SIR, he is the confounded’st dunderhead—sapscull—looby—clodpate, nincompoop—ninnyhammer—booby-chick—farcical—loungibuss—blunderbuss—this good day in the three kingdoms!—You would bless yourself, were it possible for you to analyze such a being—not but his heart is susceptible of a kind of friendly warmth—but then so cursed careless—ever in a hurry—ever in the wrong, at best but blundering about the right.—Why now, for example, when you sent the ——, I can make oath, if need be—that the dunce I speak of longed more for a letter than the animal. The basket was searched with hurry—not care;—no letter? well, it can’t be help’d—his head ach’d—he had not time, &c. &c.—the P—— was disengaged from the basket—the straw consigned to the chimney:—this being rather a coolish morning, a little fire was thought necessary—and in raking up the loose dirty waste stuff under the grate, there appeared a very bloody letter, which seemed unopened:—your hand-writing was discernible through the dirt and blood;—curiosity and affection ran a race to pick up and examine it—when, behold, it proved to be the companion of the P——, but so effaced with blood—that very—very little of my friend’s good sense could be made out.—Your poor letter is a type of what daily happens—merit oppressed and smothered by rubbish.—Alas, poor letter! it shared the fate the poor world, which we inhabit, will hereafter undergo:—one bright gleam of imitation of the mind that dictated it—some few sparks.—Alas! alas! my poor letter—pass but a few years—perhaps a few months—thy generous friendly compost may—thy friend whose heart glows while he writes—who feels thy worth—yea, and reveres it too.—Nonsense, why we know the very hinges of our last cradles will rust and moulder;—and that, in the course of another century, neither flesh, bone, coffin, nor nail—will be dicernible from mother earth.—Courage—while we live, let us live—to Virtue—Friendship—Religion—Charity—then drop (at death’s call) our cumbrous (you are thin) load of flesh, and mount in spirit to our native home.—Bless us, at what a rate have I been travelling!—I am quite out of breath—Why! my friend, the business was to thank you for the pig.—Had you seen the group of heads—aye, and wise ones too—that assembled at the opening of the fardel—the exclamations—Oh! the finest—fattest—cleanest—why, Sir, it was a pig of pigs;—the pettitoes gave us a good supper last night—they were well dressed—and your pig was well eat—it dined us Sunday and Monday.—Now, to say truth, I do not love pig—merely pig—I like not—but pork corned—alias—salted—either roast or boiled—I will eat against any filthy Jew naturalized—or under the bann.—On Saturday night the newsman brought me two papers of J—— 13th and 20th;—right joyful did I receive them:—I ran to Mrs. Sancho—with, I beg you will read my friend’s sensible and spirited defence of—of, &c.—She read—though it broke in upon her work—she approved;—but chance or fortune—or ill-luck—or what you ever mean by accident—has played us a confounded trick;—for since Saturday they have—both papers—disappeared—without hands—or legs—or eyes—for no one has seen them;—bureau—boxes—cupboards—drawers—parlour—chamber—shop—all—all has been rummaged—pockets—port-folio—holes—corners—all been searched;—Did you see them?—did you?—where can they be?—I know not—nor I—nor I—but God does!—Omnipotence knoweth all things.—It has vexed me—fretted dame Sancho—teazed the children—but so it is;—hereafter I suppose they will be found in some obvious (though now unthought of) place, and then it will be, Good Lord, who could have thought it!
Where is the Jack-ass business?—do not be lazy—I feel myself a party concerned—and when I see you, I have a delicious morsel of true feminine grace and generosity to shew you.—I shall not apologize for this crude epistle;—but mark and remark—I do thank you in the name of every Sancho but self—they eat, and were filled;—I have reason to thank you;—but as I do not affect pig—in a piggish sense—I hold myself excepted;—and, although I did eat—and did also commend, yet I will not thank you, that’s poss.
I. SANCHO.
The papers are found, as you will see:—here is one and a piece; it has suffered through ignorance;—but what cannot be cured, must be endured.
LETTER LII.
TO MR. R.——.
September 17, 1777.
MY RESPECTED FRIEND,
I FEEL myself guilty of an unmannerly neglect, in delaying to give my good Mrs. C—— some account of the little commissions she honoured me with.—You must exert your friendly influence, in making my peace with her;—not but that I well know mercy has the blest preponderancy in her scale—nor can kindness or mercy be lodged in a fairer breast;—in faith, I am scarce half alive;—yet what really is alive about me—hungers to hear news from B——: first, how Mrs. C—— got down—and her good companion;—how her health is: tell her, I hope she left all her pains behind her;—if so, I believe I have taken possession of them all. Alas, my friend, I never was but half so bad before;—both feet knocked up at once; plenty of excruciating pains, and a great lack of patience.—Mrs. Sancho has had a blessed week of it;—for my companion did not contribute much to the sweetening my temper—it was the washing-week, which you know made it a full chance and half better.—she was forced to break sugar, and attend shop.—God bless her, and reward her!—she is good—good in heart—good in principle—good by habit—good by Heaven! God forgive me, I had almost sworn.—Tell me how the ladies got down—how they do; and what they do;—how you do;—and how —— feels, now the broom is hung on his door top.—The certainty that B—— and his connexions are all alive and merry—will be a cure for my gout—and thou shalt be sole doctor, as well as first friend, to thy ever obliged true friend.
I. SANCHO.