Chapter LXIII: Letter LXII: Charles Street, May 9, 1778

TO MISS C----.

THE Sanchos--in full synod--humbly present their respectful compliments to the good Mrs. C---- and Miss ---- (what a C----!) are happy in hearing they got well into Suffolk--that they continue so--and enjoy the beauties of this sweetest of seasons--with its attendant dainties--fresh butter--sweet milk--and the smiles of boon nature--on hill and dale--fields and groves--shepherds piping--milk-maids dancing--and the chearful respondent carolings of artless joy in the happy husbandmen--Should you perchance rise early in pursuit of May dew--I earnestly make it my request--you will save--and bring to town a little bottle of it for my particular use.--Happy--thrice happy nymphs--!--be merciful to the poor hapless swains. The powerful little god of mischief and delight now--at this blest season--prunes his beauteous wings--new feathers and sharpens his arrows--tight strings his bow--and takes too sure his aim.--Oh! lads, beware the month of May. For you, blest girls--nature, decked out as in a birth-day suit, courts you with all its sweets where-e’er you tread--the grass and wanton flowerets fondly kiss your feet--and humbly bow their pretty heads--to the gentle sweepings of your under-petticoats--the soft and amorous southern breezes toy with your curls, and uncontroul’d steal numberless kisses--the blackbirds and thrushes suspend their songs--and eye beauty and humanity with pleasure;--and, could their hearts be read, thank most sincerely the generous fair hands that fed them in the winter;--the cuckoo sings on every tree the joys of married life--the shrubbery throws out all its sweets to charm you--though, alas! an unlucky parciplepliviaplemontis seizes my imagination--my brains are on the ferment--Miss C---- will excuse me.--Make my best wishes to Mrs. C----, tell her I hope she rides and walks in moderation--eats heartily, and laughs much--sleeps soundly, dreams happily--that she--you--my R---- and your connexions--may enjoy the good of this life without its evil--is the true Black-a-moor wish of

I. SANCHO.

Now mark, this is not meant as a letter--no--it is an address to the ladies.--Pray our best respects to Mr. and Mrs. B----; it is an address to Spring-birds and flowers--and when you see Johnny, our loves--it is a caution to the swains against the popery of Love.--The K---- and Q---- are just now returned from Portsmouth.--I said nothing in regard to the month by way of advice to the ladies.--The Spectator--blessings on his memory--has.--They say the Royal chaise was covered with dirt--even the very glasses.--Quistus Quirini--was found very late last night.--Nothing broke--except the hemmings of advantage.--They say the Queen never looked better.--But what amaz’d most people--both the Royal postillions rode the off-horses--which it is expected the Gazette of this night will explain--Adieu.

Is not that--_a good one_.

From the PUBLIC ADVERTISER of May 13th, 1778.

Inserted unknown to Mr. Sancho.

TO MR. B----.

DEAR SIR,

I COULD not see Mr. de Groote till this morning--he approached the threshold--poor man--in very visible illness;--yet, under the pressure of a multitude of infirmities--he could not forget his recent humane benefactor. With faultering speech he enquired much who you were;--and, in the conclusion, put up his most earnest petitions to the Father of Mercies in your behalf--which (if the prayers of an indigent genius have as much efficacy as those of a fat bishop) I should hope and trust you may one day be the better for.--He is in direct descent from the famous Hugo Grotius by the father’s side.--His own mother was daughter to Sir Thomas Hesketh. He married the widow Marchioness de Melaspina.--His age is 86; he had a paralytic stroke--and has a rupture.--His eyes are dim, even with the help of spectacles.--In truth, he comes close to Shakspeare’s description in his last age of man--“Sans teeth--sans eyes--sans taste--sans every thing.”

He has the honour to be known to Dr. Johnson--and the luck to be sometimes remembered by Mr. Garrick.--If you help him--you do yourself a kindness--me a pleasure--and he, poor soul, a good--which he may one time throw in your teeth--in that country where good actions are in higher estimation than stars--ribbons--or crowns.

Yours, most respectfully,

IGNATIUS SANCHO.

He lodges at Nᵒ. 9, New Pye-Street, Westminster.