Chapter XXVIII: Letter XXVII: To Miss L

August 27, 1775.

JUST upon the stroke of eleven--as I was following (like a good husband) Mrs. Sancho to bed--a thundering rap called me to the street-door--A letter from Tunbridge, Sir!--thanks many thanks--good night.--I hugged the fair stranger--and--as soon as up stairs--broke open the seal with friendly impatience--and got decently trimmed, for what? why, truly, for having more honesty than prudence.--Well, if ever I say a civil thing again to any of your sex--but it is foolish to be rash in resolves--seriously, if aught at any time slips from my unguarded pen, which you may deem censurable--believe me truly and honestly--it is the error of uncultivated nature--and I will trust the candour of friendship to wink at undesigned offence;--not but I could defend--and would against any but yourself--the whole sad charge of flattery--but enough.--I paid a visit in Bond Street this morning.--Your sister looked health itself--she was just returned from the country, and had the pleasure to hear from you at her first entrance.

Your friendly offer for the little stranger is in character--but if I was to say what my full heart would dictate--you would accuse me of flattery.--Mrs. Sancho is more than pleased--I won’t say what I am--but if you love to give pleasure, you have your will.--Are you not pleased to find Miss Butterfield innocent?--It does credit to my judgement, for I never believed her guilty--her trial proves undeniably that one half of the faculty are very ignorant.--I hear she intends suing for damages--and if ever any one had a right to recover, she certainly has;--and were I to decree them--they should not be less than 400_l._ a year for life, and 5000 pound down by way of smart-money.--In my opinion, the D----ss of K---- is honoured, to be mentioned in the same paper with Miss Butterfield--You should read the St. James’s Evening papers for last week--you will easily get them at any coffee-house--the affair is too long for a letter--but I will send you some black poetry upon the occasion:

With Satire, Wit, and Humour arm’d,
Foote opes his exhibitions;
High-titled Guilt, justly alarm’d,
The Chamberlain petitions.

My Lord, quoth Guilt, this daring fiend
Won’t let us sin in private;
To his presumption there’s no end,
Both high and low he’ll drive at.

Last year he smoak’d the cleric[3] gown;
A D----ss now he’d sweat.
The insolent, for half a crown,
Would libel all the Great.

What I can do, his Lordship cries,
Command you freely may:
Don’t licence him, the Dame replies,
Nor let him print his play.

Poor Lydia is exceedingly unwell.--They who have least sensibility are best off for this world.--By the visit I was able to make this morning--you may conclude, my troublesome companion is about taking leave. May you know no pains but of sensibility!--and may you be ever able to relieve where you wish!--May the wise and good esteem you more than I do--and the object of your heart love you, as well as you love a good and kind action!--These wishes--after the trimming you gave in your last--is a sort of heaping coals on your head--as such, accept it from your sincere--aye, and _honest_ friend,

IGNATIUS SANCHO.

Mrs. Sancho says little--but her moistened eye expresses--that she feels your friendship.

[3] Dr. Dodd.