LETTERCXL.TO MR. J—— W——E.
Charles Street, Westm. June 23, 1780.
MY DEAR FRIEND,
HOW do you do? is the blessing of health upon you? do you eat moderately? drink temperately, and laugh heartily? sleep soundly? converse carefully with one eye to pleasure, the other fixed upon improvement? The above is the hope and wish of thy friend, friend to thy house, and respecter of its character.—You, happy young man, by as happy a coincidence of fortune, are like to be the head of the W—— family:—may riches visit you, coupled with honour and honesty!—and then sweet peaceof mind shall yield you a dignity—which kings have not power to confer:—then will you experience that the self-ennobled are the only true noble:—then will you truly feel those beautiful lines of Pope:
“One self-approving hour whole years outweighs“Of idle starers, or of loud huzza’s;“What can ennoble sots, or slaves, or cowards?“Alas! not all the blood of all the Howards.”
“One self-approving hour whole years outweighs“Of idle starers, or of loud huzza’s;“What can ennoble sots, or slaves, or cowards?“Alas! not all the blood of all the Howards.”
“One self-approving hour whole years outweighs“Of idle starers, or of loud huzza’s;“What can ennoble sots, or slaves, or cowards?“Alas! not all the blood of all the Howards.”
“One self-approving hour whole years outweighs
“Of idle starers, or of loud huzza’s;
“What can ennoble sots, or slaves, or cowards?
“Alas! not all the blood of all the Howards.”
Your father, I trust, will send you some public prints, in which he will see the blessed temper of the times:—we are (but do not be frightened), or at least two thirds of us, run mad—through too much religion;—our religion has swallowed up our charity—and the fell demon Persecution is become the sacred idol of the once free, enlightened, generous Britons.—You will read with wonder and horror the sad, sad history of eight such days as I wish from my soul could be annihilated out of Time’s records for ever.
Your father, I trust, will send you some public prints, in which he will see the blessed temper of the times:—we are (but do not be frightened), or at least two thirds of us, run mad—through too much religion;—our religion has swallowed up our charity—and the fell demon Persecution is become the sacred idol of the once free, enlightened, generous Britons.—You will read with wonder and horror the sad, sad history of eight such days as I wish from my soul could be annihilated out of Time’s records for ever.
That poor wretched young man I once warned you of is (I find from under his own hand) now resident at Calcutta:—’tis not in the power of friendship to serve aman who will in no one instance care for himself:—so I wish you not to know him—but whatever particulars you can collaterally glean of him, I shall esteem it a favour if you would transmit them to
Your sincere friend,
IGNATIUS SANCHO.
Mrs. Sancho joins me cordially in every wish for your good.