LETTERLXXXVII.TO MR. S——.
March 11, 1779.
DEAR FRIEND,
I RECEIVED yours about three hours since.—I give you due credit for your sympathizing feelings on our recent very distressful situation—for thirty nights (save two) Mrs. Sancho had no cloaths off;—but you know the woman. Nature never formed a tenderer heart—take her for all inall—the mother—wife—friend—she does credit to her sex—she has the rare felicity of possessing true virtue without arrogance—softness without weakness—and dignity without pride:—she is ——’s full sister, without his foibles—and, to my inexpressible happiness, she is my wife, and truly best part, without a single tinge of my defects—Poor Kitty! happy Kitty I should say, drew her rich prize early—wish her joy! and joy to Mortimer! He left life’s table (before he was cloyed or surfeited with dull sickly repetitions) in prime of years, in the meridian of character as an artist, and universally esteemed as a man:—he winged his rapid flight to those celestial mansions—where Pope—Hogarth—Handel—Chatham—and Garrick, are enjoying the full sweets of beatific vision—with the great Artists—Worthies—and Poets of time without date.—Your father has been exceeding kind—this very day a Mr. W——, of Retford, called on me, a goodly-looking gentleman: he enquired after you with the anxious curiosity of a friend;—told me your father was well, and, by his account, thinksby much too well of me.—Friend H—— shall produce the things you wot of—and brother O—— bring them in his hand: H—— is a very silly fellow—he likes silly folks; and, I believe, does not hate Sancho.—To-morrow night I shall have a few friends to meet brother O——; we intend to be merry:—were you here, you might add to a number, which I think too many for our little room.—So I hear that the —— No, hang me! if I say a word about it.—Well, and how do you like the company of Monsieur Le Gout? Shall I, in compliance with vulgar custom, wish you joy? Pox on it, my hand aches so, I can scrawl no longer.—Mrs. Sancho is but so, so;—the children are well.—Do write large and intelligible when you write to me. I hate fine hands and fine language;—write plain honest nonsense, like thy true friend,
I. SANCHO.