LETTERXXXVII.TO MR. M——.
August 12, 1776.
“We have left undone the things we should have done,” &c. &c.——
“We have left undone the things we should have done,” &c. &c.——
THE general confession—with a deep sense of our own frailties—joined to penitence—and strong intentions of better doing—insurespoor sinners forgiveness, obliterates the past, sweetens the present, and brightens the future;—in short, we are to hope that it reconciles us with the Deity;—and if that conclusion is just, it must certainly reconcile us in part to each other.—Grant me that, dear M——, and you have no quarrel towards me for epistolary omissions:—look about you, my dear friend, with a fault-searching eye—and see what you have left undone!—Look on your chair!—those cloaths should have been brushed and laid by—that linen sent to wash—those shoes to be cleaned.—Zooks! why you forget to say your prayers—to take your physick—to wash your ——. Pray how does Mrs. H——? Lord what a deal of rain! I declare I fear it will injure the harvest.—And when saw you Nancy?—Has the cat kittened?—I suppose you have heard the news:—great news!—a glorious affair! (and is twoff’snecessary?)—O! Lord, Sir!—very little bloodshed—pityanyshould—how!—do not you admire!—How so?—Why this, Sir, is writing, ’tis the true sublime—and this the stuff that gives my friend M—— pleasure:—thou vile flatterer!blush! blush up to thine eyelids!—I am happy to think I have found a flaw in thee:—thou art a flatterer of the most dangerous sort, because agreeable.—I have often observed—there is more of value in the manner of doing the thing—than in the thing itself—my mind’s eye follows you in the selecting the pretty box—in arranging the pickled fruit.—I see you fix on the lid, drive the last nail, your countenance lit up with glee, and your heart exulting in the pleasure you were about giving to the family of the Sancho’s—and then snatch the hat and stick, and walk with the easy alacrity of a soul conscious of good.—But hold, Sir, you were rather saucy in a part or two of your letter:—for which reason I shall not thank you for the fruit;—the good woman and brats may—and with reason; for they devoured them: the box, indeed, is worth thanks; which, if God, gout, and weather permit, you may probably hear something of on Sunday next, from yours, with all your sins, &c. &c.
IGN. SANCHO.