Letters of the Late Ignatius Sancho, an African / To Which Are Prefixed, Memoirs of His Life

by Ignatius Sancho

LETTERS.

LETTER I.
TO MR. J— W——E.

Charles Street, Feb. 14, 1768.

MY WORTHY AND MUCH RESPECTED FRIEND,

POPE observes,

“Men change with fortune, manners change with climes;

“Tenets with books, and principles with times.”

Your friendly letter convinced me that you are still the same—and gave in that conviction a ten-fold pleasure:—you carried out (through God’s grace) an honest friendly heart, a clear discerning head, and a soul impressed with every humane feeling.—That you are still the same—I repeat it—gives me more joy—than the certainty would of your being worth ten Jaghires:—I dare say you will ever remember that the truest worth is that of the mind—the best rectitude of the heart—the conscience unsullied with guilt—the undaunted noble eye, enriched with innocence, and shining with social glee—peace dancing in the heart—and health smiling in the face—May these be ever thy companions!—and for riches you will ever be more than vulgarly rich—while you thankfully enjoy—and gratefully assist the wants (as far as you are able) of your fellow-creatures. But I think (and so will you) that I am preaching. I only meant in truth to thank you, which I most sincerely do, for your kind letter:—believe me, it gratifies a better principle than vanity—to know that you remember your dark-faced friend at such a distance. But what would have been your feelings—could you have beheld your worthy, thrice worthy father—joy sitting triumphant in his honest face—speeding from house to house, amongst his numerous friends, with the pleasing testimonials of his son’s love and duty in his hands—every one congratulating him, and joining in good wishes—while the starting tear plainly proved that over-joy and grief give the same livery?

You met with an old acquaintance of mine, Mr. G——. I am glad to hear he is well; but, when I knew him, he was young, and not so wise as knowing: I hope he will take example by what he sees in you—and you, young man, remember, if you should unhappily fall into bad company, that example is only the fool’s plea, and the rogue’s excuse, for doing wrong things:—you have a turn for reflection, and a steadiness, which, aided by the best of social dispositions, must make your company much coveted, and your person loved.—Forgive me for presuming to dictate, when I well know you have many friends much more able, from knowledge and better sense—though I deny—a better will.

You will of course make Men and Things your study—their different genius, aims, and passions:—you will also note climes, buildings, soils, and products, which will be neither tedious nor unpleasant. If you adopt the rule of writing every evening your remarks on the past day, it will be a kind of friendly tête-a tête between you and yourself, wherein you may sometimes happily become your own Monitor;—and hereafter those little notes will afford you a rich fund, whenever you shall be inclined to re-trace past times and places.——I say nothing upon the score of Religion—for, I am clear, every good affection, every sweet sensibility, every heart-felt joy—humanity, politeness, charity—all, all, are streams from that sacred spring;—so that to say you are good-tempered, honest, social, &c. &c. is only in fact saying, you live according to your Divine Master’s rules, and are a Christian.

Your B—— friends are all well, excepting the good Mrs. C——, who is at this time but so, so. Miss C—— still as agreeable as when you knew her, if not more so. Mr. R——, as usual, never so happy, never so gay, nor so much in true pleasure, as when he is doing good—he enjoys the hope of your well-doing as much as any of your family. His brother John has been lucky—his abilities, address, good nature, and good sense, have got him a surgeoncy in the batalion of guards, which is reckoned a very good thing.

As to news, what we have is so incumbered with falshoods, I think it, as Bobadil says, “a service of danger” to meddle with: this I know for truth, that the late great Dagon of the people has totally lost all his worshipers, and walks the streets as unregarded as Ignatius Sancho, and I believe almost as poor—such is the stability of popular greatness:

“One self-approving hour whole years outweighs

“Of idle starers, or of loud huzza’s,” &c.

Your brother and sister C—d sometimes look in upon us; her boys are fine, well, and thriving; and my honest cousin Joe increases in sense and stature; he promises to be as good as clever. He brought me your first letter, which, though first wrote, had the fate to come last; the little man came from Red-Lion Court to Charles Street by himself, and seemed the taller for what he had done; he is indeed a sweet boy, but I fear every body will be telling him so. I know the folly of so doing, and yet am as guilty as any one.

There is sent out in the Besborough, along with fresh governors, and other strange commodities, a little Blacky, whom you must either have seen or heard of; his name is S——. He goes out upon a rational well-digested plan, to settle either at Madrass or Bengal, to teach fencing and riding—he is expert at both. If he should chance to fall in your way, do not fail to give the rattlepate what wholesome advice you can; but remember, I do strictly caution you against lending him money upon any account, for he has every thing but—principle; he will never pay you; I am sorry to say so much of one whom I have had a friendship for, but it is needful. Serve him, if you can—but do not trust him.—There is in the same ship, belonging to the Captain’s band of music, one C— L—n, whom I think you have seen in Privy Gardens: he is honest, trusty, good-natured, and civil; if you see him, take notice of him, and I will regard it as a kindness to me. I have nothing more to say. Continue in right thinking, you will of course act well; in well-doing, you will insure the favour of God, and the love of your friends, amongst whom pray reckon

Yours faithfully,

IGNATIUS SANCHO.

LETTER II.
TO MR. M——.

August 7, 1768.

Lord! what is Man?—and what business have such lazy, lousy, paltry beings of a day to form friendships, or to make connexions? Man is an absurd animal—yea, I will ever maintain it—in his vices, dreadful—in his few virtues, silly—he has religion without devotion—philosophy without wisdom—the divine passion (as it is called) love too oft without affection—and anger without cause—friendship without reason—hate without reflection—knowledge (like Ashley’s punch in small quantities) without judgement—and wit without discretion.—Look into old age, you will see avarice joined to poverty—letchery, gout, impotency, like three monkeys, or London bucks, in a one-horse whisky, driving to the Devil.—Deep politicians with palsied heads and relaxed nerves—zealous in the great cause of national welfare and public virtue—but touch not—oh! touch not the pocket—friendship—religion—love of country—excellent topics for declamation!—but most ridiculous chimera to suffer either in money or ease—for, trust me, my M——, I am resolved upon a reform.—Truth, fair Truth, I give thee to the wind!—Affection, get thee hence! Friendship, be it the idol of such silly chaps, with aching heads, strong passions, warm hearts, and happy talents, as of old used to visit Charles Street, and now abideth in fair G——h House.

I give it under my hand and mark, that the best receipe for your aching head (if not the only thing which will relieve you) is cutting off your hair—I know it is not the ton; but when ease and health stand on the right—ornament and fashion on the left—it is by no means the Ass between two loads of hay—why not ask council about it? Even the young part of the faculty were formerly obliged to submit to amputation, in order to look wise.—What they sacrificed to appearances, do thou to necessity.—Absalom had saved his life, but for his hair. You will reply, “Cæsar would have been drowned, but his length of hair afforded hold to the friendly hand that drew him to shore.” Art, at this happy time, imitates Nature so well in both sexes, that in truth our own growth is but of little consequence. Therefore, my dear M—, part with your hair and head-achs together; and let us see you spruce, well-shorn, easy, gay, debonnair—as of old.

I have made enquiry after L——’s letter. My friend R—— went to demand the reason for omitting to publish it, and to reclaim the copy. The publisher smiled at him, and bid him examine the M. C. of J. 13, where he would find L. and the same paper of the 20th instant, where he would also find P—— B——’s very angry answer.—Indeed the poor fellow foams again, and appears as indecently dull as malice could with him. I went to the coffee-house to examine the file, and was greatly pleased upon the second reading of your work, in which is blended the Gentleman and the Scholar. Now, observe, if you dare to say I flatter, or mean to flatter, you either impeach my judgement or honesty—at your peril then be it.—For your letter of yesterday, I could find in my conscience not to thank you for it—it gave a melancholy tint to every thing about me. Pope had the head-ach vilely—Spenser, I have heard, suffered much from it—in short, it is the ail of true Geniuses.—They applied a thick wreath of laurel round their brows—do you the same—and putting the best foot foremost—duly considering the mansion—what it had suffered through chance, time, and hard use—be thankfully resigned, humble, and say, “It is well it is no worse!”

I do not wish you to be any other than nice in what new acquaintance you make. As to friendship, it is a mistake—real friendships are not hastily made—friendship is a plant of slow growth, and, like our English oak, spreads—is more majestically beautiful, and increases in shade, strength, and riches, as it increases in years. I pity your poor head, for this confounded scrawl of mine is enough to give the head-ach to the strongest brain in the kingdom—so remember I quit the pen unwillingly, having not said half what I meant; but, impelled by conscience, and a due consideration of your ease, I conclude, just wishing you as well as I do my dear self,

Yours, I. SANCHO.

Your cure, in four words, is

CUT—OFF—YOUR—HAIR!

LETTER III.
TO MR. M——.

Sept. 17, 1768.

I AM uneasy about your health—I do not like your silence—let some good body or other give me a line, just to say how you are.—I will, if I can, see you on Sunday;—it is a folly to like people, and call them friends, except they are blest with health and riches.—A very miserable undone poor wretch, who has no portion in this world’s goods but honesty and good temper, has a child to maintain, and is very near in a state of nature in the article of covering, has applied to me.—I do know something of her—no greater crime than poverty and nakedness.—Now, my dear M——, I know you have a persuasive eloquence among the women—try your oratorical powers.—You have many women—and I am sure there must be a great deal of charity amongst them—Mind, we ask no money—only rags—mere literal rags.—Patience is a ragged virtue—therefore strip the girls, dear M——, strip them of what they can spare—a few superfluous worn-out garments—but leave them pity—benevolence—the charities—goodness of heart—love—and the blessings of yours truly with affection, or something very like it,

I SANCHO.

LETTER IV.
TO MR. M——.

Sept. 20, 1768.

OH! my M——, what a feast! to a mind fashioned as thine is to gentle deeds!—Could’st thou have beheld the woe-worn object of thy charitable care receive the noble donation of thy blest house!—the lip quivering, and the tongue refusing its office, thro’ joyful surprize—the heart gratefully throbbing—overswelled with thankful sensations—I could behold a field of battle, and survey the devastations of the Devil, without a tear—but a heart o’ercharged with gratitude, or a deed begotten by sacred pity—as thine of this day—would melt me, although unused to the melting mood. As to thy noble, truly noble, Miss ——, I say nothing—she serves a Master—who can and will reward her as ample—as her worth exceeds the common nonsensical dolls of the age;—but for thy compeers, may they never taste any thing less in this world—than the satisfaction resulting from heaven-born Charity! and in the next, may they and you receive that blest greeting—“Well done, thou good and faithful,” &c. &c. Tell your girls that I will kiss them twice in the same place—troth, a poor reward;—but more than that—I will respect them in my heart, amidst the casual foibles of worldly prejudice and common usage.—I shall look to their charitable hearts, and that shall spread a crown of glory over every transient defect.—— The poor woman brings this in her hand;—she means to thank you—your noble L——, your good girls—her benefactors—her saviours. I too would thank—but that I know the opportunity I have afforded you of doing what you best love, makes you the obliged party—the obliger,

Your faithful friend,

I. SANCHO.

LETTER V.
TO MR. K——.

Richmond, Oct. 20, 1769.

WHAT, my honest friend K——, I am heartily glad to see you, quoth I—long look’d for, come at last.—Well, we will have done with that;—you have made ample amends for your silence—have approved yourself, what I ever esteemed you—an honest, hearty, good lad.—As to your apologizing about your abilities for writing—’tis all a humm—you write sense;—and verily, my good friend, he that wishes to do better must be a coxcomb.—You say you was thrown from your horse but once—in my conscience, I think once full oft enough—I am glad, however, you escaped so well.—The description of your journey I return you thanks for—it pleased me much—and proved that you looked rather farther than your horse’s head.—A young man should turn travel—home—leisure—or employment—all to the one grand end of improving himself. From your account of Dalkeith, I now view it “in my mind’s eye” (as Hamlet says), and think it a delightful spot.—I was wrong, I find, in my notions of the Edinburghers—for I judged them the grand patterns for—cleanliness—politeness—and generosity. Your birth-day entertainments made a blaze in our papers, which said, amongst other things, that the puncheons of rum flood as thick in your park as the trees—oh; how I licked my lips, and wished the distance (400 miles) less between us.—You do not say a word about coming back again.—Poor Pat has paid his last debt—peace and bliss to his spirit! rest to his bones!—his wife and daughter (both with child) and his youngest child all came down;—what a scene had I to be spectator of!—trust me, James, I cry’d like a whipt school-boy!—But then my noble master—Great God, reward him!—Tell me not of ninety covers—splendour—and feasting—To wipe away the tears of distress, to make the heart of the widow to sing for joy—may such actions ever (as they have long been) be the characteristic of the good Duke of M——! Dr. James, thy favourite, twice came here:—at his first visit he gave no hope—the next day he came, and poor Pat had resigned up his spirit two hours before he got here;—his Grace paid him the tribute, the rich tribute, of many tears—and ordered me to get a lodging for his widow and children:—in the evening he ordered me to go to them for him—and acquaint Mrs. W—— how very sensible he was of her great loss, as well as his own—that he would ever be a friend to her—and as to the boy—though he was perfectly well satisfied with his conduct in his place—yet, if he would like any trade better than continuing his servant—he would put him out, and support him through his apprenticeship;—and he would give him a year to consider it.—Pat has chose to stay, and his Grace promises whoever uses him ill shall be no servant here:—on the night of his interment, after all was over, the Duke wrote to the widow himself, and inclosed a twenty pound bill—and repeated his promises.—Your own heart, my dear James, will make the best comment—which is grandest—one such action—or ten birth-days;—though in truth the latter has his merit—it creates business, and helps the poor.—I suppose you will expect me to say something of our family. Her Grace, I am truly sorry to say it, has been but poorly for some time—and indeed is but indifferent now—God of his mercy grant her better health! and every good that can contribute to her happiness!—The good Marquiss is with us—Are not you tired? This is a deuced long letter.—Well, one word more, and then farewell. Mrs. M—— is grown generous—has left off swearing and modelling. S—— is turned Jew, and is to be circumcised next Passover. W—— is turned fine gentleman—and left off work—and I your humble friend, I am for my sins turned Methodist.—Thank God! we are all pretty hobbling as to health.—Dame Sancho will be much obliged to you for your kind mention of her—she and the brats are very well, thank Heaven! Abraham gives up the stockings—and monkey Tom his box—they both, with all the rest, join in love and best wishes to your worship.—I, for my own share, own myself obliged to you—and think myself honoured in your acknowledging yourself my pupil; were I an ambitious man, I should never forgive you,—for in truth you by far excel your master:—go on, and prosper, “Render unto Cæsar the things which are Cæsar’s;”—laugh at all the tall boys in the kingdom.—I rest, dear Jemmy, thy true friend and obliged fellow-servant,

I. SANCHO.

LETTER VI.
TO MRS. F——.

Richmond, Oct. 20, 1769.

I SENT you a note in Mrs. Sancho’s name this day fortnight—importing that she would hope for the pleasure of seeing you at Richmond before the fine weather takes its leave of us:—neither hearing from nor seeing you—though expecting you every day—we fear that you are not well—or that Mr. F—— is unhappily ill—in either case we shall be very sorry—but I will hope you are all well—and that you will return an answer by the bearer of this that you are so—and also when we may expect to have the pleasure of seeing you;—there is half a bed at your service.—My dear Mrs. Sancho, thank God! is greatly mended. Come, do come, and see what a different face she wears now—to what she did when you kindly proved yourself her tender, her assisting tender friend.—Come and scamper in the meadows with three ragged wild girls.—Come and pour the balm of friendly converse into the ear of my sometimes low-spirited love! Come, do come, and come soon, if you mean to see Autumn in its last livery.—Tell your coachman to drive under the hill to Mr. B——’s on the common, where you will be gladly received by the best half of your much and greatly obliged friend,

IGN. SANCHO.

LETTER VII.
TO EDWARD YOUNG, ESQ.

On the death of Lord ——, Son to the Duke of ——.

Richmond, April 21, 1770.

HONOURED SIR,

I BLESS God, their Graces continue in good health, though as yet they have not seen any body—I have duly acquainted his Grace with the anxious and kind enquiries of yourself and other of his noble friends.—Time will, I hope, bring them comforts. Their loss is great indeed; and not to them only. The public have a loss—Goodness—Wisdom—Knowledge—and Greatness—were united in him. Heaven has gained an Angel; but earth has lost a treasure. Hoping you are as well as you wish your friends, I am, honoured Sir,

Your most obedient and grateful

humble servant to command,

I. SANCHO.

LETTER VIII.
TO MR. M——.

March 21, 1770.

“He, who cannot stem his anger’s tide,

“Doth a wild horse without a bridle ride.”

IT is, my dear M——, the same with the rest of our passions; we have Reason given us for our rudder—Religion is our sheet anchor—our fixed star Hope—Conscience our faithful monitor—and Happiness the grand reward.—We all in this manner can preach up trite maxims:—ask any jackass the way to happiness—and like me they will give vent to picked-up common-place sayings—but mark how they act—why just as you and I do—content with acknowledging a slight acquaintance with Wisdom, but ashamed of appearing to act under her sacred guidance.—You do me much more honour than I deserve, in wishing to correspond with me—the balance is entirely in your favour—but I fancy you were under the malady of your country, hypp’d for want of fresh air and exercise—so, sitting in a pensive attitude, with lack-lustre eye, and vacant countenance—the thought obtruded on your fancy to give Sancho a letter—and after a hard conflict ’twixt laziness and inclination—the deed was done.—I verily believe you commit errors—only for the sake of handsomely apologizing for them, as tumblers oft make slips to surprize beholders with their agility in recovering themselves.—I saw Mr. B— last night—who by the way I like much—the Man I mean—and not the Genius (tho’ of the first rate) he chattered and laughed like a soul ignorant of evil. He asked about a motley creature at ——. I told him with more truth than wit—that you was hypp’d.—I inclose you a proof print:—and how does Mad. M——, &c. &c.? Is Miss S—— better?—Is Mrs. H——, Mrs. T——, Mrs. H——? Lord preserve me! what in the name of mischief have I to do with all this combustible matter? Is it not enough for me that I am fast sliding down the vale of years? Have not I a gout? six brats, and a wife?—Oh! Reason, where art thou? you see by this how much easier it is to preach than to do! But stop—we know good from evil; and, in serious truth, we have powers sufficient to withstand vice, if we will choose to exert ourselves. In the field, if we know the strength and situation of the enemy, we place out-posts and centinels—and take every prudent method to avoid surprize. In common life, we must do the same;—and trust me, my honest friend, a victory gained over passion, immorality, and pride, deserves Te Deums, better than those gained in the fields of ambition and blood.—Here’s letter for letter, and so farewell,

Yours—as you behave,

I. SANCHO.

LETTER IX.
TO MR. K——.

Dalkeith, July 16, 1770.
Sunday.

ALIVE; alive ho!—my dear boy, I am glad to see you?—Well, and how goes it?—Badly, sayest thou—no conversation, no joy, no felicity!—Cruel absence, thou lover’s hell! what pangs, what soul-felt pangs, dost thou inflict! Cheer up, my child of discretion—and comfort yourself that every day will bring the endearing moment of meeting, so much nearer—chew the cud upon rapture in reversion—and indulge your fancy with the sweet food of intellectual endearments;—paint in your imagination the thousand graces of your H——, and believe this absence a lucky trial of her constancy.—I don’t wonder the cricket-match yielded no amusement—all sport is dull, books unentertaining—Wisdom’s self but folly—to a mind under Cupidical influence.—I think I behold you with supple-jack in hand—your two faithful happy companions by your side—complimenting like courtiers every puppy they meet—yourself with eyes fixed in a lover-like rumination—and arms folded in sorrow’s knot—pace slowly thro’ the meadows.—I have done—for too much truth seldom pleases folks in love.—We came home from our Highland excursion last Monday night, safe and well—after escaping manifold dangers.—Mesdames H——, D——, and self, went into the post-coach, and were honour’d with the freedom of Dumbarton. By an overset, the ladies shewed their—delicacy—and I my activity[1]—Mr. B—— his humanity;—all was soon to rights—nothing broke—and no one hurt—and laughter had its fill.—Inverary is a charming place—the beauties various—and the whole plan majestic;—there are some worthy souls on the spot, which I admire more than the buildings and prospects.—We had herrings in perfection—and would have had mackarel; but the scoundrels were too sharp for us—and would not be caught. The Loch-Loman—Ben-Loman—Domiquith—and Arsenhoe—with Hamilton and Douglas houses—are by much too long for description by letter.—We paraded to Edinburgh last Friday in a post coach and four;—H—— D——, Mrs. M——, housekeeper, and self, were the party;—we saw the usual seeings, and dined at Lord Chief Baron’s, but—dare I tell you?—H—’s figure attracted universal admiration.—True!—Alas, poor K——!—but, man, never fret—my honesty to a rotten egg—we bring her home sound.—We read a shocking account in the papers of a storm of rain at Richmond Gardens, and distress, &c. &c. is it true? if so, why did not you mention it? H—— sends her service to you, M—— his best respects—and all their best wishes to you and birds.—Your confounded epistle cost me seven pence;—deuce take you, why did not you inclose it?—So you do not like Eloisa—you are a noddy for that—read it till you do like it.—I am glad you have seen Cymon;—that you like it, does but little credit to your taste—for every body likes it—I can afford you no more time—for I have three letters to write besides this scrawl.—I hear nothing of moving as yet—pray God speed us southward! though we have fine weather—fine beef—fine ale—and fine ladies.

Lady Mary grows a little angel;—the Dutchess gets pretty round—they all eat—drink—and seem pure merry—and we are all out of mourning this day—farewell.

Yours, &c. &c.

I. SANCHO.

[1] Mr. Sancho was remarkably unwieldy and inactive, and never gave a greater proof of it than at this overset, when he and a goose-pye were equally incapable of raising themselves.

LETTER X.
TO MISS L——.

August, 31, 1770.

DO not you condemn me for the very thing that you are guilty of yourself;—but before I recriminate—let me be grateful, and acknowledge that heartfelt satisfaction which I ever feel from the praise of the good.—Sterne says—‘every worthy mind loves praise’—and declares that he loves it too—but then it must be sincere. Now I protest that you have something very like flattery;—no matter—I honestly own, it pleases me—Vanity is a shoot from self-love—and self-love Pope declares to be the spring of motion in the human breast.—Friendship founded upon right judgement takes the good and bad with the indulgence of blind love;—nor is it wrong—for as weakness and error is the lot of humanity—real friendship must oft kindly overlook the undesigning frailties of undisguised nature.—My dear Madam, I beg ten thousand pardons for the dull sermon I have been preaching:—You may well yawn.—So the noble! the humane! the patron! the friend! the good Duke leaves Tunbridge on Monday—true nobility will leave the place with him—and kindness and humanity will accompany Miss L—— whenever she thinks fit to leave it.—Mrs. Sancho is pretty well, pretty round, and pretty tame! she bids me say, Thank you in the kindest manner I possibly can—and observe, I say, Thank you kindly.—I will not pretend to enumerate the many things you deserve our thanks for:—you are upon the whole an estimable young woman—your heart is the best part of you—may it meet with its likeness in the man of your choice!—and I will pronounce you a happy couple.—I hope to hear in your next—(that is, if—) that you are about thinking of coming to town—no news stiring but politics—which I deem very unfit for ladies.—I shall conclude with John Moody’s prayer—“The goodness of goodness bless and preserve you!”—I am dear Miss L——’s most sincere servant and friend,

IGN. SANCHO.

LETTER XI.
TO MR. S——N.

Dalkeith, Sept. 15, 1770.

IT was kindly done of my worthy old friend to give me the satisfaction of hearing he was well and happy.—Believe me, I very often think of and wish to be with you;—without malice, I envy you the constant felicity of being with worthy good children—whose regards and filial tenderness to yourself—and christian behaviour to each other—reflect honor to themselves and credit to you. But the thing I have much at heart you are provokingly silent about—is my sweet Polly married yet? has she made Mr. H—— happy? May they both enjoy every comfort God Almighty blesses his children with! And how comes it my dear Tommy does not give me a line? I hope he is well, hearty, and happy—and honest downright Sally also;—tell Tommy he has disappointed me in not writing to me.—I hope Mrs. Sancho will be as good as her word, and soon pay you a visit.—I will trust her with you, though she is the treasure of my soul.—We have been a week in the Highlands, and a fine country it is.—I hear nothing of coming home as yet—but I fancy it will not be long now.—Mrs. H—— sends her love to you and yours—and I my double love to self and the four young ones—with my best wishes and respects to Mrs. B——y, and tell her I am half a Methodist:—here is a young man preaches here, one of those five who were expelled from Oxford—his name is M——n; he has a good strong voice—much passion—and preaches three times a day—an hour and a half each time;—he is well-built—tall—genteel—a good eye—about twenty-five—a white hand, and a blazing ring—he has many converts amongst the ladies;—I cannot prevail on Mrs. H—— to go and hear him—I have been four or five times, and heard him this day—his text was the epistle in the communion service.—I am, dear friend, yours sincerely, and all your valuable family’s sincere well-wisher, and, were it in my power, I would add friend,

IGNATIUS SANCHO.

Their Graces are all well—and Lady Mary grows every day—she is a sweet child.—Remember me to Mrs. ——, and tell her Mrs. M—— is quite the woman of fashion:—she is pretty well in every thing except her eyes, which are a little inflamed with cold—and she does not forget they are so. Once more my cordial love to the girls; and to the worthies, Tommy, Mr. H—— B——, and self. Adieu.

LETTER XII.
TO MRS. H——.

Richmond, Dec. 22, 1771.

YOU cannot conceive the odd agreeable mixture of pleasure and pain I felt on the receipt of your favor;—believe me, good friend, I honor and respect your nobleness of principle—but at the same time greatly disapprove of your actions.—My dear Madam, bribery and corruption are the reigning topics of declamation;—and here, because I happen to be a well-wisher, you are loading us with presents.—One word for all, my good Mrs. H—— must not be offended when I tell her it hurts my pride—for pride I have—too much, God knows. I accept your present this time—and do you accept dame Sancho’s and my thanks—and never aim at sending aught again—Your daughter Kate brought me your letter: she seemed a little surprized at my being favoured with your correspondence—and I am sure wished to see the contents.—As I from my soul honor filial feelings—it hurt me not to gratify her honest curiosity—but I do not chuse to let her know any thing of the matter—to save her the anxiety of hope and fear. She is very well, and rules over us—not with an iron sceptre—but a golden one. We tell her we love her too well—in truth I can never return her a tithe of the kindnesses she has shewn my family—but what’s all this to you?—I shall tire you with a jargon of nonsense; therefore I shall only wish you all many happy returns of this season—good stomachs—good cheer—and good fires.—My kind remembrance to Madam Tilda—tell her, if she’s a good girl, I will try to recommend her to Mr. G—— the painter, for a wife;—he is really, I believe, a first-rate genius—and, what’s better, he is a good young man—and I flatter myself will do honor to his science, and credit to his friends.—Kitty looks like the Goddess of Health—I am sure, every drop of blood in her honest heart beats for the welfare and happiness of her parents.—Believe me ever your obliged servant and friend,

I. SANCHO.

LETTER XIII.
TO MR. B——.

London, July 18, 1772.

MY DEAR FRIEND,

NOTHING could possibly be more welcome than the favor of your truly obliging letter, which I received the day before yesterday.—Know, my worthy young man—that it’s the pride of my heart when I reflect that, through the favor of Providence, I was the humble means of good to so worthy an object.—May you live to be a credit to your great and good friends, and a blessing and comfort to your honest parents!—May you, my child, pursue, through God’s mercy, the right paths of humility, candour, temperance, benevolence—with an early piety, gratitude, and praise to the Almighty Giver of all your good?—gratitude—and love for the noble and generous benefactiors his providence has so kindly moved in your behalf! Ever let your actions be such as your own heart can approve—always think before you speak, and pause before you act—always suppose yourself before the eyes of Sir William—and Mr. Garrick.—To think justly, is the way to do rightly—and by that means you will ever be at peace within.—I am happy to hear Sir W—— cares so much about your welfare—his character is great, because it is good;—as to your noble friend Mr. Garrick—his virtues are above all praise—he has not only the best head in the world, but the best heart also;—he delights in doing good.—Your father and mother called on me last week, to shew me a letter which Mr. Garrick has wrote to you—keep it, my dear boy, as a treasure beyond all price—it would do honor to the pen of a divine—it breathes the spirit of father—friend—and christian!—indeed I know no earthly being that I can reverence so much as your exalted and noble friend and patron Mr. Garrick.—Your father and mother, I told you, I saw lately—they were both well, and their eyes overflowed at the goodness of your noble patrons—and with the honest hope that you would prove yourself not unworthy of their kindness.

I thank you for your kindness to my poor black brethren—I flatter myself you will find them not ungrateful—they act commonly from their feelings: I have observed a dog will love those who use him kindly—and surely, if so, negroes in their state of ignorance and bondage will not act less generously, if I may judge them by myself—I should suppose kindness would do any thing with them;—my soul melts at kindness—but the contrary—I own with shame—makes me almost a savage.—If you can with conveniency—when you write again—send me half a dozen cocoa-nuts, I shall esteem them for your sake—but do not think of it if there is the least difficulty.—In regard to wages, I think you acted quite right—don’t seek too hastily to be independent—it is quite time enough yet for one of your age to be your own master.—Read Mr. Garrick’s letter night and morning—put it next your heart—impress it on your memory—and may the God of all Mercy give you grace to follow his friendly dictates!—I shall ever truly rejoice to hear from you—and your well-doing will be a comfort to me ever; it is not in your own power and option to command riches—wisdom and health are immediately the gift of God—but it is in your own breast to be good—therefore, my dear child, make the only right election—be good, and trust the rest to God; and remember he is about your bed, and about your paths, and spieth out all your ways. I am, with pride and delight,

Your true friend,

IGN. SANCHO.

LETTER XIV.
TO MR. S——E.

Richmond, Oct. 11, 1772.

YOUR letter gave me more pleasure than in truth I ever expected from your hands—but thou art a flatterer;—why dost thou demand advice of me? Young man, thou canst not discern wood from trees;—with awe and reverence look up to thy more than parents—look up to thy almost divine benefactors—search into the motive of every glorious action—retrace thine own history—and when you are convinced that they (like the All-gracious Power they serve) go about in mercy doing good—retire abashed at the number of their virtues—and humbly beg the Almighty to inspire and give you strength to imitate them.—Happy, happy lad! what a fortune is thine!—Look round upon the miserable fate of almost all of our unfortunate colour. Superadded to ignorance, see slavery, and the contempt of those very wretches who roll in affluence from our labours superadded to this woful catalogue—hear the ill-bred and heart-racking abuse of the foolish vulgar.—You, S——e, tread as cautiously as the strictest rectitude can guide you—yet must you suffer from this—but, armed with truth—honesty—and conscious integrity—you will be sure of the plaudit and countenance of the good;—if, therefore, thy repentance is sincere—I congratulate thee as sincerely upon it—it is thy birth-day to real happiness.—Providence has been very lavish of her bounty to you—and you are deeply in arrears to her—your parts are as quick as most mens; urge but your speed in the race of virtue with the same ardency of zeal as you have exhibited in error—and you will recover, to the satisfaction of your noble patrons—and to the glory of yourself.—Some philosopher—I forget who—wished for a window in his breast—that the world might see his heart;—he could only be a great fool, or a very good man:—I will believe the latter, and recommend him to your imitation.—Vice is a coward—;—to be truly brave, a man must be truly good; you hate the name of cowardice—then, S——e, avoid it—detest a lye,—and shun lyars—be above revenge;—if any have taken advantage either of your guilt or distress, punish them with forgiveness—and not only so—but, if you can serve them any future time, do it—you have experienced mercy and long-sufferance in your own person—therefore gratefully remember it, and shew mercy likewise.

I am pleased with the subject of your last—and if your conversion is real, I shall ever be happy in your correspondence—but at the same time I cannot afford to pay five pence for the honour of your letters;—five pence is the twelfth part of five shillings—the forty-eighth part of a pound—it would keep my girls in potatoes two days.—The time may come, when it may be necessary for you to study calculations;—in the mean while, if you cannot get a frank, direct to me under cover to his Grace the Duke of ——. You have the best wishes of your sincere friend (as long as you are your own friend)

Ignatius Sancho.

You must excuse blots and blunders—for I am under the dominion of a cruel head-ach—and a cough, which seems too fond of me.

LETTER XV.
TO MR. M——.

Nov. 8, 1772.

BRAVO! my ingenious friend!—to say you exceed my hopes, would be to lye.—At my first knowledge of you—I was convinced that Providence had been partial in the talents entrusted to you—therefore I expected exertion on your side—and I am not disappointed; go on, my honest heart, go on!—hold up the mirror to an effeminate gallimawfry——insipid, weak, ignorant, and dissipated set of wretches—and scourge them into shame—the pen—the pencil—the pulpit—oh! may they all unite their endeavours—and rescue this once manly and martial people from the silken slavery of foreign luxury and debauchery!—Thou, my worthy M——, continue thy improvements; and may the Almighty bless thee with the humble mien of plenty and content!—Riches ensnare—the mediocrity is Wisdom’s friend—and that be thine!—When you see S——, note his behaviour—he writes me word that he intends a thorough and speedy reformation;—I rather doubt him, but should be glad to know if you perceive any marks of it—You do not tell me that you have seen Mr. G——; if you have not, I shall be angry with you—and attribute your neglect to pride:—pray render my compliments most respectful and sincere to Mrs. H——, and the little innocent laughing rose-bud—my love to my son.—I am heartily tired of the country;—the truth is—Mrs. Sancho and the girls are in town;—I am not ashamed to own that I love my wife—I hope to see you married, and as foolish.

I am yours, sincerely, &c. &c.

Ign. Sancho.

LETTER XVI.
TO MRS. H——.

Charles Street, Nov. 1, 1773.

MY DEAR AND RESPECTED MADAM,

I HAVE sincere pleasure to find you honour me in your thoughts—to have your good wishes, is not the least strange, for I am sure you possess that kind of soul, that Christian philanthropy, which wishes well—and, in the sense of Scripture, breathes peace and good-will to all.—Part of your scheme we mean to adopt—but the principal thing we aim at is in the tea, snuff, and sugar way, with the little articles of daily domestic use.—In truth, I like your scheme, and I think the three articles you advise would answer exceedingly well—but it would require a capital—which we have not—so we mean to cut our coat according to our scanty quantum—and creep with hopes of being enabled hereafter to mend our pace.—Mrs. Sancho is in the straw—she has given me a fifth wench—and your worthy Kate has offered her the honour of standing for her sponsor, but I fear it must be by proxy.—Pray make my respects to Mrs. Matilda—I hope she enjoys every thing that her parents wish her.—I shall dine with Mr. Jacob some day this week—I saw him at Dodd’s chapel yesterday—and, if his countenance is to be believed, he was very well—I could not get at him to speak to him.—As soon as we can get a bit of house, we shall begin to look sharp for a bit of bread—I have strong hope—the more children, the more blessings—and if it please the Almighty to spare me from the gout, I verily think the happiest part of my life is to come—soap, starch, and blue, with raisins, figs, &c.—we shall cut a respectable figure—in our printed cards.—Pray make my best wishes to Mr. H——; tell him I revere his whole family, which is doing honor to myself.—I had a letter of yours to answer, which I should have done before, had my manners been equal to my esteem.—Mrs. Sancho joins me in respectful love and thanks. I remain ever your much obliged servant to command,

IGNATIUS SANCHO.

LETTER XVII.
TO MRS. H——.

February 9, 1774.

IT is the most puzzling affair in nature, to a mind that labours under obligations, to know how to express its feelings;—your former tender solicitude for my well-doing—and your generous remembrance in the present order—appear friendly beyond the common actions of those we in general style good sort of people;—but I will not teaze you with my nonsensical thanks—for I believe such kind of hearts as you are blest with have sufficient reward in the consciousness of acting humanely.—I opened shop on Saturday the 29th of January—and have met with a success truly flattering;—it shall be my study and constant care not to forfeit the good opinion of my friends.—I have pleasure in congratulating you upon Mrs. W——’s happy delivery and pleasing increase of her family;—it is the hope and wish of my heart—that your comforts in all things may multiply with your years—that in the certain great end—you may immerge without pain—full of hope—from corruptible pleasure—to immortal and incorruptible life—happiness without end—and past all human comprehension;—there may you and I—and all we love (or care for) meet!—the follies—the parties—distinctions—feuds of ambition—enthusiasm—lust—and anger of this miserable motley world—all totally forgot—every idea lost, and absorbed in the blissful mansions of redeeming love.

I have not seen Sir Jacob near a fortnight—but hope and conclude him well.—R—— is well, and grows very fat—an easy mind—full purse—and a good table—great health—and much indulgence—all these conduce terribly to plumpness.—I must beg, when you see Mr. ——, if not improper or inconvenient, that you will inform him—that where there is but little—every little helps;—I think he is too humane to be offended at the liberty—and too honest to be displeased with a truth.—I am, with greatful thanks to Mr. H——, your sincerely humble servant and poor friend,

I. SANCHO.

My best half and Sanchonetta’s are all well.

LETTER XVIII.
TO MR. S——.

Charles Street, Nov. 26, 1774.

YOUNG says, “A friend is the balsam of life”—Shakespear says,—but why should I pester you with quotations?—to shew you the depth of my erudition, and strut like the fabled bird in his borrowed plumage. In good honest truth, my friend—I rejoice to see thy name at the bottom of the instructive page—and were fancy and invention as much my familiar friends as they are thine—I would write thee an answer—or try, at least, as agreeably easy—and as politely simple.—Mark that; simplicity is the characteristic of good writing—which I have learnt, among many other good things, of your Honor—and for which I am proud to thank you;—in short I would write like you—think like you (of course); and do like you; but, as that is impossible, I must content myself with my old trick;—now what that trick is—thou art ignorant—and so thou shalt remain—till I congratulate you upon your recovery.—A propos, you began your letter ill, as we do many things in common life;—ten days elapsed before you finished it—consequently you finished it well.—My dear friend, may you, thro’ God’s blessing, ever finish happily what you undertake—however unpromising the beginning may appear to be!—I want you much in town—for my one sake—that’s a stroke of self-love.—And do you mean to bring any candles up with you?—that’s another!—I do not wonder at your making your way amongst the folks of Hull—although there are four of the same profession;—we love variety.—I will give them credit for admiring the Artist;—but if they—that is two or three of them—have penetration to look deeper—and love the Man—then I shall believe that there are souls in Hull.—So—my cramp epistle fell into the hands of thy good and reverend farther—tant pis—why, he must think me blacker than I am.—Mons. B—— goes on well:—I suppose you know he has opened an Academy in St. Alban’s Street—at two guineas a year—naked figures three nights a week—Mr. Mortimer and several eminent names upon his list—and room left for yours—he hops about with that festivity of countenance which denotes peace and good-will to man.—I have added to my felicity—or Fortune more properly has—three worthy friends—they are admirers and friends of Mortimer and Sterne;—but of this when we meet.—You are expected at B—— House upon your return—and I hope you will call on them, if consistent with your time—and agreeable to you.—My friend L—— is in town, and intends trying his fortune among us—as teacher of murder and neck-breaking—alias—fencing and riding.—The Tartars, I believe, have few fine gentlemen among them—and they can ride—though they have neither fencing nor riding masters;—and as to genteel murder—we are mere pedlars and novices—for they can dispatch a whole caravan—or a hoorde—and eat and drink—wench and laugh—and, in truth, so far they can match our modern fine gents.;—they have no acquaintance with conscience—but what’s all this to you?—nothing—it helps to fill up the sheet—and looks like moralizing;—the good-natured partiality of thy honest heart will deem it—not absolutely nonsense.—Alas!—thus it often happens—that the judgement of a good head is—bum-fiddled—and wrong-biass’d by the weakness of a too kind heart;—under that same weakness let me shelter my failings and absurdities—and let me boast at this present writing—that my heart is not very depraved—and has this proof of not being dead to virtue;—it beats stronger at the sound of friendship—and will be sincerely attached to W—— S——, Esq; while its pulsations continue to throb in the brest of your obliged

IGNATIUS SANCHO.

Do pray think about returning—the captain—the girls—the house—the court, stand all—just where they did—when you left them.—Alas! Time leaves the marks of his rough fingers upon all things—Time shrivels female faces—and sours small-beer—gives insignificance, if not impotency, to trunk-hose—and toughness to cow-beef.—Alas! alas! alas!—

LETTER XIX.
TO MRS. C——.

Charles Street, July 4, 1775.

DEAR MADAM,

IT would be affronting your good-nature to offer an excuse for the trouble I am going to give you—my tale is short.—Mrs. O—— is with us—she was, this day, observing poor Lydia with a good deal of compassion—and said, she knew a child cured by roses boiled in new milk;—observed, that you had, at this very time, perhaps bushels of rose-leaves wasting on the ground.—Now my petition is—that you would cause a few of them to be brought you—(they will blush to find their sweetness excelled by your kindness)—they are good dryed, but better fresh—so when you come to town think of honest Lydia.—Mrs. O—— this morning saw your picture in Bond Street.—She approves much—and I fancy means to sit—she thinks that you enriched me with the strongest likeness—but the whole length the best.—I have the honor to transmit the compliments of Mesdames A—— and Sancho—to which permit me to add mine, with the most grateful sensibility for the recent favor of favors.—I am, dear madam,

Your most obliged,

humble servant,

IGN. SANCHO.

LETTER XX.
TO MISS L——.

July 26, 1775.

DEAR MADAM,

I HAVE just now had the pleasure of seeing a Gentleman who is honoured in calling you sister.—He suspended the pain in my foot for full five minutes, by the pleasing account he gave of your health.—I delivered my charge[2] safe into his hands—he viewed it with an eye of complacency—from which I conclude he is not unworthy your sister’s hand;—we commonly behold those with a sort of partiality who bring good tidings from our friends—in that view I could not forbear thinking him a very good kind of man. I have to thank you for a very obliging and friendly letter—which I should have done much sooner, could I have complied with your kind wishes in giving a better account of myself;—my better self has been but poorly for some time—she groans with the rheumatism—and I grunt with the gout—a pretty concert!—Life is thick-sown with troubles—and we have no right to exemption.—The children, thank God! are well—your name-sake gets strength every day—and trots about amazingly.—I am reading Bossuet’s Universal History, which I admire beyond any thing I have long met with: if it lays in your way, I would wish you to read it, if you have not already—and if you have, it is worth a second perusal. Mrs. Sancho rejoices to hear you are well—and intrusts me to send you her best wishes.—I hope you continue your riding—and should like to see your etiquette of hat, feather, and habit. Adieu.—May you enjoy every wish of your benevolent heart—is the hope and prayer of your much obliged humble servant,

IGN. SANCHO.

If the Universal History of Bossuet, Bishop of Meaux, and Preceptor to Louis XV. should be difficult to find at Tunbridge—when you return to town, and give us the pleasure of seeing you—he will be exceeding proud of the happiness (and what Frenchman would not,—although a bishop?) of riding to Bond Street in your pockets.

[2] Miss L——’s picture.

LETTER XXI.
TO MISS L——.

Charles Street, June 20, 1775.

I PROTEST, my dear Madam, there is nothing so dangerous to the calm philosophic temper of fifty—as a friendly epistle from a pretty young woman;—but when worth—benevolence—and a train of amiabilities—easier felt than described—join in the attack,—the happy receiver of such an epistle must feel much in the same manner as your humble servant did this day;—but I did not mean to write a starch complimentary letter—and I believe you will think I have flourished rather too much;—here then I recover my wits—and the first use I make of them is to thank you, in Mrs. Sancho’s name, for your friendly enquiries—and to assure you, we both rejoice that you had so pleasant a passage—and that you enjoy your health. We hope also, that your young gallant will repay your humane attentions—with grateful regard—and dutiful attachment.—I beg your pardon, over and over, for my blundering forgetfulness of your kind order—it was occasioned by being obliged to say goodbye.—Taking leave of those we esteem is, in my opinion, unpleasant!—the parting of friends is a kind of temporary mourning. Mrs. Sancho is but indifferent—the hot weather does not befriend her—but time will, I hope;—if true worth could plead an exemption from pain and sickness—Miss L—— and Mrs. Sancho would, by right divine, enjoy the best health—but, God be blessed! there is a reward in store for both, and all like them—which will amply repay them for the evils and cross accidents of this foolish world. I saw Miss and Mrs. S——, and Johnny, at church last Sunday—they all looked pleasant, and told me they had heard you were well.—I would recommend a poem, which, if you have not, you should read—it is called Almeria; I have not read it—but have heard such an account of it as makes me suspect it will be worth your notice. This end of the town is fairly Regatta-mad—and the prices they ask are only five shillings each seat.—They are building scaffoldings on Westminster-hall—and the prayers of all parties is now for a fine evening—May your evenings be ever fair—and mornings bright! I should have said nights happy—all in God’s good time! which, you must be convinced, is the best time.—Lydia mends—she walks a little—we begin to encourage hope—Kitty is as lively as ever—and almost goes alone—the rest are well.—Mrs. Sancho joins me in cordial wishes for your health and wealth.—I am, dear Madam,

Your most sincere friend,

and obliged humble servant,

IGN. SANCHO.

LETTER XXII.
TO MR. R——.

MY DEAR FRIEND,

THOU hast an honest sympathizing heart—and I am sure will feel sorrow to hear poor Mr. W—— has paid the debt to Nature:—last Sunday heaven gained a worthy soul—and the world lost an honest man!—a Christian!—a friend to merit—a father to the poor and society—a man, whose least praise was his wit—and his meanest virtue, good-humour;—he is gone to his great reward;—may you, and all I love and honor, in God’s good time, join him!—I wish to hear about you—how you all do—when you saw Johnny—and whether Mrs. O—— holds in the same mind—if so, she is on the road for London, and Johnny on the road for B——. Pray have you heard from Mr. L——? A spruce Frenchman brought me a letter from him on Thursday; he left him well and in spirits—he wishes we would enquire for a place for him—he longs to be in England;—he is an honest soul, and I should feel true pleasure in serving him;—pray remember he wants a place.—I know not what words to use in way of thanks to Mrs. C——, for the very valuable present of her picture.—I have wrote to her—but my pen is not able to express what I feel—and I think Mr. Gardner has hit off her likeness exceeding well;—my chimney-piece now—fairly imitates the times—a flashy fine outside—the only intrinsic nett worth, in my possession, is Mrs. Sancho—whom I can compare to nothing so properly as to a diamond in the dirt—but, my friend, that is Fortune’s fault, not mine—for had I power, I would case her in gold.—When heard you from our friend Mr. J—— N——? when you see or write to him—tell him we still care for him—and remember his easy good-nature and natural politeness,—I will trouble you with the inclosed without any ceremony—for I have been so often obliged to you, that I begin now to fancy I have a right to trouble you. Commend me to squire S——, and all worthy friends.—Lydia sends her love to you—she trots about amazingly—and Kitty imitates her, with this addition, that she is as mischievous as a monkey.—Mrs. Sancho, Mrs. M——, and Mrs. B——, all think well of you, as well as yours.

I. SANCHO.

LETTER XXIII.
TO MRS. C——.

Charles Street, July 31, 1775.

DEAR MADAM,

IF aught upon earth could make mortals happy—I have the best right to believe myself so.—I have lived with the great—and been favoured by beauty—I have cause to be vain—let that apologize for my boasting. I am to thank you for the best ornament of my chimney-piece—your picture, which I had the joy to receive from Mr. Gardner, and which (exclusive of the partiality I have to your resemblance) I think a very good one;—it proves, unquestionably, three things—your goodness—Mr. Gardner’s skill—and my impudence!—in wishing so pleasing a prize.—If Kitty should live to woman’s estate—she will exultingly tell folks—that’s my godmother’s picture!—and the next generation will swear the painter was a flatterer—and scarce credit there was ever a countenance so amiably sweet—in the days of George the Third—except a Hamilton or Lady Sarah.—Mrs. Sancho desires her thanks may be joined with mine—as the thanks of one flesh.—Mr. M—— is well—and hopes, in concert with the Sanchos, that you had a pleasant journey—and good health your companion.—That health and pleasure—with love and friendship in its train—may ever accompany you—is the wish, dear Madam, of your greatly obliged humble servant,

IGNATIUS SANCHO.

LETTER XXIV.
TO MISS L——.

Charles Street, August, 7, 1775.

I NEVER can excuse intolerable scrawls—and I do tell you, that for writing conversable letters you are wholly unfit—no talent—no nature—no style;—stiff—formal and unintelligible;—take that—for your apology—and learn to be honest to yourself.—The Dutchess of Kingston and Mr. Foote have joined in a spirited paper-war—(I should have said engaged)—but I fear her Grace will have the worst of it:—had she either the heart or head of our friend Miss L——, I should pity her from my soul—and should muster up gallantry enough to draw a pen (at least) in her defence; as it is—I think—in principles they are well-matched;—but as her Grace appears to me to want temper—I think the Wit will be too hard for her. I am pleased with the Tunbridgians for their respectful loyalty on his Royal Highness’s birth day;—it is too much the fashion to treat the Royal Family with disrespect.—Zeal for politics has almost annihilated good manners.—Mrs. Sancho feels the kindness of your good wishes;—but we hope you will be in town before she tumbles in the straw, when a Benjamin mess of caudle will meet your lips with many welcomes.—Mrs. Sancho is so, so—not so alert as I have known her;—but I shall be glad she holds just as well till she is down—My silly gout is not in haste to leave me—I am in my seventh week—and in truth am peevish—and sick of its company.—As to Dr. D——, the last I heard of him was, that he was in France;—he has not preached for these nine Sundays at Pimlico.—You did not tell me the name of your Suffolk preacher;—I fancy it is Dr. W—ll—ton—who is reckoned equal to D——; I am glad you have him—as I would wish you to have every thing that God can give you conducive to your love and pleasure.—Mrs. Sancho joins me in respects and thanks—good wishes, &c. &c.

I am, dear Madam,

Your ever obliged, humble servant,

IGN. SANCHO.

LETTER XXV.
TO MR. B——.

August 12, 1775.

DEAR SIR,

IF I knew a better man than yourself—you would not have had this application—which is in behalf of a merry, chirping, white-toothed, clean, tight, and light, little fellow!—with a woolly pate—and face as dark as your humble;—Guiney-born, and French-bred—the sulky gloom of Africa dispelled by Gallic vivacity—and that softened again with English sedateness—a rare fellow!—rides well—and can look upon a couple of horses—dresses hair in the present taste—shaves light—and understands something of the arrangement of a table and side-board;—his present master will authenticate him a decent character—he leaves him at his own (Blacky’s) request:—he has served him three years—and, like Teague, would be glad of a good master—if any good master would be glad of him.—As I believe you associate chiefly with good-hearted folks—it is possible your interest may be of service to him.—I like the rogue’s looks, or a similarity of colour should not have induced me to recommend him.—Excuse this little scrawl from your friend, &c.

Ignatius Sancho.

“For conscience, like a fiery horse,

“Will stumble if you check his course;

“But ride him with an easy rein,

“And rub him down with worldly gain,

“He’ll carry you through thick and thin,

“Safe, although dirty, to your Inn.”

LETTER XXVI.
TO MRS. C——.

August 14, 1775.

DEAR MADAM,

I AM happy in hearing that the bathing and drinking has been of real service to you.—I imagine you rise out of the waves another Venus—and could wish myself Neptune, to have the honor of escorting you to land.—Mr. P—— has sent me a pretty turtle, and in very good condition.—I must beg you will do me the honor to accept of it;—it will attend you at Privy Gardens, where (had turtles a sense of ambition) it would think itself happy in its destination.—Pray my best respects to their honors R—— and Squire S——. I live in hopes of seeing you all next week.

I am, dear Madam,

Your much obliged,

humble servant,

IGN. SANCHO.

LETTER XXVII.
TO MISS L——.

August 27, 1775.

JUST upon the stroke of eleven—as I was following (like a good husband) Mrs. Sancho to bed—a thundering rap called me to the street-door—A letter from Tunbridge, Sir!—thanks many thanks—good night.—I hugged the fair stranger—and—as soon as up stairs—broke open the seal with friendly impatience—and got decently trimmed, for what? why, truly, for having more honesty than prudence.—Well, if ever I say a civil thing again to any of your sex—but it is foolish to be rash in resolves—seriously, if aught at any time slips from my unguarded pen, which you may deem censurable—believe me truly and honestly—it is the error of uncultivated nature—and I will trust the candour of friendship to wink at undesigned offence;—not but I could defend—and would against any but yourself—the whole sad charge of flattery—but enough.—I paid a visit in Bond Street this morning.—Your sister looked health itself—she was just returned from the country, and had the pleasure to hear from you at her first entrance.

Your friendly offer for the little stranger is in character—but if I was to say what my full heart would dictate—you would accuse me of flattery.—Mrs. Sancho is more than pleased—I won’t say what I am—but if you love to give pleasure, you have your will.—Are you not pleased to find Miss Butterfield innocent?—It does credit to my judgement, for I never believed her guilty—her trial proves undeniably that one half of the faculty are very ignorant.—I hear she intends suing for damages—and if ever any one had a right to recover, she certainly has;—and were I to decree them—they should not be less than 400l. a year for life, and 5000 pound down by way of smart-money.—In my opinion, the D——ss of K—— is honoured, to be mentioned in the same paper with Miss Butterfield—You should read the St. James’s Evening papers for last week—you will easily get them at any coffee-house—the affair is too long for a letter—but I will send you some black poetry upon the occasion:

With Satire, Wit, and Humour arm’d,

Foote opes his exhibitions;

High-titled Guilt, justly alarm’d,

The Chamberlain petitions.

My Lord, quoth Guilt, this daring fiend

Won’t let us sin in private;

To his presumption there’s no end,

Both high and low he’ll drive at.

Last year he smoak’d the cleric[3] gown;

A D——ss now he’d sweat.

The insolent, for half a crown,

Would libel all the Great.

What I can do, his Lordship cries,

Command you freely may:

Don’t licence him, the Dame replies,

Nor let him print his play.

Poor Lydia is exceedingly unwell.—They who have least sensibility are best off for this world.—By the visit I was able to make this morning—you may conclude, my troublesome companion is about taking leave. May you know no pains but of sensibility!—and may you be ever able to relieve where you wish!—May the wise and good esteem you more than I do—and the object of your heart love you, as well as you love a good and kind action!—These wishes—after the trimming you gave in your last—is a sort of heaping coals on your head—as such, accept it from your sincere—aye, and honest friend,

IGNATIUS SANCHO.

Mrs. Sancho says little—but her moistened eye expresses—that she feels your friendship.

[3] Dr. Dodd.

LETTER XXVIII.
TO MISS. L——.

Sept. 12, 1775.

THERE is nothing in nature more vexatious than contributing to the uneasiness of those, whose partiality renders them anxious for our well-doing—the honest heart dilates with rapture when it can happily contribute pleasure to its friends. You see by this that I am coxcomb enough to suppose me and mine of consequence!—but if it is so—it is such as you whose partial goodness have grafted that folly on my natural trunk of dulness.—I am, in truth, in a very unfit mood for writing—for poor Lydia is very so, so—Mrs. Sancho not very stout;—and for me, I assure you, that of my pair of feet—two are at this instant in pain! This is the worst side—but courage! Hope! delusive cheating Hope! beckons Self-love, and enlists him of her side—and, together, use their friendly eloquence to persuade me that better times are coming.—Your beloved wife (cries Self-love) will have a happy time, and be up soon, strong and hearty.—Your child (cries Hope) will get the better of her illness—and grow up a blessing and comfort to your evening life—and your friend will soon be in town, and enliven your winter prospects.—Trust, trust in the Almighty—his providence is your shield—’tis his love, ’tis his mercy, which has hitherto supported and kept you up.—See, see! cries Hope! look where Religion, with Faith on her right, and Charity on her left, and a numerous train of blessings in her rear, come to thy support.—Fond foolish mortal, leave complaining—all will be right—all is right.—Adieu, my good friend—write me something, to chase away idle fears, and to strengthen hope.—Too true it is, that where the tender passions are concerned, our sex are cowards.

Yours sincerely,

I. SANCHO.

Mrs. Sancho sends her best wishes.

LETTER XXIX.
TO MISS L——.

Charles Street, Oct. 4, 1775.

Just as the twig is bent, the tree’s inclin’d,

’Tis education forms the tender mind.

So says Pope.

Children like tender osiers take the bow,

And as they first are fashoned, always grow.

Dryden.

THE sense of each is just the same, and they both prove an opinion which I have long been grounded in—that the errors of most children proceed in great part from the ill cultivation of the first years.—Self-love, my friend, bewitches parents to give too much indulgence to infantine foibles;—the constant cry is, “Poor little soul, it knows no better!”—if it swears—that’s a sign of wit and spirit;—if it fibs—it’s so cunning and comical;—if it steals—’tis only a paw trick—and the mother exultingly cries—My Jacky is so sharp, we can keep nothing from him!—Well! but what’s all this to you?—You are no mother.—True, my sincerely esteemed friend, but you are something as good—you are perhaps better—much better and wiser I am sure than many mothers I have seen.—You, who believe in the true essence of the gospel—who visit the sick, cover the naked, and withdraw not your ear from the unfortunate:—but I did not intend to write your elogium—it requires the pen of one less interested—and perhaps less partiality and more judgement would also be requisite.—Jacky S—— is the occasion of this prefatory vast shew of learning. I do believe him a fine child spoil’d for want of proper management—he is just now in high disgrace—he is wrong enough in all conscience, I believe—but are they, who are about him, right?—We will talk about this matter when I have the pleasure of seeing you;—you shall forgive my impertinent meddling—I will ask pardon, and sin again—so we serve Heaven—so complain, if you dare.—Mrs. Sancho is yet up;—if I pray at all, it’s for the blessing of a happy moment, with little pain for her;—as to what she brings, I care not about its sex—God grant health to the mother!—and my soul and lips shall bless his holy name.—We cannot remove till after Mrs. Sancho is up.—The house will not be ready till towards Christmas, which is not the most desirable time of the year for moving—but we must do as we can, not as we would.

At Charlotte Chapel, we had last Sunday a most excellent discourse from Mr. H——n, whom I suppose you have heard preach—if not, he is well worth hearing—to please me—for to the best of my knowledge, he reads prayers better than most—Mr. B—— not excepted; there is a dignity of expression in his Psalms, which catches the whole attention—and such an animated strength of devotion in his Litany, as almost carries the heart to the gates of Heaven—he is fine in the pulpit;—but comparisons are unfair—if H—— reads prayers, and D—— preaches, at the same church—I should suppose greater perfection could not be found in England.—I have to thank you for the honor of your correspondence—and can laugh in my sleeve like a Dutch Jew—to think that I get sterling sense for my farrago of absurdities—but you will, I hope, soon be in town.—Mrs. Sancho joins me in every sentiment of gratitude and sincerity.—I am, as much as a poor African can be, sincerely

Yours to command,

IGN. SANCHO

We are in great hopes about poor Lydia.—An honest and ingenious motherly woman in our neighbourhood has undertaken the perfect cure of her—and we have every reason to think, with God’s blessing—she will succeed—which is a blessing we shall owe entirely to the comfort of being poor—for, had we been rich, the doctors would have had the honor of killing her a twelvemonth ago.——Adieu.

LETTER XXX.
TO MISS L——.

Thursday Morning, Oct. 16, 1775.

MY worthy and respected friend, I hear, has protracted her stay.—I am greatly obliged to Miss L——’s goodness, who has given me this opportuity of addressing my good friend.—I am very low in heart—poor Mrs. Sancho is so indifferent—and Lydia, though upon the whole better, yet weak and poorly.—I am sufficiently acquainted with care—and I think fatten upon calamity.—Philosophy is best practised, I believe, by the easy and affluent.—One ounce of practical religion is worth all that ever the Stoics wrote.—Mrs. Sancho smiles in the pains which it has pleased Providence to try her with—and her belief in a better existence is her cordial drop,—Adieu; bring health with you, and the sight of you will glad us all.

Yours,

I. SANCHO.

LETTER XXXI.
TO MR. R——.

Oct. 18, 1775.

I BEGIN to fear with you that our friend L—— is sick or married—or—what I would rather hope—is on his way to England.—Thanks to our Suffolk friends—you take care we shall not starve.—I was for five minutes, when dinner was on table, suspended, in inclination, like the ass between the two loads of hay—the turtle pulled one way, and a sweet loin of pork the other—I was obliged to attack both in pure self-defence;—Mrs. Sancho eat—and praised the pork—and praised the giver.—Let it not, my worthy R——, mortify thy pride—to be obliged to divide praise with a pig; we all echoed her—O—— and R—— were the toasts—I know not in truth two honester or better men—were your incomes as enlarged as your hearts, you would be the two greatest fortunes in Europe. But I wrote merely to thank you—and to say Mrs Sancho and Mrs. M—— are both better than when I wrote last night—in short, Mrs. M—— is quite well—I pray God to send my dear Mrs. Sancho safe down and happily up—she makes the chief ingredient of my felicity—whenever my good friend marries—I hope he will find it the same with him—My best respects to Mesdames C. and C. and take care of my brother.—I fear this will be a raking week.—Compliments to Master S—— and the noble Mr. B——.

Yours, &c.

IGN. SANCHO.

LETTER XXXII.
TO MR. L——.

Friday, Oct. 20, 1774.

IN obedience to my amiable friend’s request—I, with gratitude to the Almighty—and with pleasure to her—(I am sure I am right)—acquaint her, that my ever dear Dame Sancho was exactly at half past one this afternoon delivered of a—child.—Mrs. Sancho, my dear Miss L——, is as well as can be expected—in truth, better than I feared she would be—for indeed she has been very unwell for this month past—I feel myself a ton lighter:—In the morning I was crazy with apprehension—and now I talk nonsense through joy.—This plaguy scrawl will cost you I know not what—but it’s not my fault—’tis your foolish godson’s—who, by me, tenders his dutiful respects. I am ever yours to command, sincerely and affectionately,

I. SANCHO.

LETTER XXXIII.
TO MISS L——.

Charles Street, Dec. 14, 1775.

THERE is something inexpressibly flattering in the notion of your being warmer—from the idea of your much obliged friend’s caring for you;—in truth we could not help caring about you—our thoughts travelled with you over-night from Bond Street to the Inn.—The next day at noon—“Well, now she’s above half way—alas! no, she will not get home till Saturday night—I wonder what companions she has met with—there is a magnetism in goodnature, which will ever attract its like—so if she meets with beings the least social—but that’s as chance wills!”—Well, night arrives—“And now our friend has reached the open arms of parental love—excess of delightful endearments gives place to tranquil enjoyments—and all are happy in the pleasure they give each other!”—Were I a Saint or a Bishop, and was to pass by your door, I would stop, and say, “Peace be upon this dwelling!”—and what richer should I leave it?—for I trust, where a good man dwells, there peace makes its sweet abode.—When you have read Bossuet, you will find at the end, that it was greatly wished the learned author had brought the work down lower—but I cannot help thinking he concluded his design as far as he originally meant.—Mrs. Sancho, thank Heaven, is as well as you left her, and your godson thrives;—he is the type of his father—fat—heavy—sleepy;—but as he is the head of the noble family, and your godson, I ought not to disparage him.——The Dutchess of K—— is so unwell, that she has petitioned for a longer day:—they say that her intellects are hurt;—though a bad woman, she is entitled to pity.—Conscience, the high chancellor of the human breast, whose small still voice speaks terror to the guilty—Conscience has pricked her;—and, with all her wealth and titles, she is an object of pity.—Health attend you and yours!—Pleasure of course will follow.—Mrs. Sancho joins me in all I say, and the girls look their assent.—I remain—God forgive me! I was going to conclude, without ever once thanking you for your goodness in letting us hear from you so early:—there is such a civil coldness in writing, a month perhaps after expectation has been snuffed out, that the very thought is enough to chill friendship;—but you—like your sister Charity, as Thomson sweetly paints her (smiling through tears)—delight in giving pleasure, and joy in doing good.—And now farewell—and believe us, in truth, our dear Miss L——’s

obliged and grateful friends,

ANNE and I. SANCHO.

LETTER XXXIV.
TO MR. M——.

Jan. 4, 1776.

I KNOW not what predominates in my worthy friend—pride or good-nature;—don’t stare—you have a large share of both:—happy it is for you—as well as your acquaintance—that your pride is so well accompanied by the honest ardor of youthful benevolence.—You would, like the fabled pelican—feed your friends with your vitals. Blessed Philanthropy!—Oh! the delights of making happy—the bliss of giving comfort to the afflicted—peace to the distressed mind—to prevent the request from the quivering lips of indigence!—But, great God!—the inexpressible delight—the not-to-be-described rapture, in soothing, and convincing the tender virgin that “You alone,” &c. &c. &c. (Prior’s Henry and Emma see.)—But I think you dropt a word or two about flattery.—Sir,—honest friend,—know, once for all—I never yet thought you a coxcomb:—a man of sense I dare not flatter, my pride forbids it;—a coxcomb is not worth the dirty pains.—You have (through the bounty of your great Creator) strong parts, and, thank the Almighty Goodness, an honest sincere heart;—yes, you have many and rare talents, which you have cultivated with success:—you have much fire, which, under the guidance of a circumspect judgement, stimulates you to worthy acts;—but do not say that I flatter in speaking the truth;—I can see errors even in those I half reverence;—there are spots in the Sun—and perhaps some faults in Johnny M——, who is by far too kind, generous, and friendly, to his greatly obliged friend,

IGN. SANCHO.

P. S. I tell you what—(are you not coming to town soon?)—F—— and venison are good things; but by the manes of my ancestors—I had rather have the pleasure of gossipation with your sublime highness.—What sketches have you taken?—What books have you read?—What lasses gallanted?—The venison is exceeding fine, and the cleanest I ever saw;—to-morrow we dress it;—a thankful heart shall be our sweet sauce:—were you in town, your partaking of it would add to its relish.—You say I was not in spirits when you saw me at G——; why, it might be so—in spight of my philosophy—the cares and anxieties attendant on a large family and small finances sometimes overcloud the natural chearfulness of yours truly,

I. SANCHO.

N. B. A very short P—— S——.

LETTER XXXV.
TO MR. R——.

June 25, 1776.

YOU had a pleasant day for your journey—and after five or six miles ride from town—you left the dust behind you;—of course the road and the country also improved as you drew nearer B——. I will suppose you there—and then I will suppose you found Mrs. C—— well in health, and the better for the preceding day’s motion;—she and Miss C—— meet you with the looks of a Spring-morning—I see you meet in fancy;—I wish I could see you in reality;—but of that hereafter.—I want to know how Mrs. C—— does—and what Miss C—— does;—what you intend to do—and what Mr. S—— will never do.—This letter is a kind of much-ado-about—what—I must not say nothing—because the ladies are mentioned in it.—Mr. and Mrs. B—— have a claim to my best respects.—Pray say what’s decent for me—and to the respectable table also—beginning with my true friend Mrs. C——, and then steering right and left—ending at last with your worship. Tell Mrs. C—— that Kitty is as troublesome as ever; that Billy gets heavier and stronger.—Mrs. Sancho remains, thank God, very well—and all the rest ditto.—Let me know how you all do—and how brother O—— does.—As to news, all I hear is about Wilkes;—he will certainly carry his point—for Administration are all strongly in his interest:—betts run much in his favor:—for my part, I really think he will get it—if he can once manage so—as to gain the majority.—I am, my dear R——, yours—(much more than Wilkes’s—or indeed any man’s, O——’s excepted) in love and zeal,

Ever faithfully,

I. SANCHO.

LETTER XXXVI.
TO MR. STERNE.

July, 1776.

REVEREND SIR,

IT would be an insult to your humanity (or perhaps look like it) to aplogize for the liberty I am taking.—I am one of those people whom the vulgar and illiberal call “Negurs.”—The first part of my life was rather unlucky, as I was placed in a family who judged ignorance the best and only security for obedience.—A little reading and writing I got by unwearied application.—The latter part of my life has been—through God’s blessing, truly fortunate, having spent it in the service of the best families in the kingdom.—My chief pleasure has been books.—Philanthropy I adore.—How very much, good Sir, am I (amongst millions) indebted to you for the character of your amiable uncle Toby!—I declare, I would walk ten miles in the dog-days, to shake hands with the honest corporal.—Your Sermons have touched me to the heart, and I hope have amended it, which brings me to the point.—In your tenth discourse, page seventy-eight, in the second volume—is this very affecting passage:—“Consider how great a part of our species—in all ages down to this—have been trod under the feet of cruel and capricious tyrants, who would neither hear their cries, nor pity their distresses.—Consider slavery—what it is—how bitter a draught—and how many millions are made to drink it!”—Of all my favourite authors, not one has drawn a tear in favour of my miserable black brethren—excepting yourself, and the humane author of Sir George Ellison.—I think you will forgive me;—I am sure you will applaud me for beseeching you to give one half-hour’s attention to slavery, as it is at this day practised in our West Indies.—That subject, handled in your striking manner, would ease the yoke (perhaps) of many;—but if only of one—Gracious God!—what a feast to a benevolent heart!—and, sure I am, you are an Epicurean in acts of charity.—You, who are universally read, and as universally admired—you could not fail.—Dear Sir, think in me you behold the uplifted hands of thousands of my brother Moors.—Grief (you pathetically observe) is eloquent;—figure to yourself their attitudes;—hear their supplicating addresses!—Alas!—you cannot refuse.—Humanity must comply—in which hope I beg permission to subscribe myself,

Reverend Sir, &c.

IGN. SANCHO.

LETTER XXXVII.
TO MR. M——.

August 12, 1776.

“We have left undone the things we should have done,” &c. &c.——

THE general confession—with a deep sense of our own frailties—joined to penitence—and strong intentions of better doing—insures poor sinners forgiveness, obliterates the past, sweetens the present, and brightens the future;—in short, we are to hope that it reconciles us with the Deity;—and if that conclusion is just, it must certainly reconcile us in part to each other.—Grant me that, dear M——, and you have no quarrel towards me for epistolary omissions:—look about you, my dear friend, with a fault-searching eye—and see what you have left undone!—Look on your chair!—those cloaths should have been brushed and laid by—that linen sent to wash—those shoes to be cleaned.—Zooks! why you forget to say your prayers—to take your physick—to wash your ——. Pray how does Mrs. H——? Lord what a deal of rain! I declare I fear it will injure the harvest.—And when saw you Nancy?—Has the cat kittened?—I suppose you have heard the news:—great news!—a glorious affair! (and is two ff’s necessary?)—O! Lord, Sir!—very little bloodshed—pity any should—how!—do not you admire!—How so?—Why this, Sir, is writing, ’tis the true sublime—and this the stuff that gives my friend M—— pleasure:—thou vile flatterer! blush! blush up to thine eyelids!—I am happy to think I have found a flaw in thee:—thou art a flatterer of the most dangerous sort, because agreeable.—I have often observed—there is more of value in the manner of doing the thing—than in the thing itself—my mind’s eye follows you in the selecting the pretty box—in arranging the pickled fruit.—I see you fix on the lid, drive the last nail, your countenance lit up with glee, and your heart exulting in the pleasure you were about giving to the family of the Sancho’s—and then snatch the hat and stick, and walk with the easy alacrity of a soul conscious of good.—But hold, Sir, you were rather saucy in a part or two of your letter:—for which reason I shall not thank you for the fruit;—the good woman and brats may—and with reason; for they devoured them: the box, indeed, is worth thanks; which, if God, gout, and weather permit, you may probably hear something of on Sunday next, from yours, with all your sins, &c. &c.

IGN. SANCHO.

LETTER XXXVIII.
TO MR. K——.

August 28, 1776

MY WORTHY FRIEND,

I SHOULD have answered your billet as soon as received—but I wanted to know the quantum that I was to wish you joy of—as nothing has yet for certainty transpired.—I will hope your legacy from Mrs. —— is handsome:—you can easily imagine the pleasure I felt—in finding she had so amply remembered poor Mrs. M——. That one act has more true generosity in it, aye, and justice perhaps, than any thing I ever knew of her in her long life:—it has removed an anxiety from me which (in spite of self-felt poverty—and the heart-felt cares of a large family) troubled me greatly;—as to myself, she used to promise largely formerly, that she would think of me:—as I never believed—I was not disappointed.—More and more convinced of the futility of all our eagerness after worldly riches, my prayer and hope is only for bread, and to be enabled to pay what I owe. I labour up hill against many difficuties; but God’s goodness is my support, and his word my trust.—Mrs. Sancho joins me in her best wishes, and gives you joy also: the children are well—William grows, and tries his feet briskly—and Fanny goes on well in her tambour-work;—Mary must learn some business or other—if we can possibly atchieve money;—but we have somehow no friends—and, bless God!—we deserve no enemies. Trade is duller than ever I knew it—and money scarcer;—foppery runs higher—and vanity stronger;—extravagance is the adored idol of this sweet town.—You are a happy being;—free from the cares of the world in your own person—you enjoy more than your master—or his master into the bargain.—May your comforts know no diminution, but increase with your years!—and may the same happen, when it shall please God, to your sincere friend I. Sancho and his family!

LETTER XXXIX.
TO MR. M——.

September 1, 1776.

YOU have the happiest manner of obliging!—How comes it that—without the advantages of a twentieth generationship of noble blood flowing uncontaminated in your veins—without the customary three years dissipation at college—and the (nothing to be done without) four years perambulation on the Continent—without all these needful appendages—with little more than plain sense—sheer good-nature—and a right honest heart—thou canst—

“Like low-born Allen, with an aukward shame,

“Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame!”

Now, by my grandame’s beard—I will not thank you for your present—although my ears have been stunned with your goodness and kindness—the best young man!—and, good Lord! how shall we make him amends? &c. &c.—Pshaw! simpleton, quoth I, do you not plainly ken, that he himself has a satisfaction in giving pleasure to his friends, which more than repays him?—so I strove to turn off the notion of obligation—though, I must confess, my heart at the same time felt a something—sure it was not envy—no, I detest it—I fear it was pride—for I feel within myself this moment, that I could turn the tables in repaying principal with treble interest—I should feel gratified—though perhaps not satisfied.—I have a long account to balance with you—about your comments upon the transcript:—you are a pretty fellow, to dare put in your claim—to better sense—deeper thinking—and stronger reasoning than my wise self.—To tell you the truth (though at my own expence) I read your letter the first time with some little chagrin;—your reasoning, though it hurt my pride—yet almost convinced my understanding.—I read it carefully a second time—pondered—weighed—and submitted—Whenever a spark of vanity seems to be glowing at my heart—I will read your letter—and what then?—Why then, humbled by a proper sense of my inferiority, I shall still have cause for pride—triumph—and comfort—when I reflect that my valued Censor—is the true friend of his sincerely affectionate

IGN. SANCHO.

LETTER XL.
TO MR. M——.

Dec. 4, 1776.

I FORGOT to tell you this morning—a jack-ass would have shewn more thought—(are they rationals or not?)—the best recipe for the gout, I am informed—is two or three stale Morning-Posts;—reclined in easy chair—the patient must sit—and mull over them—take snuff at intervals—hem—and look wise;—I apply to you as my pharmacopolist—do not criticize my orthography—but, when convenient, send me the medicine—which, with care and thanks, I will return.

Yours,

Dismal SANCHO.

Pray how do you do?

LETTER XLI.
TO MR. M——[4].

January 4, 1777.

I HAVE read, but have found nothing of the striking kind of sentimental novelty—which I expected from its great author—the language is good in most places—but never rises above the common pitch.—In many of our inferior tragedies—I have ever found here and there a flower strewn, which has been the grace and pride of the poetic parterre, and has made me involuntarily cry out, Bravo!—From dress—scenery—action—and the rest of play-house garniture—it may shew well and go down—like insipid fish with good sauce;—the Prologue is well—the Epilogue worth the whole—such is my criticism—read—stare—and conclude your friend mad—though a more Christian supposition would be—what’s true at the same time—that my ideas are frozen, much more frigid than the play;—but allowing that—and although I confess myself exceeding cold, yet I have warmth enough to declare myself yours sincerely,

I. SANCHO.

Love and many happy new years to the ladies.

[4] On reading the Tragedy of Semiramis, from the French of Mons. Voltaire.

LETTER XLII.
TO MR. M——.

February 9, 1777.

ZOUNDS! if alive—what ails you? if dead—why did you not send me word?—Where’s my Tristram?—What, are all bucks alike!—all promise, and no—but I won’t put myself in a passion—I have but one foot, and no head—go-to—why, what a devil of a rate dost thou ride at anathematizing and reprobating poor ——! pho! thou simpleton—he deserves thy pity—and whoever harbours a grain of contempt for his fellow-creatures—either in the school of poverty or misfortune—that Being is below contempt—and lives the scorn of men—and shame of devils.—Thou shalt not think evil of ——; nor shall he, either by word or thought, dispraisingly speak or think of M——.

In regard to thy N——, thou art right—guard her well—but chiefly guard her from the traitor in her own fair breast, which, while it is the seat of purity and unsullied honor—fancies its neighbours to be the same—nor sees the serpent in the flowery foliage—till it stings—and then farewell sweet peace and its attendant riches.

I have only time to thank you for the leaves, and to lament your want of perspicuity in writing.—My love to George when you see him—and two loves to Nancy—tell her I could fold her to my bosom with the same tender pressure I do my girls—shut my eyes—draw her to my heart—and call her Daughter!—and thou, monkey-face, write me a decent letter—or you shall have another trimming from yours,

I. SANCHO.

Look’ye Sir, I write to the ringing of the shop-door bell—I write—betwixt serving—gossiping—and lying. Alas! what cramps to poor genius!