LETTERCVII.TO MR. M——.
October 5, 1779.
YOU mistake—I am neither sick—idle—nor forgetful—nor hurried—nor flurried—nor lame—nor am I of a fickle mutable disposition.—No! I feel the life-sweetening affections—the swell of heart-animating ardor—the zeal of honest friendship—and, what’s more, I feel it for thee.—Now, Sir, what have you to say in humble vindication ofyour hasty conclusions? what, because I did not write to you on Monday last, but let a week pass without saying—what in truth I know not how to say, though I am now seriously set about it? In short, such arts and minds (if there be many such, so much the better), such beings I say, as the one I am now scribbling to, should make elections of wide different beings than Black-a-moors, for their friends:—the reason is obvious;—from Othello to Sancho the big, we are either foolish, or mulish—all, all without a single exception.—Tell me, I pray you—and tell me truly—were there any Black-a-moors in the Ark?—Pooh! why there now—I see you puzzled:—Well—well—be that as the learned shall hereafter decide.—I will defend and maintain my opinion—simply—I will do more—wager a crown upon it—nay, double that—and if my simple testimony faileth, Mrs. Sancho and the children, five-deep, will back me—that Noah, during his pilgrimage in the blessed Ark, never, with wife and six children, set down to a feast upon a bit of finer goodlier—fatter—sweeter salter—well-fed pork: we eat like hogs.
When do your nobles intend coming home?—The evenings get long, and the damps of the Park after sun-set—but a word to the wise.
Oh! I had like to have almost forgot—I owe you a dressing for your last letter.—There were some saucy strokes of pride in it—the ebullitions of a high heart—and tenderly over-nice feelings. Go-to—what have I found you? My mind is not rightly at ease—or you should have it—and so you would not give me a line all the week—because—but what? I am to blame—a man in liquor—a man deprived of reason—and a man in love—should ever meet with pity and indulgence:—in the last class art thou!—nay, never blush—plain as the nose in thy face are the marks—refute it if you are able—dispute if you dare—for I have proofs—yea, proofs as undeniable as is the sincerity of the affection and zeal with which thou art ever regarded by thy
IGNATIUS SANCHO.
How do the ladies—and Mr. M—? Mind, I care not about ——; so tell her,and lye.—You may tell George the same story;—but I should like to hear something about you all.