shave.
Farewell, yours sincerely,
I. SANCHO.
LETTER XLVII.
TO MISS C——.
August 15, 1777.
I WAITED, in hopes that time or chance might furnish me with something to fill a sheet, with better than the praises of an old man.—What has youth and beauty to do with the squabbling contentions of mad ambition?—Could I new-model Nature—your sex should rule supreme:—there should be no other ambition but that of pleasing the ladies—no other welfare but the contention of obsequious lovers—nor any glory but the bliss of being approved by the Fair.—Now, confess that this epistle opens very gallant, and allow this to be a decent return to one of the best and most sensible letters that L—— Wells has produced this century past.—I much wish for the pleasing hopes raised by your obliging letter—that my good friend’s health is restored so fully, that she has by this time forgot what the pains in the stomach mean,—that she has sent all her complaints to the lake of Lethe—and is thinking soon to enliven our part our world, enriched with health—spirits—and a certain bewitching benignity of countenance—which cries out—‘Dislike me if you can!’—I want to know what conquests you have made—what savages converted—whom you have smiled into felicity, or killed by rejection;—and how the noble Master of Ceremonies acquits himself, John S—— Esq; I mean.—I hear my friend R—— will be in town this week, to my great comfort;—for, upon my conscience, excepting my family, the town to me is quite empty.—Mrs. R—— is gone to Bury—and the good man is toiling a lonely and forlorne object.—Mrs. Sancho joins in every good and grateful wish for your amiable friend, with, dear Miss C——, your obliged friend and humble servant,
I. SANCHO.
LETTER XLVIII.
TO MR. M——.
August 25, 1777.
Jack-asses.
MY gall has been plentifully stirred—by the barbarity of a set of gentry, who every morning offend my feelings—in their cruel parade through Charles Street, to and from market:—they vend potatoes in the day—and thieve in the night season.—A tall lazy villian was bestriding his poor beast (although loaded with two panniers of potatoes at the same time), and another of his companions was good-naturedly employed in whipping the poor sinking animal—that the gentleman-rider might enjoy the two-fold pleasure of blasphemy and cruelty:—this is a too common evil—and, for the honor of rationality, calls loudly for redress.—I do believe it might be in some measure amended—either by a hint in the papers, of the utility of impressing such vagrants for the king’s service—or by laying a heavy tax upon the poor Jack-asses.—I prefer the former, both for thy sake and mine:—and, as I am convinced we feel instinctively the injuries of our fellow creatures; I do insist upon your exercising your talents in behalf of the honest sufferers.—I ever had a kind of sympathetic (call it what you please) for that animal—and do I not love you?—Before Sterne had wrote them into respect, I had a friendship for them—and many a civil greeting have I given them at casual meetings:—what has ever (with me) stamped a kind of uncommon value and dignity upon the long-ear’d kind of the species, is that our Blessed Saviour, in his day of worldly triumph, chose to use that in preference to the rest of his own blessed creation—“meek and lowly, riding upon an ass.” I am convinced that the general inhumanity of mankind proceeds—first, from the cursed false principle of common education;—and, secondly, from a total indifference (if not disbelief) of the Christian faith;—a heart and mind impressed with a firm belief of the Christian tenets, must of course exercise itself in a constant uniform general philanthropy:—such a being carries his heaven in his breast!—and such be thou! therefore write me a bitter Philippick against the misusers of Jack-asses;—it shall honor a column in the Morning Post—and I will bray—bray my thanks to you:—thou shalt figure away the champion of poor friendless asses here—and hereafter shalt not be ashamed in the great day of retribution.
Mrs. Sancho would send you some tamarinds.—I know not her reasons;—as I hate contentions, I contradicted not—but shrewdly suspect she thinks you want cooling.—Do you hear, Sir? send me some more good news about your head.—Your letters will not be the less welcome for talking about J—— M——; but pray do not let vanity so master your judgement—to fancy yourself upon a footing with George for well looking:—if you were indeed a proof-sheet—you was marred in the taking-off—for George (ask the girls) is certainly the fairest impression.
I had an order from Mr. H—— on Thursday night to see him do Falstaff;—I put some money to it, and took Mary and Betsy with me:—it was Betty’s first affair—and she enjoyed it in truth—H——’s Falstaff is entirely original—and I think as great as his Shylock;—he kept the house in a continual roar of laughter:—in some things he falls short of Quin—in many I think him equal.—When I saw Quin play, he was at the height of his art, with thirty years judgement to guide him. H——, in seven years more, will be all that better—and confessedly the first man on the English stage, or I am much mistaken.
I am reading a little pamphlet, which I much like: it favours an opinion which I have long indulged—which is the improbability of eternal Damnation—a thought which almost petrifies one—and, in my opinion, derogatory to the fullness, glory, and benefit of the blessed expiation of the Son of the Most High God—who died for the sins of all—all—Jew, Turk, Infidel, and Heretic;—fair—sallow—brown—tawney—black—and you—and I—and every son and daughter of Adam.—You must find eyes to read this book—head and heart—with a quickness of conception thou enjoyest—with many—many advantages—which have the love—and envy almost of yours,
I. SANCHO.
Respects in folio to Mrs. H——.
LETTER XLIX.
TO MR. R——.
August 27, 1777.
DEAR FRIEND,
WHETHER this finds your officially parading on Newmarket turfs—or in the happier society of the good geniuses of B—— house—may it find you well—in good joyous spirits—gay, debonnair—happy at heart—happy as I have seen my meaning expressed in the countenance of my friend Mrs. C——, where humanity—humility—and goodwill—have outshone beauty—in one of the finest faces of your country—but this between ourselves;—and pray how does the aforesaid lady do?—does she ride, walk, and dance, with moderation?—and can you tell me that she continues as well as when she first went down—and still finds good from her western expedition?—And the little Syren Miss C——?—Have there no letters, sent by Cupid’s post, sticking on the arrow’s point, been picked up about your grounds, blown by western breezes across the country?—Tell her nothing can ever hurt her but Love and Time.—May Love bring her happiness, and Time honour!—As to wealth—may she have no more than she can manage with comfort and credit!—Monsieur L——’s letter is a good one—and I think it would make one laugh even in the gout.—God bless this old boy—for he is a true type of beggarly pride—cunning—narrow-hearted—vain and mean—one of Satan’s dupes—who do his dirty work for a little worldly trash—and cheat themselves at last.—I know a man who delights to make every one he can happy—that same man treated some honest girls with expences for a Vauxhall evening.—If you should happen to know him—you may tell him from me—that last night—three great girls—a boy—and a fat old fellow—were as happy and pleas’d as a fine evening—fine place—good songs—much company—and good music—could make them.—Heaven and Earth!—how happy, how delighted, were the girls!—Oh! the pleasures of novelty to youth!—We went by water—had a coach home—were gazed at—followed, &c. &c.—but not much abused.—I must break off before I have half finished—for Mr. —— is just come in—you are not the first good friend that has been neglected for a fop.
IGN. SANCHO.
LETTER L.
TO MR. M——.
September 3, 1777.
I FEEL it long since I heard from you—very long since I saw you—and three or four days back had some notion, I should never, in this paltry world, see thee again—but (thanks to the Father of Mercies!) I am better, and have a higher relish of health and ease, from contrasting the blessings with the pains I have endured.—Would to God you could say that your dizzy dismal headachs were flown to the moon, or embarked for Lapland—there to be tied up in a witch’s bag—and sold to Beelzebub with a cargo of bad winds—religious quarrels—politics—my gout—and our American grievances!—But what are you about in your last (where you dropt the candid friend and assumed the flatterer)?—You hinted as if there was a chance of seeing you in Charles Street: I wish it much.—My friend, I have had a week’s gout in my hand, which was by much too hard for my philosophy.—I am convinced, let the Stoics say what they list—that pain is an evil;—in short, I was wishing for death—and little removed from madness—but (thank Heaven)! I am much better—my spirits will be mended if I hear from you—better still to see you.—I find it painful to write much, and learn that two hands are as necessary in writing as eating.—You see I write, like a lady, from one corner of the paper to the other.—My respects—and love—and admiration—and compliments—to Mrs. ——, and Mrs. and Miss ——. Tell M——l, he kept his word in calling to see us before he left town!—I hope—confound the ink!—what a blot! Now don’t you dare suppose I was in fault—no, Sir, the pen was disabled—the paper worse—there was a concatenation of ill-sorted chances—all—all—coincided to contribute to that fatal blot—which has so disarranged my ideas—that I must perforce finish before I had half disburthened my head and heart:—but is N—— a good girl?—and how does my honest George do? Tell Mrs. H—— what you please in the handsome way of me.—Farewell, I will write no more nonsense this night—that’s flat.
IGN. SANCHO.
How do you like the print:—Mr. D—— says, and his wife says the same—that you are exceedingly clever—and they shall be happy to do any thing which is produced by the same hand which did the original—and if Mr. D—— can be of any service to you in the etching—you may command him when you please.
LETTER LI.
TO MR. M——.
September 16, 1777.
SIR, he is the confounded’st dunderhead—sapscull—looby—clodpate, nincompoop—ninnyhammer—booby-chick—farcical—loungibuss—blunderbuss—this good day in the three kingdoms!—You would bless yourself, were it possible for you to analyze such a being—not but his heart is susceptible of a kind of friendly warmth—but then so cursed careless—ever in a hurry—ever in the wrong, at best but blundering about the right.—Why now, for example, when you sent the ——, I can make oath, if need be—that the dunce I speak of longed more for a letter than the animal. The basket was searched with hurry—not care;—no letter? well, it can’t be help’d—his head ach’d—he had not time, &c. &c.—the P—— was disengaged from the basket—the straw consigned to the chimney:—this being rather a coolish morning, a little fire was thought necessary—and in raking up the loose dirty waste stuff under the grate, there appeared a very bloody letter, which seemed unopened:—your hand-writing was discernible through the dirt and blood;—curiosity and affection ran a race to pick up and examine it—when, behold, it proved to be the companion of the P——, but so effaced with blood—that very—very little of my friend’s good sense could be made out.—Your poor letter is a type of what daily happens—merit oppressed and smothered by rubbish.—Alas, poor letter! it shared the fate the poor world, which we inhabit, will hereafter undergo:—one bright gleam of imitation of the mind that dictated it—some few sparks.—Alas! alas! my poor letter—pass but a few years—perhaps a few months—thy generous friendly compost may—thy friend whose heart glows while he writes—who feels thy worth—yea, and reveres it too.—Nonsense, why we know the very hinges of our last cradles will rust and moulder;—and that, in the course of another century, neither flesh, bone, coffin, nor nail—will be dicernible from mother earth.—Courage—while we live, let us live—to Virtue—Friendship—Religion—Charity—then drop (at death’s call) our cumbrous (you are thin) load of flesh, and mount in spirit to our native home.—Bless us, at what a rate have I been travelling!—I am quite out of breath—Why! my friend, the business was to thank you for the pig.—Had you seen the group of heads—aye, and wise ones too—that assembled at the opening of the fardel—the exclamations—Oh! the finest—fattest—cleanest—why, Sir, it was a pig of pigs;—the pettitoes gave us a good supper last night—they were well dressed—and your pig was well eat—it dined us Sunday and Monday.—Now, to say truth, I do not love pig—merely pig—I like not—but pork corned—alias—salted—either roast or boiled—I will eat against any filthy Jew naturalized—or under the bann.—On Saturday night the newsman brought me two papers of J—— 13th and 20th;—right joyful did I receive them:—I ran to Mrs. Sancho—with, I beg you will read my friend’s sensible and spirited defence of—of, &c.—She read—though it broke in upon her work—she approved;—but chance or fortune—or ill-luck—or what you ever mean by accident—has played us a confounded trick;—for since Saturday they have—both papers—disappeared—without hands—or legs—or eyes—for no one has seen them;—bureau—boxes—cupboards—drawers—parlour—chamber—shop—all—all has been rummaged—pockets—port-folio—holes—corners—all been searched;—Did you see them?—did you?—where can they be?—I know not—nor I—nor I—but God does!—Omnipotence knoweth all things.—It has vexed me—fretted dame Sancho—teazed the children—but so it is;—hereafter I suppose they will be found in some obvious (though now unthought of) place, and then it will be, Good Lord, who could have thought it!
Where is the Jack-ass business?—do not be lazy—I feel myself a party concerned—and when I see you, I have a delicious morsel of true feminine grace and generosity to shew you.—I shall not apologize for this crude epistle;—but mark and remark—I do thank you in the name of every Sancho but self—they eat, and were filled;—I have reason to thank you;—but as I do not affect pig—in a piggish sense—I hold myself excepted;—and, although I did eat—and did also commend, yet I will not thank you, that’s poss.
I. SANCHO.
The papers are found, as you will see:—here is one and a piece; it has suffered through ignorance;—but what cannot be cured, must be endured.
LETTER LII.
TO MR. R.——.
September 17, 1777.
MY RESPECTED FRIEND,
I FEEL myself guilty of an unmannerly neglect, in delaying to give my good Mrs. C—— some account of the little commissions she honoured me with.—You must exert your friendly influence, in making my peace with her;—not but that I well know mercy has the blest preponderancy in her scale—nor can kindness or mercy be lodged in a fairer breast;—in faith, I am scarce half alive;—yet what really is alive about me—hungers to hear news from B——: first, how Mrs. C—— got down—and her good companion;—how her health is: tell her, I hope she left all her pains behind her;—if so, I believe I have taken possession of them all. Alas, my friend, I never was but half so bad before;—both feet knocked up at once; plenty of excruciating pains, and a great lack of patience.—Mrs. Sancho has had a blessed week of it;—for my companion did not contribute much to the sweetening my temper—it was the washing-week, which you know made it a full chance and half better.—she was forced to break sugar, and attend shop.—God bless her, and reward her!—she is good—good in heart—good in principle—good by habit—good by Heaven! God forgive me, I had almost sworn.—Tell me how the ladies got down—how they do; and what they do;—how you do;—and how —— feels, now the broom is hung on his door top.—The certainty that B—— and his connexions are all alive and merry—will be a cure for my gout—and thou shalt be sole doctor, as well as first friend, to thy ever obliged true friend.
I. SANCHO.
LETTER LIII.
TO MR. M——.
September 20, 1777.
“What Reason warrants, and what Wisdom guides,
“All else is tow’ring frenzy, or rank folly.”
SO says Addison—
—And so well knoweth my friend I. M——. Well, and what then? why it follows of course—that, instead of feeling myself delighted and gratefully thankful, for—I will and must speak out—yet if these kindnesses cost the pocket of my friend—they are not kindnesses to the Sanchos.—For innate goodness of heart—greatness of spirit—urbanity—humanity—temperance—justice—with the whole sweet list of heaven-born manly virtues—I do, without flattery, give thee (and with pride do I avouch it) credit—I respect thy person, and love thy principles;—but, my good M——, there is a prior duty—which I dare believe you will never willingly be deficient in—and yet your generosity of soul may let even such a worm as I break into it;—now, that should not be—for—take me right—I do not mean any thing derogatory to your rank in the world—or to the strength of your finances—what Sterne said of himself that think I of you—that you are as good a gentleman as the King—but not quite so rich.—I honor thy feelings—and am happy that I can honestly say, that I conceive them;—the joy of giving and making happy is almost the attribute of a God—and there is as much sweetness conveyed to the senses by doing a right well-natured deed, as our frame can consistently bear—So much for chastisement—a pretty way of thanking!—Well, I have critically examined thy song—some parts I like well—as it is a maidenhead, it should be gently treated—But why N—— Oh! Nature! A true passion is jealous even of the initials of its mistress’s name.—Well, N—— let it be—I will certainly attempt giving it a tune—such as I can—the first leisure—but it must undergo some little pruning when we meet.—I have had another little visit from the gout—and my hand yet remembers the rough salute; my spirits have been rather low.—Young’s ninth night, the Consolation, has been my last week’s study. It is almost divine;—how many times has it raised, warmed, and charmed me!—and is still new. I hope you found your mother and honest George as well as you wished—and had the full enjoyment of maternal and filial affections.—The girls are rampant-well—and Billy gains something every day.—The rogue is to excess fond of me—for which I pity him—and myself more.—My respects and kind enquiry to your old horse.—Tell him, I wish him better—and am a real friend to honest brutes—some I could almost envy.—To say I am rejoiced to hear you are better, is telling you no news—be but as well as I wish you—as rich—and as good—Sampson, Solomon, and the Duke de Penthievre, will never be comparisons more.—Adieu.
Yours, &c.
I. SANCHO.
I am as melancholy—as a tea-kettle when it sings (as the maidens calls it) over a dead fire.
Oh!—but is it N—— indeed?—now don’t you be after humming me; believe me, honey—if I never find out the truth, I shall know it for all that.
LETTER LIV.
TO MR. S——.
October 24, 1777.
I DENY it. That I ought to have acknowledged your favour two weeks ago I confess—but my silence was not so long—nor broad—nor rusty—nor fusty as yours.—Blithe health—festive hours—and social mirth—be thine, my friend! Thy letter, though late, was truly welcome—it unbended the brow of care—and suspended, for some hours, disagreeable thoughts.——By St. Radagunda! quoth I—(ramming my nostrils with Hardham) he has catched the mantle.—Alas, poor Yorick! oh! that thou hadst, by divine permission, been suffered a little—little longer, amongst the moonstruck children of this namby-pamby world! Father of light and life! thy will be done;—but surely—half the wit—half the good sense—of this present age—were interred in Sterne’s grave. His broad philanthropy—like the soul-cheering rays of the blessed sun, invested his happy spirit, and soared into Heaven with it—where, in progressive rise from bliss to bliss, he drinks in large draughts of rapture, love, and knowledge, and chants the praises of redeeming love, with joy unbounded, and unceasing vigour.—Your invocation has mounted me, Merry-Andrew like, upon stilts.—I ape you as monkeys ape men, by walking upon two.—That you have recovered the true tone of your health and spirits, I rejoice—to be happy in despight of fortune, shews the Philosopher—the Hero—the Christian. I must confess, my fortitude (which is wove of very flimsy materials) too oft gives way in the rough and unfriendly jostles of life:—Madam Fortune, who by the way is a bunter (and such I love not), has been particularly cross and untoward to me since you left us. They say she is fond of fools—’tis false and scandalous—she hates me—and I have the vanity to say and believe—that if folly, sheer folly, had any charms—I should stand as fair in her esteem—as A. B. C. D. E. F.—or any of Folly’s family through the whole alphabet.—You halted at Burleigh—you did just what I wished you to do—and left it, I trust, as well in health as you entered that sweet mansion—stopp’d at Retford—and found your venerable parents well—and contributed to their happiness—increased their felicity by the many nice little attentions of filial love—which the good heart delights in—and even angels approve.—And how do the worthy souls of Hull and its environs?—Do they credit themselves by esteeming a good-enough kind of mortal?—You cannot imagine what hold little Billy gets of me—he grows—prattles—and every day learns something new—and by his good-will would be ever in the shop with me. The monkey! he clings round my legs—and if I chide him or look sour—he holds up his little mouth to kiss me;—I know I am the fool—for parent’s weakness is child’s strength:—truth orthodox—which will hold good between lover and lovee—as well as - - - - - - - - - - - - - -. Mrs. Sancho and her virgins are so, so. Mr. Sancho, the virgins, well as youth and innocence, souls void of care and consciences of offence, can be.—Dame Sancho would be better if she cared less.—I am her barometer—if a sigh escapes me, it is answered by a tear in her eye;—I oft assume a gaiety to illume her dear sensibility with a smile—which twenty years ago almost bewitched me;—and mark!—after twenty years enjoyment—constitutes my highest pleasure!—Such be your lot—with a competency—such as will make œconomy a pleasant acquaintance—temperance and exercise your chief physician—and the virtues of benevolence your daily employ—your pleasure and reward! And what more can friendship wish you?—but to glide down the stream of time—blest with a partner of congenial principles, and fine feelings—true feminine eloquence—whose very looks speak tenderness and sentiment.—Your infants growing—with the roseate bloom of health—minds cultured by their father—expanding daily in every improvement—blest little souls!—and happy—happy parents!—such be thy lot in life—in marriage;—but take a virgin—or a maiden—to thy arms;—but—be that as thy fate wills it.—Now for news.—Two hours ago (in tolerable health and cheary spirits) considering his journey not so fatigued as might be expected—followed by four superb carriages—their Royal Highnesses the Duke and Dutchess of Gloucester arrived in town. As to America, if you know any thing at Hull, you know more than is known in London.—Samuel Foote, Esq; is dead—a leg was buried some years since—and now the whole foote follows.—I think you love a pun.—Colman is the gainer, as he covenanted to give him 1600l. per annum, for his patent;—in short, Colman is happy in the bargain—and I trust Foote is no loser.—I have seen poor Mr. de Groote but once—and then could not attend to speak with him, as I had customers in the shop.—I waited by appointment for Mr. ——, to get your honor’s address—and then three weeks before I could get the franks—a fortnight since for Mr. —— writing to you—I call this a string of beggarly apologies.—I told M—— you expected a line from him—he wanted faith.—I made him read your letter—and what then? “truly he was not capable—he had no classical education—you write with elegance—ease—propriety.”——Tut, quoth I, pr’ythee give not the reins to pride—write as I do—just the effusions of a warm though foolish heart:—friendship will cast a veil of kindness over thy blunders—they will be accepted with a complacent smile—and read with the same eye of kindness which indulges now the errors of his sincere friend,
IGN. SANCHO.
A true Genius will always remember to leave a space unwritten—to come in contact with the wax or wafer—by which means the reader escapes half an hour’s puzzle to make out a sentence;—and ever while you live—never omit—no—not that—what?—what!—dates! dates!—am not I a grocer?——Pun the Second.
LETTER LV.
TO MRS. C——.
Charles Street, Nov. 5, 1777.
NOW, whether to address—according to the distant, reserved, cold, mechanical forms of high-breeding—where polished manners, like a horse from the manage, prances fantastic—and, shackled with the rules of art, proudly despises simple nature;—or shall I, like the patient, honest, sober, long-ear’d animal, take plain Nature’s path, and address you according to my feelings?—My dear friend—you wanted to know the reason I had never addressed a line to you;—the plain and honest truth is, I thought writing at—was better than writing to you;—that’s one reason:—now a second reason is—I know my own weakness too well to encounter with your little friend—whom I fear as a critic—and envy as a writer:—another reason is—a case of conscience—which some time or other you may have explained:—reason the fourth—a secret—and so must be—till the blessed year 1797;—and then, if you will deign to converse with an old friend—you shall know all.—Kitty sends her respects to Nutts—and her duty to her godmother.—Billy looks wisely by turns—and will speak for himself—if you should ever come to town again.—The girls all improve in appetite. Mrs. Sancho is tolerably well—and I am yours very seriously,
I. SANCHO.
P. S. I wrote to my friend R——, and then made some modest demands upon your good-nature—There are a sort of people in the world (one or two in a large extent of country) rare enough to meet with—and you are one whom nature hath left entirely defenceless to the depredations of knaves;—for my part, I own I have no remorse when I tax your good-nature—which proceeds from your having obliged me so much—that I think with the street paupers—when they cry—“Good your Ladyship, give me something—you always used to remember your poor old woman!”—Well but to conclude—we courtiers are all alive upon this great good news—the Queen, God bless her—safe;—another Princess—Oh the cake and cawdle!—Then the defeat of Washintub’s army—and the capture of Arnold and Sulivan with seven thousand prisoners;—thirteen counties return to their allegiance;—all this news is believed—the delivery of her Majesty is certain—pray God the rest may be as certain—that this cursed carnage of the human species may end—commerce revive—sweet social peace be extended throughout the globe—and the British empire be strongly knit in the never-ending bands of sacred friendship and brotherly love!—Her good Grace of P—— is just arrived:—the gardens would look as they were wont—but for you. But to conclude—the little dance (which I like because I made it)—I humbly beg you will make Jacky play—and amongst you contrive a figure.—The Dutchess of —— visits the Queen this evening—which being a piece of news you may credit—and of the utmost consequence—I close my very sensible decent epistle with—And so God bless you!—Pray tell Mr. K—— my thanks for his obliging letter—and that I join him and all his friends in honest gladness—upon his brother’s account.—I fear, also, he has had, and still has, too much practice.—I have this opinion of him, that his humanity will ever be found equal to his skill—and that he will be a credit to his profession—as well as a blessing to his patients.—My humble respects and best wishes attend Miss —— and Messieurs B—— and S——, &c.
The grand news is not yet officially authenticated—as no express is yet arrived from the Howes—the Isis man of war, which is supposed to have the dispatches, not being got in;—but the K—— and Cabinet believe the news to be true, though brought by hear-say—at sea.
LETTER LVI.
TO MR. S——.
December 20, 1777.
WITH the old story of the Season, &c. &c. most sincerely, and amen.
When Royal David—in the intoxication of success and fullness of pride—imprudently insisted upon the numbering of his people—we are told, the Prophet was sent to announce the Divine displeasure—and to give him the choice of one of the three of the Almighty’s heaviest punishments:—in his choice—he shewed both wisdom and true piety—you know the rest.—Now, my friend—thou knowest my weakness;—I sincerely believe the Sacred Writ—and of course look upon war in all its horrid arrangements as the bitterest curse that can fall upon a people; and this American one—as one of the very worst—of worst things:—that it is a just judgement, I do believe;—that the eyes of our rulers are shut, and their judgements stone-blind, I believe also.—The Gazette will give you a well-drest melancholy account—but you will see one thing in it which you will like—and that is, the humane solicitude of General Burgoyne—for the safety and good treatment indiscriminately of all his camp-artificers and attendants:—he is certainly a man of feeling—and I regard him more for the grandeur of his mind in adversity—than I should in all the triumphal pomp of military madness.—But let me return, if possible, to my senses:—for God’s sake! what has a poor starving Negroe, with six children, to do with kings and heroes, and armies and politics?—Aye, or poets and painters!—or artists—of any sort? quoth Monsieur S——. True—indubitably true.—For your letter, thanks—It should have come sooner—better late, &c. &c.—What have I to do with your good or evil fortune—health or sickness—weal or woe?—I am resolved from henceforth to banish feelings—Misanthrope from head to foot!—Apropos—not five minutes since I was interrupted, in this same letter of letters, by a pleasant affair—to a man of no feelings.—A fellow bolted into the shop with a countenance in which grief and fear struggled for mastery.—“Did you see any body go to my cart, Sir?”—“No, friend, how should I? you see I am writing—and how should I be able to see your cart or you either in the dark?”—“Lord in heaven pity me! cries the man, what shall I do? oh! what shall I do?—I am undone!—Good God!—I did but go into the court here—with a trunk for the lady at Captain G——’s (I had two to deliver), and somebody has stole the other;—what shall I do?—what shall I do?”—“Zounds, man!—who ever left their cart in the night with goods in it, without leaving some one to watch?”—“Alack, Sir, I left a boy, and told him I would give him something to stand by the cart, and the boy and trunk are both gone!”—Oh nature!—oh heart!—why does the voice of distress so forcibly knock at the door of hearts—but to hint to pride and avarice our common kindred—and to alarm self-love?—Mark, I do think, and will maintain it—that self-love alone, if rightly understood, would make man all that a dying Redeemer wills he should be.—But this same stolen trunk;—the ladies are just gone out of my shop—they have been here holding a council—upon law and advertisements;—God help them!—they could not have come to a worse—nor could they have found a stupider or sorrier adviser:—the trunk was seen parading between two in the Park—and I dare say the contents by this time are pretty well gutted.—Last Sunday I met, coming from church, Mr. C——; he looks well, better than when you left him.—I took occasion, as we were prating about and about your worship—to pin Mr. de Groote’s interest upon the skirts of his feelings;—he desired, when I saw him next, I would send him into Crown-street—which I religiously performed, but have not seen Mr. de Groote since;—in truth, there is (despight of his nose) so much of the remains of better times—somewhat of the gentleman and artist in ruins—something creative of reverence as well as pity—that I have wished to do more than I ought—though at the same time too little for such a being to receive without insult from the hands of a poor Negroe—(pooh, I do not care for your prancings, I can see you at this distance).—We have agreed upon one thing;—which is, I have undertaken to write to Mr. G—— for him, in the way of local relief;—I will wager a tankard of porter I succeed in some sort;—I will aim at both sides of him—his pity and his pride—which, alas!—the last I mean, finds a first-floor in the breast of every son of Adam. S—— called on me this day, and left a picture for you at your lodgings—and a very spirited head in miniature, of your own doing, with me—which I like so well—you will find it difficult to get it from me—except you talk of giving me a copy—Self-love again!—How can you expect business in these hard times—when the utmost exertions of honest industry can scarce afford people in the middle sphere of life daily provisions?—When it shall please the Almighty that things shall take a better turn in America—when the conviction of their madness shall make them court peace—and the same conviction of our cruelty and injustice induce us to settle all points in equity—when that time arrives, my friend, America will be the grand patron of genius—trade and arts will flourish—and if it shall please God to spare us till that period—we will either go and try our fortunes there—or stay in Old England and talk about it.—While thou hast only one mouth to feed—one back to cloath—and one wicked member to indulge—thou wilt have no pity from me—excepting in the argument of health. May that cordial blessing be thine—with its sweet companion ease!—Peace follows rectitude—and what a plague would’st thou have more?—Write soon if thou dar’st—retort at thy peril—boy—girls—and the old Duchess, all pretty well—and so, so, is yours,
I. SANCHO.
LETTER LVII.
TO J. S——, Esq.
Charles Street, December 26, 1777.
I HAD the favor of a letter—replete with kindness which I can never deserve—and have just now received the valuable contents—of which said letter was harbinger—without either surprize or emotion—save a kind of grateful tickling of the heart—the child of respect—and I believe twin-brother of gratitude.——Now had I heard of an A—hb—p (at this sacred season especially)—gladdening the hearts of the poor, aged and infirm—with good cheer—informing the minds of the young with Christian precepts, and reforming his whole See by his pious example—that would have surprized me:—had I been informed of a truly great man—who, laying aside party and self-interest, dared to step forth the advocate of truth, and friend to his country; or had any one told me of a lord—who was wise enough to live within bounds—and honest enough to pay his debts—why it would have surpriz’d me indeed.—But I have been well informed there is a Mr. S—— at Bury—and I think I have seen the gentleman—who lives in a constant course of doing beneficent actions—and, upon these occasions, the pleasure he feels constitutes him the obliged party.—You, good Sir, ought of course to thank me—for adding one more to the number you are pleased to be kind to—so pray remember, good Sir, that my thanks—(however due in the eye of gratitude) I conceive to be an act of supererogation—and expect that henceforth you will look upon the Sancho’s—as a family that have a rightful call upon your notice.—Mrs. Sancho joins me in repetition of the customary wishes.—Give me credit for having a heart which feels your kindness as it ought.—That Heaven may lengthen your days for the good of mankind—and grant every wish of your heart—is the true conclusion of
Your greatly obliged
and respectful humble servant,
I. SANCHO.
LETTER LVIII.
TO MR. F——.
Charles Street, January 27, 1778.
FULL heartily and most cordially do I thank thee, good Mr. F——, for your kindness in sending the books—that upon the unchristian and most diabolical usage of my brother Negroes—the illegality—the horrid wickedness of the traffic—the cruel carnage and depopulation of the human species—is painted in such strong colours—that I should think would (if duly attended to) flash conviction, and produce remorse, in every enlightened and candid reader.—The perusal affected me more than I can express;—indeed I felt a double or mixt sensation—for while my heart was torn with the sufferings which—for aught I know—some of my nearest kin might have undergone—my bosom, at the same time, glowed with gratitude and praise toward the humane—the Christian—the friendly and learned Author of that most valuable book.—Blest be your sect!—and Heaven’s peace be upon them!—I, who, thank God! am no bigot—but honour virtue and the practice of the great moral duties equally in the turban or the lawn-sleeves—who think Heaven big enough for all the race of man—and hope to see and mix amongst the whole family of Adam in bliss hereafter—I with these notions (which, perhaps, some may style absurd) look upon the friendly Author—as a being far superior to any great name upon your continent.—I could wish that every member of each house of parliament had one of these books.—And if his Majesty perused one through before breakfast—though it might spoil his appetite—yet the consciousness of having it in his power to facilitate the great work—would give an additional sweetness to his tea.—Phyllis’s poems do credit to nature—and put art—merely as art—to the blush.—It reflects nothing either to the glory or generosity of her master—if she is still his slave—except he glories in the low vanity of having in his wanton power a mind animated by Heaven—a genius superior to himself. The list of splendid, titled, learned names, in confirmation of her being the real authoress, alas! shews how very poor the acquisition of wealth and knowledge are—without generosity—feeling—and humanity.—These good great folks all knew—and perhaps admired—nay, praised Genius in bondage—and then, like the Priests and the Levites in sacred writ, passed by—not one good Samaritan amongst them.—I shall be ever glad to see you—and am, with many thanks,
Your most humble servant.
IGNATIUS SANCHO.
LETTER LIX.
TO MR. W——E.
Charles Street, March 12, 1778.
WILL you forgive me—if I take the liberty to trouble you with getting my enclosed plan inserted in the General Advertiser, or Morning Intelligencer, as speedily as they conveniently can, if after you have perused it, you think it admissable?—if not, destroy it; for I have not yet vanity sufficient to think whatever I privately approve must of course be approveable.—I send you the copy of what real affection made me draw up for the late unfortunate Dr. Dodd[5] (which, as it never was inserted, I must believe the learned editor thought it too insignificant for the laudable service it was meant to help).—My respects attend your whole family.—I am, dear Sir,
Yours, &c. &c.
I. SANCHO.
I prefer Mr. Parker’s paper for many reasons;—let me have your opinion of my plan—for, in serious truth, I think it ought to be put in execution.
[5] Mr. Sancho also wrote to Dr. Dodd when in prison.