Chapter CXXVII: Letter CXXV: 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 a true 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.