LETTERCXXV.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 atrue 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,
I. SANCHO.