MY dear M——, I know full well thy silence must proceed from ill health. To say it concerns me, is dull nonsense—self-love without principle will inspire even Devils with affection;—by so much less as thou apprehendest thy friend has diabolical about him—so may’st thou judge of his feelings towards thee.—Why wilt thou not part with thy hair? most assuredly I do believe it would relieve thee past measure—thou dost not fancy thy strength (like Sampson’s the Israelite) lieth in thy hair. Remember he was shorn thro’ folly—he lost his wits previous to his losing his locks—do thou consent to lose thine, in order to save thy better judgement,—I know no worse soul sinking pain than the head-ach, though (thank heaven) I am not often visited with it.—I long to see thee—and will soon, if in my power:—some odd folks would think it would have been but good manners to have thanked you for the fawn—but then, says the punster, that would have been so like fawn-ing—which J. M—— loves not, no, nor Sancho either;—’tis the hypocrite’s key to the great man’s heart—’tis the resource of cowardly curs—and deceitful b—p—s—it is the spaniel’s sort—and man’s disgrace—it is—in short, the day is so hot—that I cannot say at present any more about it—but that the fawn was large, fresh, and worthy the giver, the receiver, and the joyous souls that eat it.—Billy has suffered much in getting his teeth—I have just wished him joy by his mother’s desire, who says that he took resolution at last, and walked to her some few steps quite alone. Albeit it gave me no small pleasure—yet, upon consideration, what I approve of now, perhaps, (should I live to see him at man’s estate) I might then disapprove—unless God’s grace should as ably support him through the quick-sands—rocks—and shoals of life—as it has happily the honest being I am now writing to.—God give you health!—your own conduct will secure peace—your friends bread.—As to honors, leave it with titles—to knaves—and be content with that of an honest man,
“the noblest work of God.”
Shave—shave—shave.
Farewell, yours sincerely,
I. SANCHO.
LETTER XLVII.
TO MISS C——.
August 15, 1777.
I WAITED, in hopes that time or chance might furnish me with something to fill a sheet, with better than the praises of an old man.—What has youth and beauty to do with the squabbling contentions of mad ambition?—Could I new-model Nature—your sex should rule supreme:—there should be no other ambition but that of pleasing the ladies—no other welfare but the contention of obsequious lovers—nor any glory but the bliss of being approved by the Fair.—Now, confess that this epistle opens very gallant, and allow this to be a decent return to one of the best and most sensible letters that L—— Wells has produced this century past.—I much wish for the pleasing hopes raised by your obliging letter—that my good friend’s health is restored so fully, that she has by this time forgot what the pains in the stomach mean,—that she has sent all her complaints to the lake of Lethe—and is thinking soon to enliven our part our world, enriched with health—spirits—and a certain bewitching benignity of countenance—which cries out—‘Dislike me if you can!’—I want to know what conquests you have made—what savages converted—whom you have smiled into felicity, or killed by rejection;—and how the noble Master of Ceremonies acquits himself, John S—— Esq; I mean.—I hear my friend R—— will be in town this week, to my great comfort;—for, upon my conscience, excepting my family, the town to me is quite empty.—Mrs. R—— is gone to Bury—and the good man is toiling a lonely and forlorne object.—Mrs. Sancho joins in every good and grateful wish for your amiable friend, with, dear Miss C——, your obliged friend and humble servant,
I. SANCHO.