Chapter CIX: Letter CVII: To Mr. M

October 5, 1779.

YOU mistake--I am neither sick--idle--nor forgetful--nor hurried--nor flurried--nor lame--nor am I of a fickle mutable disposition.--No! I feel the life-sweetening affections--the swell of heart-animating ardor--the zeal of honest friendship--and, what’s more, I feel it for thee.--Now, Sir, what have you to say in humble vindication of your hasty conclusions? what, because I did not write to you on Monday last, but let a week pass without saying--what in truth I know not how to say, though I am now seriously set about it? In short, such arts and minds (if there be many such, so much the better), such beings I say, as the one I am now scribbling to, should make elections of wide different beings than Black-a-moors, for their friends:--the reason is obvious;--from Othello to Sancho the big, we are either foolish, or mulish--all, all without a single exception.--Tell me, I pray you--and tell me truly--were there any Black-a-moors in the Ark?--Pooh! why there now--I see you puzzled:--Well--well--be that as the learned shall hereafter decide.--I will defend and maintain my opinion--simply--I will do more--wager a crown upon it--nay, double that--and if my simple testimony faileth, Mrs. Sancho and the children, five-deep, will back me--that Noah, during his pilgrimage in the blessed Ark, never, with wife and six children, set down to a feast upon a bit of finer goodlier--fatter--sweeter salter--well-fed pork: we eat like hogs.

When do your nobles intend coming home?--The evenings get long, and the damps of the Park after sun-set--but a word to the wise.

Oh! I had like to have almost forgot--I owe you a dressing for your last letter.--There were some saucy strokes of pride in it--the ebullitions of a high heart--and tenderly over-nice feelings. Go-to--what have I found you? My mind is not rightly at ease--or you should have it--and so you would not give me a line all the week--because--but what? I am to blame--a man in liquor--a man deprived of reason--and a man in love--should ever meet with pity and indulgence:--in the last class art thou!--nay, never blush--plain as the nose in thy face are the marks--refute it if you are able--dispute if you dare--for I have proofs--yea, proofs as undeniable as is the sincerity of the affection and zeal with which thou art ever regarded by thy

IGNATIUS SANCHO.

How do the ladies--and Mr. M--? Mind, I care not about ----; so tell her, and lye.--You may tell George the same story;--but I should like to hear something about you all.