LETTERXLVI.TO MR. M——.
August 14, 1777.
MY dear M——, I know full well thy silence must proceed from ill health. To say it concerns me, is dull nonsense—self-love without principle will inspire even Devils with affection;—by so much less as thou apprehendest thy friend has diabolical about him—so may’st thou judge of his feelings towards thee.—Why wilt thou not part with thy hair? most assuredly I do believe it would relieve thee past measure—thou dost not fancy thy strength (like Sampson’s the Israelite) lieth in thy hair. Remember he was shorn thro’ folly—he lost his wits previous to his losing his locks—do thou consent to lose thine, in order to save thy better judgement,—I know no worse soul sinking pain than the head-ach, though (thank heaven) I am not often visited with it.—Ilong to see thee—and will soon, if in my power:—some odd folks would think it would havebeenbut good manners to have thanked you for the fawn—but then, says the punster, that would havebeenso likefawn-ing—which J. M—— loves not,no, nor Sancho either;—’tis the hypocrite’s key to the great man’s heart—’tis the resource of cowardly curs—and deceitful b—p—s—it is the spaniel’s sort—and man’s disgrace—it is—in short, the day is so hot—that I cannot say at present any more about it—but that the fawn was large, fresh, and worthy the giver, the receiver, and the joyous souls that eat it.—Billy has suffered much in getting his teeth—I have just wished him joy by his mother’s desire, who says that he took resolution at last, and walked to her some few steps quite alone. Albeit it gave me no small pleasure—yet, upon consideration, what I approve of now, perhaps, (should I live to see him at man’s estate) I might then disapprove—unless God’s grace should as ably support him through the quick-sands—rocks—and shoals of life—as it has happily the honest being I am nowwriting to.—God give you health!—your own conduct will secure peace—your friends bread.—As to honors, leave it with titles—to knaves—and be content with that of an honest man,
“the noblest work of God.”
Shave—shave—shave.
Shave—shave—shave.
Farewell, yours sincerely,
I. SANCHO.