And what, in the name of common sense, impelled thee to torment my soul, with thy creative pen-drawing of sweet A—r—bn—s? I enjoyed content at least in the vortex of smoak and vice—and lifted up my thoughts no higher than the beauties of the park or——gardens.—What have I to do with rural deities? with parterres—fields—groves—terraces—views—buildings—grots—temples—slopes—bridges and meandering streams—cawing rooks—billing turtles—happy swains—the harmony of the woodland shades—the blissful constancy of rustic lovers?—Sir, I say you do wrong, to awaken ideas of this sort:—besides, as I hinted largely above—you have no talent—no language—no colouring—you do not groupe well—no relief—false light and shadow—and then your prespective is so false—no blending of tints—thou art a sad fellow, and there is an end of it.
S——n, who loves fools (he writes to me) but mum; S——n wishes to have the honour of a line from quondam friend M——: now M—— is an ill-natured fellow, but were it contrariwise—and M—— would indulge him—I would enclose it in a frank—with something clever of my own to make it more agreeable.—Sirrah! refuse if you dare—I will so expose thee—do it—’tis I command you:—S——n only intreats—you have need of such a rough chap as Sancho to counterpoise the pleasures of your earthly paradise.—Pray take care of your Eve—and now, my dear M——, after all my abuse, let me conclude
Yours affectionately,
I. SANCHO.
Postscript,
The tree of knowledge has yielded you fruit in ample abundance:—may you boldly climb the tree of life—and gather the fruits of a happy immortality—in which I would fain share, and have strong hope, through the merits of a blessed Redeemer—to find room sufficient for self and all I love—which, to say what I glory in, comprehend the whole race of man—and why not Namby-Pamby M——? I cannot write to S——n till I have your letter to enclose to him—if there is any delay, the fault is not mine.
LETTER CX.
TO MR. R——.
October 20, 1779.
ZOUNDS, Sir! would you believe—Ireland has the * * * to claim the advantages of a free unlimited trade—or they will join in the American dance!—What a pack of * * * are * * *! I think the wisest thing administration can do (and I dare wager they will) is to stop the exportation of potatoes—and repeal the act for the encouragement of growing tobacco * * *. It is reported here (from excellent authority) that the people at large surrounded the Irish parliament, and made the members—the courtiers—the formists and non-cons—cats—culls—and pimp-whiskins—all—all subscribe to their—. Well, but what says your brother—no better news I much fear from that quarter.—Oh, this poor ruined country!—ruined by its success—and the choicest blessings the Great Father of Heaven could shower down upon us—ruined by victories—arts—arms—and unbounded commerce—for pride accompanied those blessings—and like a canker-worm has eaten into the heart of our political body.—The Dutch have given up the Serapis and the Scarborough, and detained Paul Jones twenty-four hours after their sailing:—how they will balance accounts with France, I know not; but I do believe the Mynheers will get into a scrape.
Tell Mr. B—— the Pyefleets fluctuate in price like the stocks, and were done this morning at Billingsgate change, at 1l. 6s. 8d. per bushel; but I have sent them this evening properly directed—also a book of Cogniscenti dilitanti divertimenti.—As for the ladies, I cannot say any thing in justice to their merits or my own feelings:—therefore I am silent—write soon—a decent, plain, and intelligible letter—a letter that a body may read with pleasure and improvement—none of your circumroundabouts for