Last Day, 1779.
DEAR FRIEND,
I WISH I could tell you how much pleasure I felt in the reading your chearful letter—I felt that you was in good health, and in a flow of chearfulness, which pray God continue to you!——I shall fancy myself amongst you about the time you will get this—I paint in my imagination the winning smiles, and courteously kind welcome, in the face of a certain lady, whom I cannot help caring for with the decent pleasing demure countenance of the little C—— Squire B——, with the jovial expression of countenance our old British freeholders were wont to wear—the head and heart of Addison’s Sir Roger de Coverley; S—— tipsy with good will, his eyes dancing in his head, considering within his breast every species of welcome to do honor to his noble master, and credit to the night; and, lastly, my friend looking more kindness than his tongue can utter and present to every individual, in offices of love and respect. My R——, what would I give to steal in unseen—and be a happy spectator of the good old English hospitality—kept up by so few—and which in former times gave such strength and consequence to the ancestry of the present frivolous race of Apostates!—Honoured and blest be Sir C—— and his memory, for being one of those golden characters that can find true happiness in giving pleasure to his tenants, neighbours, and domestics!—where-ever such a being moves—the eyes of love and gratitude follow after him—and infant tongues, joining the voice of youth and maturer years, fill up the grand chorus of his praise.—I inclose without apology a billet for ——: he well knows how prone I naturally am to love him;—but love is untractable, there is no forcing affections—but I, perhaps, too quickly feel coldness. —— has a noble soul—and he has his foibles;—for me, I fling no stone—I dare not; for, of all created beings, I know none so truly culpable, so full of faults, as is your very sincere friend and obliged servant,
I. SANCHO.
As we commonly wish well to ourselves, you may believe that we cordially join in wishing every good, either in health, wealth, or honour, to the noble owner of B—— Hall; to the thrice dearly respected—guess who!—to you and all—and all and you. Billy loves flesh—Kitty is a termagant—Betsy talks as usual—the Fanny’s work pretty hard. Adieu! I conclude 1779 with the harmony of love and friendship.
LETTER CXXV.
TO —— MR. S——.
1780, January the 4th day.
MY DEAR FRIEND,
YOU have here a kind of medley, a heterogeneous, ill-spelt, heteroclite (worse) excentric sort of a—a—; in short, it is a true Negroe calibash—of ill-sorted, undigested chaotic matter. What an excellent proem! what a delightful sample of the grand absurd!—Sir—dear Sir—as I have a soul to be saved (and why I should not, would puzzle a Dr. Price), as I have a soul to be saved, I only meant to say about fifteen words to you—and the substance just this—to wish you a happy New-year—with the usual appendages—and a long et cætera of cardinal and heavenly blessings:—à propos, blessings—never more scanty—all beggars by Jove—not a shilling to be got in London;—if you are better off in the country, and can afford to remit me your little bill, I inclose it for that good end. H—— is—but he can better tell you himself what he is; for in truth I do think he is in love: which puts the pretty G—— into my head—and she brings her father in view.—My love and respects to each.—Mrs. Sancho joins me; and the girls, her—and God keep you!
Yours sincerely,