“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.