LETTERIX.TO MR. K——.
Dalkeith, July 16, 1770.Sunday.
ALIVE; alive ho!—my dear boy, I am glad to see you?—Well, and how goes it?—Badly, sayest thou—no conversation, no joy, no felicity!—Cruel absence, thou lover’s hell! what pangs, what soul-felt pangs, dost thou inflict! Cheer up, my child of discretion—and comfort yourself that every day will bring the endearing moment of meeting, so much nearer—chew the cud upon rapture in reversion—and indulge your fancy with the sweet food of intellectual endearments;—paint in your imagination the thousand graces of your H——, and believe this absence a lucky trial of her constancy.—I don’t wonder the cricket-match yielded no amusement—all sport is dull, books unentertaining—Wisdom’s self but folly—to a mind under Cupidical influence.—I think I behold you withsupple-jack in hand—your two faithful happy companions by your side—complimenting like courtiers every puppy they meet—yourself with eyes fixed in a lover-like rumination—and arms folded in sorrow’s knot—pace slowly thro’ the meadows.—I have done—for too much truth seldom pleases folks in love.—We came home from our Highland excursion last Monday night, safe and well—after escaping manifold dangers.—Mesdames H——, D——, and self, went into the post-coach, and were honour’d with the freedom of Dumbarton. By an overset, the ladies shewed their—delicacy—and I my activity[1]—Mr. B—— his humanity;—all was soon to rights—nothing broke—and no one hurt—and laughter had its fill.—Inverary is a charming place—the beauties various—and the whole plan majestic;—there are some worthy souls on the spot, which I admire more than the buildings and prospects.—We had herrings in perfection—and wouldhave had mackarel; but the scoundrels were too sharp for us—and would not be caught. The Loch-Loman—Ben-Loman—Domiquith—and Arsenhoe—with Hamilton and Douglas houses—are by much too long for description by letter.—We paraded to Edinburgh last Friday in a post coach and four;—H—— D——, Mrs. M——, housekeeper, and self, were the party;—we saw the usual seeings, and dined at Lord Chief Baron’s, but—dare I tell you?—H—’s figure attracted universal admiration.—True!—Alas, poor K——!—but, man, never fret—my honesty to a rotten egg—we bring her home sound.—We read a shocking account in the papers of a storm of rain at Richmond Gardens, and distress, &c. &c. is it true? if so, why did not you mention it? H—— sends her service to you, M—— his best respects—and all their best wishes to you and birds.—Your confounded epistle cost me seven pence;—deuce take you, why did not you inclose it?—So you do not like Eloisa—you are a noddy for that—read it till you do like it.—I am glad you have seen Cymon;—that you like it, does but little credit to your taste—for everybody likes it—I can afford you no more time—for I have three letters to write besides this scrawl.—I hear nothing of moving as yet—pray God speed us southward! though we have fine weather—fine beef—fine ale—and fine ladies.
Lady Mary grows a little angel;—the Dutchess gets pretty round—they all eat—drink—and seem pure merry—and we are all out of mourning this day—farewell.
Yours, &c. &c.
I. SANCHO.
[1]Mr. Sancho was remarkably unwieldy and inactive, and never gave a greater proof of it than at this overset, when he and a goose-pye were equally incapable of raising themselves.
[1]Mr. Sancho was remarkably unwieldy and inactive, and never gave a greater proof of it than at this overset, when he and a goose-pye were equally incapable of raising themselves.