DEAR FRIEND,
WE are all in the wrong—a little.—Admiral Barrington is arrived from the West India station—and brings the pleasant news, that d’Estaigne fell in with five of our ships of the line with the best part of his fleet. We fought like Englishmen, unsupported by the rest:—they fought till they were quite dismasted, and almost wrecked;—and at last gave the French enough of it, and got away all, though in plight bad enough:—but the consequence was, the immediate capture of the Grenadas.—Add to this—Sir Charles Hardy is put into Portsmouth, or Gosport;—and, although forty odd strong in line of battle ships, is obliged to give up the sovereignty of the channel to the enemy.—L—d S——h is gone to Portsmouth, to be a witness of England’s disgrace—and his own shame.—In faith, my friend, the present time is rather comique—Ireland almost in as true a state of rebellion as America—Admirals quarrelling in the West-Indies—and at home Admirals that do not chuse to fight—The British empire mouldering away in the West, annihilated in the North—Gibraltar going—and England fast asleep.—What says Mr. B—— to all this?—he is a ministerialist,—for my part, it’s nothing to me, as I am only a lodger, and hardly that.—Give my love and respect to the ladies—and best compliments to all the gentlemen—with respects to Mr. and Mrs. I——.
Give me a line to know how you all do.—The post is going—only time to say God bless you.—I remain
Yours affectionately,
I. SANCHO.
Past eleven at night.
LETTER CV.
TO MISS. L——,
Charles Street, Sept. 11, 1779.
I CANNOT forbear returning my dear Miss L—— our united thanks for her generous present—which came exactly in time to grace poor Marianne’s birth-day, which was yesterday:—the bird was good, and well dressed; that and a large apple-pye feasted the whole family of the Sancho’s. Miss L—— was toasted; and although we had neither ringing of bells, nor firing of guns, yet the day was celebrated with mirth and decency—and a degree of sincere joy and urbanity seldom to be seen on R——l birth-days.—Mary, as queen of the day, invited two or three young friends—her breast filled with delight unmixed with cares—her heart danced in her eyes—and she looked the happy mortal.—Great God of mercy and love! why, why, in a few fleeting years, are all the gay day dreams of youthful innocence to vanish? why can we not purchase prudence, decency, and wisdom, but at the expence of our peace? Slow circumspect caution implies suspicion—and where suspicion dwells, confidence dwells not.—I believe I write nonsense—but the dull weather, added to a dull imagination, must, and I trust will, incline you to excuse me:—if I mistake not, writing requires—what I could tell you, but dare not—for I have smarted once already.—In short, I write just what I think—and you know Congreve says somewhere, that
“Thought precedes the will,”