Chapter CX: Letter CVIII: To Mr. M

October 9, 1779.

MY friend Mr. I----, who--_like_ a simple fellow with a palish phiz--crazy head--and hair of a pretty colour--an aukward loon--whom I do sometimes care about--who has more wit than money--more good sense than wit--more urbanity than sense--and more pride than some princes--a chap who talks well--writes better--and means much better than he either speaks or indites--a careless son of nature, who rides without thinking--tumbles down without hurt--and gets up again without swearing--who can--in short, he is such an excentric phizpoop--such a vessel!--a new skin full of old wine is the best type of him--know you such a one? No! I guessed as much--nay--nay--if you think for a twelvemonth and a day, you will never be a jot the nearer--give it up, man.--Come, I will solve the mystery--his name is ----. I will tell you anon;--but as I was saying--for I hate prolixity--as I was saying above--Mr. I---- (in imitation of the odd soul I have laboured to describe) wishing to do me honour as well as pleasure--came in person twice, to insist on my accompanying _he_ and _she_, and two more, to see Mr. H---- take possession of the throne of Richard. Into the boxes (I believe box is properer) we went--the house as full, just as it could be, and no fuller--as hot as it was possible to bear--or rather hotter.--Now do you really and truly conceive what I mean? Alas! there are some stupid souls, formed of such phlegmatic, adverse materials, that you might sooner strike conception into a flannel petticoat--or out of one--(now keep your temper, I beg, sweet Sir) than convince their simple craniums that six and seven makes thirteen.--It was a daring undertaking--and H---- was rather awed with the idea of the great man, whose very robes he was to wear--and whose throne he was to usurp.--But give him his due--he acquitted himself well--tolerably well;--he will play it much better next time--and the next better still; Rome was not built in six weeks--and, trust me, a Garrick will not be formed under seven years.--I supped with his Majesty and Mr. and Mrs. I----, where good-nature and good-sense mixed itself with the most chearful welcome.

And pray, how is your head by this time?--I will teach you to wish for pleasure from Black-a-moor dunderheads:--why, Sir, it is a broken sieve to a ragged pudding-bag, by the time you have gone through this scrawl--you will be as flat, dull, and tedious, as a drunken merry-andrew--or a methodist preacher--or a tired poor devil of a post-horse; or, to sum up all in one word, as your most--what you please,

I. SANCHO.

_Is pesorpher Quidois._

Your true friend, and so forth.

Zounds, Sir! send me a good handsome epistle--such as you were wont to do in peaceful days, before * * * had warped your faculties, and made you lazy.--Why you--but I will not put myself in a passion.--Oh! my M----, I would thou wert in town--but it’s no matter--I am convinced, in our next habitation there will be no care--love will possess our souls--and praise and harmony--and ever-fresh rays of knowledge, wonder, and mutual communication will be our employ. Adieu.

The best of women--the girls--the boy--all well. I could really write as long a letter on a taylor’s measure, as your last hurry-begotten note.