LETTER XLIII.
TO MR. M——.
July 27, 1777.
GO-TO!—the man who visits church twice in one day, must either be religious—curious—or idle—whichever you please, my dear friend;—turn it the way which best likes you, I will cheerily subscribe to it.—By the way, H——n was inspired this morning; his text was from Romans—chapter the—verse the—both forgot;—but the subject was to present heart, mind, soul, and all the affections—a living sacrifice to God;—he was most gloriously animated, and seemed to have imbibed the very spirit and manners of the Great Apostle. Our afternoon Orator was a stranger to me—he was blest with a good, clear, and well-toned articulate voice:—he preached from the Psalms—and took great pains to prove that God knew more than we—that letters were the fountain of our knowledge—that a man in Westminster was totally ignorant of what was going forward in Whitechapel—that we might have some memory of what we did last week—but have no sort of conjecture of what we shall do to-morrow, &c. &c.—Now H——n’s whole drift was, that we should live the life of angels here—in order to be so in reality hereafter:—the other good soul gave us wholesome matter of fact;—they were both right—(but I fear not to speak my mind to my M——, who, if he condemns my head, will, I am sure, acquit my heart.)—You have read and admired Sterne’s Sermons—which chiefly inculcate practical duties, and paint brotherly love—and the true Christian charities—in such beauteous glowing colours—that one cannot help wishing to feed the hungry—cloathe the naked, &c. &c.—I would to God, my friend, that the great lights of the church would exercise their oratorical powers upon Yorick’s plan:—the heart and passions once listed under the banners of blest philanthropy—would naturally ascend to the redeeming God—flaming with grateful rapture.—Now I have observed among the modern Saints—who profess to pray without ceasing—that they are so fully taken up with pious meditations—and so wholy absorbed in the love of God—that they have little if any room for the love of man:—if I am wrong, tell me so honestly—the censure of a friend is of more value than his money—and to submit to conviction, is a proof of good sense.—I made my bow to-night to Mrs. H——; the rest of the rogues were out—bright-eyed S—— and all.—Mrs. H—— says that you are hypped—nonsense!—few can rise superior to pain—and the head, I will allow, is a part the most sensible, if affected;—but even then you are not obliged to use more motion than you like—though I can partly feel the aukward sensations and uneasy reflections, which will often arise upon the least ail of so precious a member as the eye—yet certain I am, the more you can be master of yourself (I mean as to chearfulness, if not gaiety of mind) the better it will of course be with you.—I hope G—— is well—and that you ride often to see him I make no doubt.—I like the monkey—I know not for why, nor does it signify a button—but sure he is good-tempered and grateful;—but what’s that to me?—Good-night:——the clock talks of eleven.
Yours, &c.
I. SANCHO.
LETTER XLIV.
TO MR. M——.
July 23, 1777.
YES—too true it is—for the many (aye, and some of those many carry their heads high) too true for the miserable—the needy—the sick—for many, alas! who now may have no helper—for the child of folly poor S——, and even for thy worthless friend Sancho.—It is too true, that the Almighty has called to her rich reward—she who, whilst on earth, approved herself his best delegate.—How blind, how silly, is the mortal who places any trust or hope in aught but the Almighty!—You are just, beautifully just, in your sketch of the vicissitudes of worldly bliss.—We rise the lover—dine the husband—and too oft, alas! lay down the forlorne widower.—Never so struck in my life;—it was on Friday night, between ten and eleven, just preparing for my concluding pipe—the Duke of M——’s man knocks.—“Have you heard the bad news?”—No.—“The Dutchess of Queensbury died last night!”—I felt fifty different sensations—unbelief was uppermost—when he crushed my incredibility, by saying he had been to know how his Grace did—who was also very poorly in health.—Now the preceding day, Thursday (the day on which she expired) I had received a very penitential letter from S——, dated from St. Helena;—this letter I inclosed in a long tedious epistle of my own—and sent to Petersham, believing the family to be all there.—The day after you left town her Grace died;—that day week she was at my door—the day after I had the honour of a long audience in her dressing-room.—Alas! this hour blessed with health—crowned with honors—loaded with riches, and encircled with friends—the next reduced to a lump of poor clay—a tenement for worms!—Earth re-possesses part of what she gave—and the freed spirit mounts on wings of fire:—her disorder was a stoppage—she fell ill the evening of the Friday that I last saw her—continued in her full senses to the last.—The good she had done reached the skies long before her lamented death—and are the only heralds that are worth the pursuit of wisdom:—as to her bad deeds, I have never heard of them.—Had it been for the best, God would have lent her a little longer to a foolish world, which hardly deserved so good a woman;—for my own part, I have lost a friend—and perhaps ’tis better so.—“Whatever is,” &c. &c.—I wish S—— knew this heavy news, for many reasons.—I am inclined to believe her Grace’s death is the only thing that will most conduce to his reform.—I fear neither his gratitude nor sensibility will be much hurt upon hearing the news—it will act upon his fears, and make him do right upon a base principle.—Hang him! he teazes me whenever I think of him.—I supped last night with St——; he called in just now, and says he has a right to be remembered to you.—You and he are two old monkeys—the more I abuse and rate you, the better friend you think me.—As you have found out that your spirits govern your head—you will of course contrive every method of keeping your instrument in tune;—sure I am that bathing—riding—walking—in succession—the two latter not violent—will brace your nerves—purify your blood—invigorate its circulation:—add to the rest continency—yes, again I repeat it, continency;—before you reply, think—re-think—and think again—look into your Bible—look in Young—peep into your own breast—if your heart warrants what your head counsels—act then boldly.—Oh! apropos—pray thank my noble friend Mrs. H—— for her friendly present of C— J—; it did Mrs. Sancho service, and does poor Billy great good—who has (through his teeth) been plagued with a cough—which I hope will not turn to the whooping sort;—the girls greet you as their respected school-master.—As to your spirited kind offer of a F——, why when you please—you know what I intend doing with it.
Poor Lady S——, I find, still lingers this side the world.—Alas! when will the happy period arrive, that the sons of mortality may greet each other with the joyful news, that sin, pain, sorrow, and death, are no more; skies without clouds, earth without crimes, life without death, world without end!—peace, bliss, and harmony, where the Lord God—All in all—King of kings—Lord of lords—reigneth—omnipotent—for ever—for ever!—may you, dear M——, and all I love—yea the whole race of Adam, join with my unworthy weak self, in the stupendous—astonishing—soul-cheering Hallelujahs!—where Charity may be swallowed up in Love—Hope in Bliss—and Faith in glorious Certainty!—We will mix, my boy, with all countries, colours, faiths—see the countless multitudes of the first world—the myriads descended from the—Ark—the Patriarchs—Sages—Prophets—and Heroes! My head turns round at the vast idea! we will mingle with them, and try to untwist the vast chain of blessed Providence—which puzzles and baffles human understanding. Adieu.
Yours, &c.