YOUR short letter gave me much pleasure—which would have been enlarged, had your epistle been longer;—but I make allowances—as I ought—for the number of friends who wish equally with me—and expect to be gratified. You are greatly fortunate in enjoying your health—for which I doubt not but you are truly thankful to the Almighty Giver.—As to your success, it is the best comment upon your conduct;—for rectitude of principle and humble deportment, added to strict attention and good-nature, must make even fools and knaves wish you well—though envy will mix itself with the transient kindness of such—but with such noble natures as you went out happily connected with, you are every day sowing the good seeds of your future fortune.—I hope to live to see you return—the comfort and honor of your good father and family;—but observe—I do not wish you half a million, clogged with the tears and blood of the poor natives;—no—a decent competence got with honesty—and that will keep increasing like the widow’s cruse, and descend down to posterity with accumulated blessings.—You desire to transfer your share in me to your brother Joe;—now be it known to you—Joe has interest sufficient in his own natural right with me, to secure him every attention in my poor power. But you flatter, my good friend—though your flattery carries a good excuse with it—you flatter the poor.
I say nothing of politics—I hate such subjects;—the public papers will inform you of mistakes—blood—taxes—misery—murder—the obstinacy of a few—and the madness and villainy of a many.—I expect a very, very long letter from you—in answer to a sermon I wrote you last year.—Miss —— is still divinely fair;—she is a good girl, but no match for Nabobs.—Mrs. C—— is as handsome as ever—and R—— as friendly. God bless them! feasting or fasting! sleeping or waking! May God’s providence watch over and protect them—and all such!—Your brother Frank is a sweet boy—a painter, who would wish to draw a cherub, will find no fitter subject.—The C——ds—but what have I to do with good people, who will of course all write for themselves?—so let them.—Your father—Oh Jack! what a cordial!—what a rich luxury is it to be able to contribute, by well-doing, to a father’s, nay a whole family of kindred love, and heart-felt affection! what a bliss to add to all their happiness—and to insure your own at the same time!—May this high pleasure be thine! and may the God of truth and fountain of all good enrich thy heart and head with his spirit and wisdom—crown your labours with success—and guard you from avarice—ambition—and every Asiatic evil—so that your native land may receive you with riches and honor—your friends with true joy—heightened with sincere respect! So wishes—so prophesies—thy true friend and obliged servant,
I. SANCHO.
LETTER LXII.
Charles Street, May 9, 1778.
TO MISS C——.
THE Sanchos—in full synod—humbly present their respectful compliments to the good Mrs. C—— and Miss —— (what a C——!) are happy in hearing they got well into Suffolk—that they continue so—and enjoy the beauties of this sweetest of seasons—with its attendant dainties—fresh butter—sweet milk—and the smiles of boon nature—on hill and dale—fields and groves—shepherds piping—milk-maids dancing—and the chearful respondent carolings of artless joy in the happy husbandmen—Should you perchance rise early in pursuit of May dew—I earnestly make it my request—you will save—and bring to town a little bottle of it for my particular use.—Happy—thrice happy nymphs—!—be merciful to the poor hapless swains. The powerful little god of mischief and delight now—at this blest season—prunes his beauteous wings—new feathers and sharpens his arrows—tight strings his bow—and takes too sure his aim.—Oh! lads, beware the month of May. For you, blest girls—nature, decked out as in a birth-day suit, courts you with all its sweets where-e’er you tread—the grass and wanton flowerets fondly kiss your feet—and humbly bow their pretty heads—to the gentle sweepings of your under-petticoats—the soft and amorous southern breezes toy with your curls, and uncontroul’d steal numberless kisses—the blackbirds and thrushes suspend their songs—and eye beauty and humanity with pleasure;—and, could their hearts be read, thank most sincerely the generous fair hands that fed them in the winter;—the cuckoo sings on every tree the joys of married life—the shrubbery throws out all its sweets to charm you—though, alas! an unlucky parciplepliviaplemontis seizes my imagination—my brains are on the ferment—Miss C—— will excuse me.—Make my best wishes to Mrs. C——, tell her I hope she rides and walks in moderation—eats heartily, and laughs much—sleeps soundly, dreams happily—that she—you—my R—— and your connexions—may enjoy the good of this life without its evil—is the true Black-a-moor wish of
I. SANCHO.
Now mark, this is not meant as a letter—no—it is an address to the ladies.—Pray our best respects to Mr. and Mrs. B——; it is an address to Spring-birds and flowers—and when you see Johnny, our loves—it is a caution to the swains against the popery of Love.—The K—— and Q—— are just now returned from Portsmouth.—I said nothing in regard to the month by way of advice to the ladies.—The Spectator—blessings on his memory—has.—They say the Royal chaise was covered with dirt—even the very glasses.—Quistus Quirini—was found very late last night.—Nothing broke—except the hemmings of advantage.—They say the Queen never looked better.—But what amaz’d most people—both the Royal postillions rode the off-horses—which it is expected the Gazette of this night will explain—Adieu.
Is not that—a good one.