LETTERCV.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. MissL—— 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,”

and

“Error lives ere Reason can be born.”

Now Will—Reason—and Gratitude, all three powerfully impel me to thank you—not for your goose—nor for any pecuniary self-gratifying marks of generosity—but for the benevolent urbanity of your nature—which counsels your good heart to think of the lowly and less fortunate.—But what are my thanks, what the echoed praises of the world, to the heart-approving sensations of true charity!—which is but the prelude to the divine address at the last day—“Well done, thou good,” &c. &c—That you and all I love—and even poor me—may hear those joyful words, is the prayer of

Yours, &c. &c.

I. SANCHO.

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