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.