Chapter CXI: Letter CIX: To Mr. M

October 17, 1779.

NO! you have not the least grain of genius.--Alas! description is a science--a man should in some measure be born with the knack of it. Poor blundering M----, I pity thee: once more I tell thee--thou art a bungler in every thing--ask the girls else.--You know nothing of figures--you write a wretched hand--thou hast a nonsensical style--almost as disagreeable as thy heart--thy heart, though better than thy head--and which I wish from my soul (as it now is) was the worst heart in the three kingdoms.--Thy heart is a silly one--a poor cowardly heart--that would shrink at mere trifles--though there were no danger of fine or imprisonment:--for example--come, confess now--could you lie with the wife of your friend? could you debauch his sister? could you defraud a poor creditor? could you by gambling rejoice in the outwitting a novice of all his possessions?--No! why then thou art a silly fellow, incumbered with three abominable inmates;--to wit--Conscience--Honesty--and Good-nature--I hate thee (as the Jew says) because thou art a Christian.

And what, in the name of common sense, impelled thee to torment my soul, with thy creative pen-drawing of sweet A--r--bn--s? I enjoyed content at least in the vortex of smoak and vice--and lifted up my thoughts no higher than the beauties of the park or----gardens.--What have I to do with rural deities? with parterres--fields--groves--terraces--views--buildings--grots-- temples--slopes--bridges and meandering streams--cawing rooks--billing turtles--happy swains--the harmony of the woodland shades--the blissful constancy of rustic lovers?--Sir, I say you do wrong, to awaken ideas of this sort:--besides, as I hinted largely above--you have no talent--no language--no colouring--you do not groupe well--no relief--false light and shadow--and then your prespective is so false--no blending of tints--thou art a sad fellow, and there is an end of it.

S----n, who loves fools (he writes to me) but mum; S----n wishes to have the honour of a line from quondam friend M----: now M---- is an ill-natured fellow, but were it contrariwise--and M---- would indulge him--I would enclose it in a frank--with something clever of my own to make it more agreeable.--Sirrah! refuse if you dare--I will so expose thee--do it--’tis I command you:--S----n only intreats--you have need of such a rough chap as Sancho to counterpoise the pleasures of your earthly paradise.--Pray take care of your Eve--and now, my dear M----, after all my abuse, let me conclude

Yours affectionately,

I. SANCHO.

Postscript,

The tree of knowledge has yielded you fruit in ample abundance:--may you boldly climb the tree of life--and gather the fruits of a happy immortality--in which I would fain share, and have strong hope, through the merits of a blessed Redeemer--to find room sufficient for self and all I love--which, to say what I glory in, comprehend the whole race of man--and why not Namby-Pamby M----? I cannot write to S----n till I have your letter to enclose to him--if there is any delay, the fault is not mine.