I DENY it. That I ought to have acknowledged your favour two weeks ago I confess—but my silence was not so long—nor broad—nor rusty—nor fusty as yours.—Blithe health—festive hours—and social mirth—be thine, my friend! Thy letter, though late, was truly welcome—it unbended the brow of care—and suspended, for some hours, disagreeable thoughts.——By St. Radagunda! quoth I—(ramming my nostrils with Hardham) he has catched the mantle.—Alas, poor Yorick! oh! that thou hadst, by divine permission, been suffered a little—little longer, amongst the moonstruck children of this namby-pamby world! Father of light and life! thy will be done;—but surely—half the wit—half the good sense—of this present age—were interred in Sterne’s grave. His broad philanthropy—like the soul-cheering rays of the blessed sun, invested his happy spirit, and soared into Heaven with it—where, in progressive rise from bliss to bliss, he drinks in large draughts of rapture, love, and knowledge, and chants the praises of redeeming love, with joy unbounded, and unceasing vigour.—Your invocation has mounted me, Merry-Andrew like, upon stilts.—I ape you as monkeys ape men, by walking upon two.—That you have recovered the true tone of your health and spirits, I rejoice—to be happy in despight of fortune, shews the Philosopher—the Hero—the Christian. I must confess, my fortitude (which is wove of very flimsy materials) too oft gives way in the rough and unfriendly jostles of life:—Madam Fortune, who by the way is a bunter (and such I love not), has been particularly cross and untoward to me since you left us. They say she is fond of fools—’tis false and scandalous—she hates me—and I have the vanity to say and believe—that if folly, sheer folly, had any charms—I should stand as fair in her esteem—as A. B. C. D. E. F.—or any of Folly’s family through the whole alphabet.—You halted at Burleigh—you did just what I wished you to do—and left it, I trust, as well in health as you entered that sweet mansion—stopp’d at Retford—and found your venerable parents well—and contributed to their happiness—increased their felicity by the many nice little attentions of filial love—which the good heart delights in—and even angels approve.—And how do the worthy souls of Hull and its environs?—Do they credit themselves by esteeming a good-enough kind of mortal?—You cannot imagine what hold little Billy gets of me—he grows—prattles—and every day learns something new—and by his good-will would be ever in the shop with me. The monkey! he clings round my legs—and if I chide him or look sour—he holds up his little mouth to kiss me;—I know I am the fool—for parent’s weakness is child’s strength:—truth orthodox—which will hold good between lover and lovee—as well as - - - - - - - - - - - - - -. Mrs. Sancho and her virgins are so, so. Mr. Sancho, the virgins, well as youth and innocence, souls void of care and consciences of offence, can be.—Dame Sancho would be better if she cared less.—I am her barometer—if a sigh escapes me, it is answered by a tear in her eye;—I oft assume a gaiety to illume her dear sensibility with a smile—which twenty years ago almost bewitched me;—and mark!—after twenty years enjoyment—constitutes my highest pleasure!—Such be your lot—with a competency—such as will make œconomy a pleasant acquaintance—temperance and exercise your chief physician—and the virtues of benevolence your daily employ—your pleasure and reward! And what more can friendship wish you?—but to glide down the stream of time—blest with a partner of congenial principles, and fine feelings—true feminine eloquence—whose very looks speak tenderness and sentiment.—Your infants growing—with the roseate bloom of health—minds cultured by their father—expanding daily in every improvement—blest little souls!—and happy—happy parents!—such be thy lot in life—in marriage;—but take a virgin—or a maiden—to thy arms;—but—be that as thy fate wills it.—Now for news.—Two hours ago (in tolerable health and cheary spirits) considering his journey not so fatigued as might be expected—followed by four superb carriages—their Royal Highnesses the Duke and Dutchess of Gloucester arrived in town. As to America, if you know any thing at Hull, you know more than is known in London.—Samuel Foote, Esq; is dead—a leg was buried some years since—and now the whole foote follows.—I think you love a pun.—Colman is the gainer, as he covenanted to give him 1600l. per annum, for his patent;—in short, Colman is happy in the bargain—and I trust Foote is no loser.—I have seen poor Mr. de Groote but once—and then could not attend to speak with him, as I had customers in the shop.—I waited by appointment for Mr. ——, to get your honor’s address—and then three weeks before I could get the franks—a fortnight since for Mr. —— writing to you—I call this a string of beggarly apologies.—I told M—— you expected a line from him—he wanted faith.—I made him read your letter—and what then? “truly he was not capable—he had no classical education—you write with elegance—ease—propriety.”——Tut, quoth I, pr’ythee give not the reins to pride—write as I do—just the effusions of a warm though foolish heart:—friendship will cast a veil of kindness over thy blunders—they will be accepted with a complacent smile—and read with the same eye of kindness which indulges now the errors of his sincere friend,
IGN. SANCHO.
A true Genius will always remember to leave a space unwritten—to come in contact with the wax or wafer—by which means the reader escapes half an hour’s puzzle to make out a sentence;—and ever while you live—never omit—no—not that—what?—what!—dates! dates!—am not I a grocer?——Pun the Second.
LETTER LV.
TO MRS. C——.
Charles Street, Nov. 5, 1777.
NOW, whether to address—according to the distant, reserved, cold, mechanical forms of high-breeding—where polished manners, like a horse from the manage, prances fantastic—and, shackled with the rules of art, proudly despises simple nature;—or shall I, like the patient, honest, sober, long-ear’d animal, take plain Nature’s path, and address you according to my feelings?—My dear friend—you wanted to know the reason I had never addressed a line to you;—the plain and honest truth is, I thought writing at—was better than writing to you;—that’s one reason:—now a second reason is—I know my own weakness too well to encounter with your little friend—whom I fear as a critic—and envy as a writer:—another reason is—a case of conscience—which some time or other you may have explained:—reason the fourth—a secret—and so must be—till the blessed year 1797;—and then, if you will deign to converse with an old friend—you shall know all.—Kitty sends her respects to Nutts—and her duty to her godmother.—Billy looks wisely by turns—and will speak for himself—if you should ever come to town again.—The girls all improve in appetite. Mrs. Sancho is tolerably well—and I am yours very seriously,
I. SANCHO.
P. S. I wrote to my friend R——, and then made some modest demands upon your good-nature—There are a sort of people in the world (one or two in a large extent of country) rare enough to meet with—and you are one whom nature hath left entirely defenceless to the depredations of knaves;—for my part, I own I have no remorse when I tax your good-nature—which proceeds from your having obliged me so much—that I think with the street paupers—when they cry—“Good your Ladyship, give me something—you always used to remember your poor old woman!”—Well but to conclude—we courtiers are all alive upon this great good news—the Queen, God bless her—safe;—another Princess—Oh the cake and cawdle!—Then the defeat of Washintub’s army—and the capture of Arnold and Sulivan with seven thousand prisoners;—thirteen counties return to their allegiance;—all this news is believed—the delivery of her Majesty is certain—pray God the rest may be as certain—that this cursed carnage of the human species may end—commerce revive—sweet social peace be extended throughout the globe—and the British empire be strongly knit in the never-ending bands of sacred friendship and brotherly love!—Her good Grace of P—— is just arrived:—the gardens would look as they were wont—but for you. But to conclude—the little dance (which I like because I made it)—I humbly beg you will make Jacky play—and amongst you contrive a figure.—The Dutchess of —— visits the Queen this evening—which being a piece of news you may credit—and of the utmost consequence—I close my very sensible decent epistle with—And so God bless you!—Pray tell Mr. K—— my thanks for his obliging letter—and that I join him and all his friends in honest gladness—upon his brother’s account.—I fear, also, he has had, and still has, too much practice.—I have this opinion of him, that his humanity will ever be found equal to his skill—and that he will be a credit to his profession—as well as a blessing to his patients.—My humble respects and best wishes attend Miss —— and Messieurs B—— and S——, &c.
The grand news is not yet officially authenticated—as no express is yet arrived from the Howes—the Isis man of war, which is supposed to have the dispatches, not being got in;—but the K—— and Cabinet believe the news to be true, though brought by hear-say—at sea.