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.