[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.