THE LIFE OF IGNATIUS SANCHO.
“Quamvis ille niger, quamvis tu candidus esses.”
Virgil.
THE extraordinary Negro, whose Life I
am about to write, was born A. D. 1729, on
board a ship in the Slave trade, a few days
after it had quitted the coast of Guinea
for the Spanish West-Indies; and, at Carthagena,
he received from the hand of
the Bishop, Baptism, and the name of Ignatius.
A disease of the new climate put an early
period to his mother’s existence; and his
father defeated the miseries of slavery by an
act of suicide.
At little more than two years old, his
master brought him to England, and gave
him to three maiden sisters, resident at
Greenwich; whose prejudices had unhappily
taught them, that African ignorance was the
only security for his obedience, and that to
enlarge the mind of their slave would go
near to emancipate his person. The petulance
of their disposition surnamed him Sancho,
from a fancied resemblance to the ’Squire
of Don Quixote.
But a patron was at hand, whom Ignatius
Sancho had merit enough to conciliate at a
very early age.
The late Duke of Montagu lived on
Blackheath: he accidentally saw the little
Negro, and admired in him a native frankness
of manner as yet unbroken by servitude,
and unrefined by education—he brought him
frequently home to the Duchess, indulged
his turn for reading with presents of books,
and strongly recommended to his mistresses
the duty of cultivating a genius of such apparent
fertility.
His mistresses, however, were inflexible,
and even threatened on angry occasions to
return Ignatius Sancho to his African slavery.
The love of freedom had increased with
years, and began to beat high in his bosom.—Indignation,
and the dread of constant reproach
arising from the detection of an
amour, infinitely criminal in the eyes of
three Maiden Ladies, finally determined him
to abandon the family.
His noble patron was recently dead.—Ignatius
flew to the Duchess for protection,
who dismissed him with reproof.—He retired
from her presence in a state of despondency
and stupefaction.
Enamoured still of that liberty, the scope
of whose enjoyment was now limited to his
last five shillings, and resolute to maintain it
with life, he procured an old pistol for
purposes which his father’s example had
suggested as familiar, and had sanctified as
hereditary.
In this frame of mind the futility of remonstrance
was obvious. The Duchess secretly
admired his character; and at length
consented to admit him into her household,
where he remained as butler till her death,
when he found himself, by her Grace’s bequest
and his own œconomy, possessed of
seventy pounds in money, and an annuity of
thirty.
Freedom, riches, and leisure, naturally
led a disposition of African texture into indulgences;
and that which dissipated the
mind of Ignatius completely drained the
purse. In his attachment to women, he displayed
a profuseness which not unusually
characterizes the excess of the passion.—Cards
had formerly seduced him; but an
unsuccessful contest at cribbage with a Jew,
who won his cloaths, had determined him
to abjure the propensity which appears to
be innate among his countrymen.—A French
writer relates, that in the kingdoms of
Ardrah, Whydah, and Benin, a Negro
will stake at play his fortune, his children,
and his liberty. Ignatius loved the theatre
to such a point of enthusiasm, that his last
shilling went to Drury-Lane, on Mr. Garrick’s
representation of Richard.—He had
been even induced to consider the stage as
a resource in the hour of adversity, and his
complexion suggested an offer to the manager
of attempting Othello and Oroonoko;
but a defective and incorrigible articulation
rendered it abortive.
He turned his mind once more to service,
and was retained a few months by the
Chaplain at Montagu-house. That roof
had been ever auspicious to him; and the
present Duke soon placed him about his
person, where habitual regularity of life led
him to think of a matrimonial connexion,
and he formed one accordingly with a very
deserving young woman of West-Indian
origin.
Towards the close of the year 1773, repeated
attacks of the gout and a constitutional
corpulence rendered him incapable
of farther attendance in the Duke’s family.
At this crisis, the munificence which had
protected him through various vicissitudes
did not fail to exert itself; with the result
of his own frugality, it enabled him and his
wife to settle themselves in a shop of grocery,
where mutual and rigid industry decently
maintained a numerous family of
children, and where a life of domestic virtue
engaged private patronage, and merited
public imitation.
In December, 1780, a series of complicated
disorders destroyed him.
Of a Negro, a Butler, and a Grocer,
there are but slender anecdotes to animate
the page of the biographer; but it has been
held necessary to give some sketch of the
very singular man, whose letters, with all
their imperfections on their head, are now
offered to the public.
The display those writings exhibit of
epistolary talent, of rapid and just conception,
of wild patriotism, and of universal
philanthropy, may well apologize for the
protection of the great, and the friendship
of the literary.
The late Duchesses of Queensberry and
Northumberland pressed forward to serve
the author of them. The former intrusted
to his reformation a very unworthy favourite
of his own complexion.—Garrick and
Sterne were well acquainted with Ignatius
Sancho.
A commerce with the Muses was supported
amid the trivial and momentary interruptions
of a shop; the Poets were
studied, and even imitated with some
success;—two pieces were constructed
for the stage;—the Theory of Music was
discussed, published, and dedicated to the
Princess Royal;—and painting was so much
within the circle of Ignatius Sancho’s judgement
and criticism, that several artists paid
great deference to his opinion.
Such was the man whose species philosophers
and anatomists have endeavoured to
degrade as a deterioration of the human;
and such was the man whom Fuller, with
a benevolence and quaintness of phrase peculiarly
his own, accounted
“God’s Image, though cut in Ebony.”
To the harsh definition of the naturalist,
oppressions political and legislative have been
added; and such are hourly aggravated towards
this unhappy race of men by vulgar
prejudice and popular insult. To combat
these on commercial principles, has been the
labour of Labat, Ferman, and Bennezet—such
an effort here would be an impertinent
digression.
Of those who have speculatively visited and
described the slave-coast, there are not wanting
some who extol the mental abilities of
the natives. D’Elbée, Moore, and Bosman,
speak highly of their mechanical powers
and indefatigable industry. Desmarchais
does not scruple to affirm, that their ingenuity
rivals the Chinese.
He who could penetrate the interior of
Africa, might not improbably discover negro
arts and polity, which could bear little analogy
to the ignorance and grossness of slaves
in the sugar islands, expatriated in infancy,
and brutalized under the whip and the taskmaster.
And he who surveys the extent of intellect
to which Ignatius Sancho had attained
by self-education, will perhaps conclude,
that the perfection of the reasoning faculties
does not depend on a peculiar conformation
of the scull or the colour of a common integument,
in defiance of that wild opinion,
“which,” says a learned writer of these
times, “restrains the operations of the mind
to particular regions, and supposes that a
luckless mortal may be born in a degree
of latitude too high or too low for wisdom
or for wit.”
LETTERS . — LETTER I. TO MR. J— W——E.
Charles Street, Feb. 14, 1768.
MY WORTHY AND MUCH RESPECTED FRIEND,
POPE observes,
“Men change with fortune, manners change with climes;
“Tenets with books, and principles with times.”
Your friendly letter convinced me that
you are still the same—and gave in that conviction
a ten-fold pleasure:—you carried out
(through God’s grace) an honest friendly
heart, a clear discerning head, and a soul
impressed with every humane feeling.—That
you are still the same—I repeat it—gives me
more joy—than the certainty would of your
being worth ten Jaghires:—I dare say you
will ever remember that the truest worth is
that of the mind—the best rectitude of the
heart—the conscience unsullied with guilt—the
undaunted noble eye, enriched with innocence,
and shining with social glee—peace
dancing in the heart—and health smiling in
the face—May these be ever thy companions!—and
for riches you will ever be more than
vulgarly rich—while you thankfully enjoy—and
gratefully assist the wants (as far as you
are able) of your fellow-creatures. But I
think (and so will you) that I am preaching.
I only meant in truth to thank you, which
I most sincerely do, for your kind letter:—believe
me, it gratifies a better principle than
vanity—to know that you remember your
dark-faced friend at such a distance. But what
would have been your feelings—could you
have beheld your worthy, thrice worthy
father—joy sitting triumphant in his honest
face—speeding from house to house, amongst
his numerous friends, with the pleasing
testimonials of his son’s love and duty in his
hands—every one congratulating him, and
joining in good wishes—while the starting
tear plainly proved that over-joy and grief
give the same livery?
You met with an old acquaintance of mine,
Mr. G——. I am glad to hear he is well;
but, when I knew him, he was young, and
not so wise as knowing: I hope he will take
example by what he sees in you—and you,
young man, remember, if you should unhappily
fall into bad company, that example
is only the fool’s plea, and the rogue’s excuse,
for doing wrong things:—you have
a turn for reflection, and a steadiness, which,
aided by the best of social dispositions, must
make your company much coveted, and your
person loved.—Forgive me for presuming to
dictate, when I well know you have many
friends much more able, from knowledge
and better sense—though I deny—a better
will.
You will of course make Men and Things
your study—their different genius, aims,
and passions:—you will also note climes,
buildings, soils, and products, which will
be neither tedious nor unpleasant. If you
adopt the rule of writing every evening your
remarks on the past day, it will be a kind of
friendly tête-a tête between you and yourself,
wherein you may sometimes happily become
your own Monitor;—and hereafter those
little notes will afford you a rich fund, whenever
you shall be inclined to re-trace past
times and places.——I say nothing upon the
score of Religion—for, I am clear, every
good affection, every sweet sensibility, every
heart-felt joy—humanity, politeness, charity—all,
all, are streams from that sacred
spring;—so that to say you are good-tempered,
honest, social, &c. &c. is only in fact
saying, you live according to your Divine
Master’s rules, and are a Christian.
Your B—— friends are all well, excepting
the good Mrs. C——, who is at this time
but so, so. Miss C—— still as agreeable as
when you knew her, if not more so. Mr.
R——, as usual, never so happy, never so
gay, nor so much in true pleasure, as when
he is doing good—he enjoys the hope of your
well-doing as much as any of your family.
His brother John has been lucky—his abilities,
address, good nature, and good sense,
have got him a surgeoncy in the batalion
of guards, which is reckoned a very good
thing.
As to news, what we have is so incumbered
with falshoods, I think it, as Bobadil
says, “a service of danger” to meddle with:
this I know for truth, that the late great
Dagon of the people has totally lost all his
worshipers, and walks the streets as unregarded
as Ignatius Sancho, and I believe
almost as poor—such is the stability of popular
greatness:
“One self-approving hour whole years outweighs
“Of idle starers, or of loud huzza’s,” &c.
Your brother and sister C—d sometimes
look in upon us; her boys are fine, well,
and thriving; and my honest cousin Joe
increases in sense and stature; he promises to
be as good as clever. He brought me your
first letter, which, though first wrote, had
the fate to come last; the little man came
from Red-Lion Court to Charles Street by
himself, and seemed the taller for what he
had done; he is indeed a sweet boy, but I
fear every body will be telling him so. I
know the folly of so doing, and yet am as
guilty as any one.
There is sent out in the Besborough,
along with fresh governors, and other strange
commodities, a little Blacky, whom you
must either have seen or heard of; his name
is S——. He goes out upon a rational well-digested
plan, to settle either at Madrass or
Bengal, to teach fencing and riding—he is
expert at both. If he should chance to fall in
your way, do not fail to give the rattlepate
what wholesome advice you can; but remember,
I do strictly caution you against
lending him money upon any account, for
he has every thing but—principle; he will
never pay you; I am sorry to say so much of
one whom I have had a friendship for, but
it is needful. Serve him, if you can—but
do not trust him.—There is in the same
ship, belonging to the Captain’s band of
music, one C— L—n, whom I think you
have seen in Privy Gardens: he is honest,
trusty, good-natured, and civil; if you see
him, take notice of him, and I will regard it
as a kindness to me. I have nothing more
to say. Continue in right thinking, you
will of course act well; in well-doing, you
will insure the favour of God, and the love of
your friends, amongst whom pray reckon
Yours faithfully,
IGNATIUS SANCHO.
LETTER V. TO MR. K—— .
Richmond, Oct. 20, 1769.
WHAT, my honest friend K——, I am
heartily glad to see you, quoth I—long
look’d for, come at last.—Well, we will
have done with that;—you have made ample
amends for your silence—have approved
yourself, what I ever esteemed you—an honest,
hearty, good lad.—As to your apologizing
about your abilities for writing—’tis
all a humm—you write sense;—and verily,
my good friend, he that wishes to do better
must be a coxcomb.—You say you was
thrown from your horse but once—in my
conscience, I think once full oft enough—I
am glad, however, you escaped so well.—The
description of your journey I return
you thanks for—it pleased me much—and
proved that you looked rather farther than
your horse’s head.—A young man should
turn travel—home—leisure—or employment—all
to the one grand end of improving
himself. From your account of Dalkeith,
I now view it “in my mind’s eye” (as
Hamlet says), and think it a delightful spot.—I
was wrong, I find, in my notions of
the Edinburghers—for I judged them the
grand patterns for—cleanliness—politeness—and
generosity. Your birth-day entertainments
made a blaze in our papers, which
said, amongst other things, that the puncheons
of rum flood as thick in your park
as the trees—oh; how I licked my lips, and
wished the distance (400 miles) less between
us.—You do not say a word about coming
back again.—Poor Pat has paid his last debt—peace
and bliss to his spirit! rest to his
bones!—his wife and daughter (both with
child) and his youngest child all came down;—what
a scene had I to be spectator of!—trust
me, James, I cry’d like a whipt school-boy!—But
then my noble master—Great
God, reward him!—Tell me not of ninety
covers—splendour—and feasting—To
wipe away the tears of distress, to make
the heart of the widow to sing for joy—may
such actions ever (as they have long
been) be the characteristic of the good Duke
of M——! Dr. James, thy favourite,
twice came here:—at his first visit he gave
no hope—the next day he came, and poor
Pat had resigned up his spirit two hours
before he got here;—his Grace paid him
the tribute, the rich tribute, of many tears—and
ordered me to get a lodging for his
widow and children:—in the evening he ordered
me to go to them for him—and acquaint
Mrs. W—— how very sensible he
was of her great loss, as well as his own—that
he would ever be a friend to her—and
as to the boy—though he was perfectly well
satisfied with his conduct in his place—yet,
if he would like any trade better than continuing
his servant—he would put him out,
and support him through his apprenticeship;—and
he would give him a year to consider
it.—Pat has chose to stay, and his Grace
promises whoever uses him ill shall be no
servant here:—on the night of his interment,
after all was over, the Duke wrote
to the widow himself, and inclosed a twenty
pound bill—and repeated his promises.—Your
own heart, my dear James, will
make the best comment—which is grandest—one
such action—or ten birth-days;—though
in truth the latter has his merit—it
creates business, and helps the poor.—I
suppose you will expect me to say something
of our family. Her Grace, I am
truly sorry to say it, has been but poorly
for some time—and indeed is but indifferent
now—God of his mercy grant her better
health! and every good that can contribute
to her happiness!—The good Marquiss
is with us—Are not you tired? This
is a deuced long letter.—Well, one word
more, and then farewell. Mrs. M——
is grown generous—has left off swearing
and modelling. S—— is turned Jew, and
is to be circumcised next Passover. W——
is turned fine gentleman—and left off work—and
I your humble friend, I am for my
sins turned Methodist.—Thank God! we
are all pretty hobbling as to health.—Dame
Sancho will be much obliged to you for
your kind mention of her—she and the
brats are very well, thank Heaven! Abraham
gives up the stockings—and monkey
Tom his box—they both, with all the rest,
join in love and best wishes to your worship.—I,
for my own share, own myself
obliged to you—and think myself honoured
in your acknowledging yourself my pupil;
were I an ambitious man, I should never
forgive you,—for in truth you by far excel
your master:—go on, and prosper, “Render
unto Cæsar the things which are Cæsar’s;”—laugh
at all the tall boys in the
kingdom.—I rest, dear Jemmy, thy true
friend and obliged fellow-servant,
I. SANCHO.
LETTER XXIX. TO MISS L—— .
Charles Street, Oct. 4, 1775.
Just as the twig is bent, the tree’s inclin’d,
’Tis education forms the tender mind.
So says Pope.
Children like tender osiers take the bow,
And as they first are fashoned, always grow.
Dryden.
THE sense of each is just the same, and
they both prove an opinion which I have
long been grounded in—that the errors of
most children proceed in great part from
the ill cultivation of the first years.—Self-love,
my friend, bewitches parents to give
too much indulgence to infantine foibles;—the
constant cry is, “Poor little soul,
it knows no better!”—if it swears—that’s
a sign of wit and spirit;—if it fibs—it’s
so cunning and comical;—if it steals—’tis
only a paw trick—and the mother exultingly
cries—My Jacky is so sharp, we
can keep nothing from him!—Well! but
what’s all this to you?—You are no mother.—True,
my sincerely esteemed friend,
but you are something as good—you are
perhaps better—much better and wiser I
am sure than many mothers I have seen.—You,
who believe in the true essence
of the gospel—who visit the sick, cover
the naked, and withdraw not your ear
from the unfortunate:—but I did not intend
to write your elogium—it requires
the pen of one less interested—and perhaps
less partiality and more judgement would
also be requisite.—Jacky S—— is the occasion
of this prefatory vast shew of learning. I do
believe him a fine child spoil’d for want of proper
management—he is just now in high disgrace—he
is wrong enough in all conscience,
I believe—but are they, who are about him,
right?—We will talk about this matter when
I have the pleasure of seeing you;—you
shall forgive my impertinent meddling—I
will ask pardon, and sin again—so we
serve Heaven—so complain, if you dare.—Mrs.
Sancho is yet up;—if I pray at all,
it’s for the blessing of a happy moment, with
little pain for her;—as to what she brings,
I care not about its sex—God grant health
to the mother!—and my soul and lips
shall bless his holy name.—We cannot remove
till after Mrs. Sancho is up.—The
house will not be ready till towards Christmas,
which is not the most desirable time of
the year for moving—but we must do as we
can, not as we would.
At Charlotte Chapel, we had last Sunday
a most excellent discourse from Mr.
H——n, whom I suppose you have
heard preach—if not, he is well worth hearing—to
please me—for to the best of my
knowledge, he reads prayers better than most—Mr.
B—— not excepted; there is a dignity
of expression in his Psalms, which
catches the whole attention—and such an
animated strength of devotion in his Litany,
as almost carries the heart to the gates of
Heaven—he is fine in the pulpit;—but
comparisons are unfair—if H—— reads
prayers, and D—— preaches, at the same
church—I should suppose greater perfection
could not be found in England.—I have to
thank you for the honor of your correspondence—and
can laugh in my sleeve like a
Dutch Jew—to think that I get sterling
sense for my farrago of absurdities—but
you will, I hope, soon be in town.—Mrs.
Sancho joins me in every sentiment of gratitude
and sincerity.—I am, as much as a
poor African can be, sincerely
Yours to command,
IGN. SANCHO
We are in great hopes about poor Lydia.—An
honest and ingenious motherly woman
in our neighbourhood has undertaken the
perfect cure of her—and we have every reason
to think, with God’s blessing—she will
succeed—which is a blessing we shall owe
entirely to the comfort of being poor—for,
had we been rich, the doctors would have
had the honor of killing her a twelvemonth
ago.——Adieu.
LETTER LI. TO MR. M—— .
September 16, 1777.
SIR, he is the confounded’st dunderhead—sapscull—looby—clodpate,
nincompoop—ninnyhammer—booby-chick—farcical—loungibuss—blunderbuss—this
good day in
the three kingdoms!—You would bless
yourself, were it possible for you to analyze
such a being—not but his heart is susceptible
of a kind of friendly warmth—but then
so cursed careless—ever in a hurry—ever in
the wrong, at best but blundering about the
right.—Why now, for example, when you
sent the ——, I can make oath, if need be—that
the dunce I speak of longed more for a
letter than the animal. The basket was
searched with hurry—not care;—no letter?
well, it can’t be help’d—his head ach’d—he
had not time, &c. &c.—the P—— was disengaged
from the basket—the straw consigned
to the chimney:—this being rather a coolish
morning, a little fire was thought necessary—and
in raking up the loose dirty waste stuff
under the grate, there appeared a very bloody
letter, which seemed unopened:—your hand-writing
was discernible through the dirt and
blood;—curiosity and affection ran a race to
pick up and examine it—when, behold, it
proved to be the companion of the P——,
but so effaced with blood—that very—very
little of my friend’s good sense could be made
out.—Your poor letter is a type of what
daily happens—merit oppressed and smothered
by rubbish.—Alas, poor letter! it shared the
fate the poor world, which we inhabit, will
hereafter undergo:—one bright gleam of
imitation of the mind that dictated it—some
few sparks.—Alas! alas! my poor letter—pass
but a few years—perhaps a few months—thy
generous friendly compost may—thy friend
whose heart glows while he writes—who
feels thy worth—yea, and reveres it too.—Nonsense,
why we know the very hinges of
our last cradles will rust and moulder;—and
that, in the course of another century,
neither flesh, bone, coffin, nor nail—will be
dicernible from mother earth.—Courage—while
we live, let us live—to Virtue—Friendship—Religion—Charity—then
drop
(at death’s call) our cumbrous (you are thin)
load of flesh, and mount in spirit to our
native home.—Bless us, at what a rate have
I been travelling!—I am quite out of breath—Why!
my friend, the business was to
thank you for the pig.—Had you seen the
group of heads—aye, and wise ones too—that
assembled at the opening of the fardel—the
exclamations—Oh! the finest—fattest—cleanest—why,
Sir, it was a pig of pigs;—the
pettitoes gave us a good supper last
night—they were well dressed—and your pig
was well eat—it dined us Sunday and Monday.—Now,
to say truth, I do not love pig—merely
pig—I like not—but pork corned—alias—salted—either
roast or boiled—I will
eat against any filthy Jew naturalized—or
under the bann.—On Saturday night the
newsman brought me two papers of J——
13th and 20th;—right joyful did I receive
them:—I ran to Mrs. Sancho—with, I beg
you will read my friend’s sensible and spirited
defence of—of, &c.—She read—though it
broke in upon her work—she approved;—but
chance or fortune—or ill-luck—or what
you ever mean by accident—has played us a
confounded trick;—for since Saturday they
have—both papers—disappeared—without
hands—or legs—or eyes—for no one has
seen them;—bureau—boxes—cupboards—drawers—parlour—chamber—shop—all—all
has been rummaged—pockets—port-folio—holes—corners—all
been searched;—Did
you see them?—did you?—where can they
be?—I know not—nor I—nor I—but God
does!—Omnipotence knoweth all things.—It
has vexed me—fretted dame Sancho—teazed
the children—but so it is;—hereafter
I suppose they will be found in some obvious
(though now unthought of) place, and
then it will be, Good Lord, who could have
thought it!
Where is the Jack-ass business?—do not
be lazy—I feel myself a party concerned—and
when I see you, I have a delicious
morsel of true feminine grace and generosity
to shew you.—I shall not apologize for this
crude epistle;—but mark and remark—I do
thank you in the name of every Sancho but
self—they eat, and were filled;—I have
reason to thank you;—but as I do not affect
pig—in a piggish sense—I hold myself excepted;—and,
although I did eat—and did
also commend, yet I will not thank you,
that’s poss.
I. SANCHO.
The papers are found, as you will see:—here
is one and a piece; it has suffered through
ignorance;—but what cannot be cured, must
be endured.
LETTER LXVIII. TO MR. J—— W—— .
1778.
YOUR good father insists on my
scribbling a sheet of absurdities, and gives
a notable reason for it—that is, ‘Jack will
be pleased with it.’—Now be it known to
you—I have a respect both for father and
son—yea, for the whole family, who are
every soul (that I have the honour or pleasure
to know any thing of) tinctured and leavened
with all the obsolete goodness of old times—so
that a man runs some hazard, in being seen
in the W——e’s society, of being biassed to
Christianity.—I never see your poor father—but
his eyes betray his feelings—for the hopeful
youth in India—a tear of joy dancing upon
the lids—is a plaudit not to be equalled this
side death!—See the effects of right-doing, my
worthy friend; continue in the tract of rectitude—and
despise poor paltry Europeans—titled
Nabobs.—Read your Bible—as day
follows night, God’s blessing follows virtue;—honour
and riches bring up the rear—and
the end is peace.—Courage, my boy—I have
done preaching.—Old folks love to seem
wise—and if you are silly enough to correspond
with grey hairs—take the consequence.—I
have had the pleasure of reading most of
your letters, through the kindness of your
father.—Youth is naturally prone to vanity:
such is the weakness of human nature, that
pride has a fortress in the best of hearts.—I
know no person that possesses a better than
Johnny W——;—but although flattery is
poison to youth, yet truth obliges me to confess
that your correspondence betrays no
symptom of vanity—but teems with truths of
an honest affection—which merits praise—and
commands esteem.
In some of your letters which I do not
recollect, you speak (with honest indignation)
of the treachery and chicanery of the
natives[7].—My good friend, you should remember
from whom they learnt those vices:—the
first Christian visitors found them a
simple, harmless people—but the cursed
avidity for wealth urged these first visitors
(and all the succeeding ones) to such acts of
deception—and even wanton cruelty—that
the poor ignorant natives soon learnt to turn
the knavish and diabolical arts which they
soon imbibed—upon their teachers.
I am sorry to observe that the practice of
your country (which as a resident I love—and
for its freedom, and for the many
blessings I enjoy in it, shall ever have my
warmest wishes—prayers—and blessings;) I
say, it is with reluctance that I must observe
your country’s conduct has been uniformly
wicked in the East—West Indies—and even
on the coast of Guinea.—The grand object of
English navigators—indeed of all Christian
navigators—is money—money—money—for
which I do not pretend to blame them.—Commerce
was meant, by the goodness of the
Deity, to diffuse the various goods of the
earth into every part—to unite mankind in
the blessed chains of brotherly love—society—and
mutual dependence:—the enlightened
Christian should diffuse the riches of the
Gospel of peace—with the commodities of
his respective land.—Commerce, attended
with strict honesty—and with Religion for
its companion—would be a blessing to every
shore it touched at.—In Africa, the poor
wretched natives—blessed with the most
fertile and luxuriant soil—are rendered so
much the more miserable for what Providence
meant as a blessing:—the Christians’
abominable traffic for slaves—and the horrid
cruelty and treachery of the petty Kings—encouraged
by their Christian customers—who
carry them strong liquors, to enflame
their national madness—and powder and bad
fire arms, to furnish them with the hellish
means of killing and kidnapping.—But
enough—it is a subject that sours my blood—and
I am sure will not please the friendly
bent of your social affections.—I mention
these, only to guard my friend against being
too hasty in condemning the knavery of a
people, who, bad as they may be—possibly
were made worse by their Christian visitors.—Make
human nature thy study wherever
thou residest—whatever the religion or the
complexion, study their hearts.—Simplicity,
kindness, and charity, be thy guide;—with
these, even Savages will respect you—and
God will bless you!
Your father—who sees every improvement
of his boy with delight—observes that your
hand-writing is much for the better;—in
truth, I think it as well as any modest man
can wish:—if my long epistles do not frighten
you—and I live till the return of next spring—perhaps
I shall be enabled to judge how
much you are improved since your last favour.—Write
me a deal about the natives—the
soil and produce—the domestic and interior
manners of the people—customs—prejudices—fashions—and
follies.—Alas! we
have plenty of the two last here—and what
is worse, we have politics—and a detestable
Brothers war—where the right hand is hacking
and hewing the left—whilst Angels weep
at our madness—and Devils rejoice at the
ruinous prospect.
Mr. R—— and the ladies are well.—Johnny
R—— has favourd me with a long
letter; he is now grown familiar with danger—and
can bear the whistling of bullets—the
cries and groans of the human species—the
roll of drums—clangor of trumpets—shouts
of combatants—and thunder of cannon—all
these he can bear with soldier-like fortitude—with
now and then a secret wish for
the society of his London friends—in the
sweet blessed security of peace and friendship.
This, young man, is my second letter;—I
have wrote till I am stupid, I perceive—I
ought to have found it out two pages back.—Mrs.
Sancho joins me in good wishes—I
join her in the same;—in which double sense
believe me,
Yours, &c. &c.
I. SANCHO.
Postscript. (Very short.)
It is with sincere pleasure I hear you have
a lucrative establishment—which will enable
you to appear and act with decency;—your
good sense will naturally lead you to proper
œconomy—as distant from frigid parsimony,
as from a heedless extravagancy;—but as you
may possibly have some time to spare upon
your hands for necessary recreation—give me
leave to obtrude my poor advice.—I have
heard it more than once observed of fortunate
adventurers—they have come home enriched
in purse—but wretchedly barren in intellects:—the
mind, my dear Jack, wants food—as
well as the stomach;—why then should not
one wish to increase in knowledge as well as
money?—Young says—“Books are fair
Virtue’s advocates and friends:”—now my
advice is—to preserve about 20l. a year for
two or three seasons—by which means you
may gradually form a useful, elegant, little
library.—Suppose now the first year you
send the order and the money to your father—for
the following books—which I recommend
from my own superficial knowledge as
useful.—A man should know a little of Geography—History,
nothing more useful, or
pleasant.
Robertson’s Charles the Fifth, 4 vols.
Goldsmith’s History of Greece, 2 vols.
Ditto, of Rome, 2 vols.
Ditto, of England, 4 vols.
Two small volumes of Sermons—useful—and
very sensible—by one Mr. Williams, a dissenting
minister—which are as well as fifty—for
I love not a multiplicity of doctrines—a
few plain tenets—easy—simple and directed
to the heart—are better than volumes of controversial
nonsense.—Spectators—Guardians—and
Tatlers—you have of course.—Young’s
Night-Thoughts—Milton—and
Thomson’s Seasons were my summer companions
for near twenty years—they mended
my heart—they improved my veneration
to the Deity—and increased my love to my
neighbours.
You have to thank God for strong natural
parts—a feeling humane heart;—you write
with sense and judicious discernment. Improve
yourself, my dear Jack, that if it
should please God to return you to your
friends with the fortune of a man in upper
rank, the embellishments of your mind may
be ever considered as greatly superior to your
riches—and only inferior to the goodness of
your heart. I give you the above as a sketch—your
father and other of your friends will
improve upon it in the course of time—I do
indeed judge that the above is enough at first—in
conformity with the old adage——“A
few Books and a few Friends, and those well
chosen.” Adieu. Yours,
I. SANCHO.
LETTER LXXIX. TO MR. S—— .
Charles Street, Nov. 29, 1778.
DEAR S——,
YOURS, dated from Madrass, came safe
to hand.—I need not tell you that your account
pleased me—and the style of your letter
indicated a mind purged from its follies,
and a better habit of thinking, which I trust
happily preceded a steadier course of action.—I
know not whether or not Providence
may not, in your instance, produce much
good out of evil.—I flatter myself you will
yet recover, and stand the firmer in your future
life, from the reflection (bitter as it is)
of your former.—I have no doubt but you
received my letter charged with the heavy
loss of your great, your noble, friendly benefactress
and patroness, the good Dutchess
of Q——y: she entered into bliss, July 17,
1777, just two days after you sailed from
Portsmouth.—I have now to inform you,
that his Grace followed her October 21st
this year; just fifteen months after his good
Dutchess, full of years and honors: he is
gone to join his Dutchess, and share in the
rewards of a righteous God, who alone
knew their merits, and alone could reward
them.
Thus it has pleased God to take your
props to himself;—teaching you a lesson, at
the same time, to depend upon an honest
exertion of your own industry—and humbly
to trust in the Almighty.
You may safely conclude now, that you
have not many friends in England:—be it
your study, with attention, kindness, humility,
and industry, to make friends where
you are.—Industry, with good-nature and
honesty, is the road to wealth.—A wise
œconomy—without avaricious meanness, or
dirty rapacity—will in a few years render
you decently independent.
I hope you cultivate the good-will and
friendship of L——. He is a jewel—prize
him—love him—and place him next your
heart;—he will not flatter or fear you—so
much the better—the fitter for your friend:—he
has a spirit of generosity—such are never
ungrateful;—he sent us a token of his
affection, which we shall never forget.—Let
me counsel you, for your character’s sake,
and as bound in honour, the first money
you can spare, to send over 20l. to discharge
your debt at Mr. P——’s the sadler:—it
was borrowed money, you know.—As for
me, I am wholly at your service to the extent
of my power;—but whatever commissions
you send over to me, send money,
or I stir none;—thou well knowest my
poverty—but ’tis an honest poverty—and I
need not blush or conceal it.—You also are
indebted to Mr. O——, Bond-street:—what
little things of that kind you can recollect,
pay as soon as you are able;—it will
spunge out many evil traces of things past
from the hearts and heads of your enemies—create
you a better name—and pave the
way for your return some years hence into
England with credit and reputation.—Before
I conclude, let me, as your true friend, recommend
seriously to you to make yourself
acquainted with your Bible:—believe me,
the more you study the word of God, your
peace and happiness will increase the more
with it.—Fools may deride you—and wanton
youth throw out their frothy gibes;—but
as you are not to be a boy all your life—and
I trust would not be reckoned a fool—use
your every endeavour to be a good man—and
leave the rest to God.—Your letters
from the Cape, and one from Madeira, I
received; they were both good letters, and
descriptions of things and places.—I wish to
have your description of the sort and town
of Madrass—country adjacent—people—manner
of living—value of money—religion—laws—animals—fashions—taste,
&c. &c.—In
short, write any thing—every thing—and,
above all, improve your mind with
good reading—converse with men of sense,
rather than the fools of fashion and riches—be
humble to the rich—affable, open, and
good-natured to your equals—and compassionately
kind to the poor.—I have treated
you freely in proof of my friendship.—Mrs.
S——, under the persuasion that you are
really a good man, sends her best wishes—when
her handkerchief is washed, you
will send it home—the girls wish to be
remembered to you, and all to friend
L——n.
Yours, &c. &c.
I. SANCHO.
LETTER CII. TO MR. M—— .
Sept. 4, 1779.
THE Lamb[11] just now kindly delivered
to the Bear[12] the Monkey’s[13] letter.—I am
glad at heart that the forced exercise did
thy hip no hurt—but that M— of thine—I
do not like such faces!—if she is half what
she looks, she is too good for any place but
heaven, where the hallelujahs are for ever
chanting by such cherub-faced sluts as she!
Thank God! she is neither daughter nor
sister of mine—I should live in perpetual fear.—But
why do I plague myself about her?
She has a protector in you—and foul befall
the being (for no man would attempt it)
that wishes to injure her!—Mrs. D—— I
could like so well, that I wish to know but
very little of her!—strange, but true!—and
when you have been disappointed in your
schemes of domestic happiness, and deceived
in your too hasty-formed judgements to
the age of fifty, as oft as your friend, you
will fully enter into any meaning.
She looks open—honest—intelligently sensible—good-natured—easy—polite
and kind;—knowledge
enough of the world to render
her company desireable—and age just sufficient
to form her opinions, and fix her
principles;—add to all this an agreeable
face, good teeth, and a certain Je ne sai quoi
(forgive the spelling, and do not betray me):—but
I say again, and again—when one has
formed a great opinion of either male or
female, ’tis best, for that opinion’s sake, to
look no further—there, rogue!
I shall take no notice of the tricking fraudulent
behaviour of the driver of the stage—as
how he wanted to palm a bad shilling upon
us—and as how they stopped us in the town,
and most generously insulted us—and as how
we took up a fat old man—his wife fat too—and
child;—and after keeping us half an
hour in sweet converse of the—of the blasting
kind—how that the fat woman waxed
wrath with her plump master, for his being
serene—and how that he caught choler at her
friction, tongue-wise;—how he ventured
his head out of the coach-door, and swore
liberally—whilst his —— in direct line with
poor S——n’s nose—entertained him with
sound and sweetest of exhalations.—I shall say
nothing of being two hours almost on our
journey—neither do I remark that S——n
turned sick before we left G——, nor that
the child p— upon his legs:—in short, it
was near nine before we got into Charles
Street.
Sir, the pleasures of the day made us more
than amends for the nonsense that followed.—Receipt
in full.
I. SANCHO.
My best respects to Mr. Y——; and my
love, yea, cordial love to Nancy:—tell her—no,
if I live to see her again, I will tell
her myself.
Observe, we were seven in the coach;—the
breath of the old lady, in her heat of
passion, was not rose-scented;—add to that,
the warmth naturally arising from crowd
and anger—you will not wonder at S—t—’s
being sick—And he, S——, wanted to
be in town rather sooner.—My compliments
to George.—Mr. L—— is so kind to promise
to call for this scrawl:—thank him
for me, as well as for thyself.—Adieu.—Mrs.
S—— pretty well, the two Fanny’s and
Kitty but indifferent.
LETTER CXVIII. TO MR. B—— .
Charles Street, Dec. 20, 1779.
DEAR SIR,
THE Park guns are now firing, and never
was poor devil so puzzled as your humble
Sancho is at this present moment.—I have a
budget of fresh news—aye, and that of consequence—and
a million of stale thanks,
which perhaps you will think of no consequence.—Impelled
by two contrary passions,
how should a poor Negro know precisely
which to obey? Your turkey and chine are
absolutely as good, as fine, and as welcome—as
nobly given—and as gratefully accepted—as
heart can wish, or fancy conceive:—then
on the other hand—the news is as
glorious—as well timed and authenticated—as
pleasing,—as salutary in the ministerial way—as
much wanted—and as welcome—as the
turkey and chine to a certain sett, I mean—of
king’s friends and national * * * * *. The
said turkey and chine will keep fresh and
good—and chear some honest hearts (I trust)
on Christmas-day.—The news, good as it
is, may half of it prove false by Christmas—and
the true part will be stale news by that
time—much of it will be liable to doubt
and malicious disquisition:—now, on the
other hand, the turkey and its honest fat
companion are bettering every day—and feast
us by anticipation.—But again, the news
will come with a handsome face—attested by
a Gazette extraordinary, garnished by the
happy flourishes of news-paper invention.
Then there is the speech of the noble Sir
C——; I meant to say much upon that
score; you have read it without doubt—so
have I more than once or twice—and I find
the same fault with it that the majority and
minority do—which is neither more nor less
than what’s exceeding natural to both parties.—The
majority detest it for its truth—the
minority would have better liked it, had
it not been so d—n’d honest. Now (between
ourselves) I do confess to you, my worthy
friend, strip this famed speech of its truth
and honesty, there will very little worth
notice remain, excepting candour, a spice of
benevolence, and perhaps too much charity;—but
as the above are the vices only of a
very few, we may the better endure it in
Sir C——. There is certainly an express
arrived this day with very comfortable news—plenty
of killed and wounded—plenty of
prisoners—and (as it always happens) with
little or no loss on our side;—but, dear me!
how I have run on!—I protest, the sole
business of this letter was to ease my mind—by
unburthening my head and heart of some
weighty thanks, which, for aught I know,
except very decently managed, are more
likely to give pain than pleasure to some odd-constructed
minds, men who fatten upon
doing good, and feel themselves richer in
proportion to their kindness:—such beings
are the S——’s, the B——s, the R——hs,
O——ns, &c. &c.—whom God mend—in
the next world I mean:—so, wishing you
every felicity in this, and every comfort attendant
on the approaching festival, with
love and good-will to all friends, especially to
Mrs. B——n, the worthy Mr. S——’s
family, Squire S——ns, and his mate, in
which Mrs. Sancho claims her full share, I
remain, dear Sir, (I fear I tire you)
Your most obliged
humble servant,
I. SANCHO.
LETTER CXXVI. TO MR. J—— W——E .
Charles Street, Jan. 5, 1780.
DEAR W——E,
WERE I as rich in worldly commodity
as in hearty will—I would thank you
most princely for your very welcome and
agreeable letter;—but, were it so, I should
not proportion my gratitude to your wants;—for,
blessed be the God of thy hope!—thou
wantest nothing—more than—what’s
in thy possession—or in thy power to possess:—I
would neither give thee Money—nor
Territory—Women—nor Horses—nor Camels—nor
the height of Asiatic pride—Elephants;—I
would give thee Books—
“Books, fair Virtue’s advocates and friends;”
but you have books plenty—more than you
have time to digest:—after much writing—which
is fatiguing enough—and under
the lassitude occasioned by fatigue, and not
sin—the cool recess—the loved book—the
sweet pleasures of imagination poetically
worked up into delightful enthusiasm—richer
than all your fruits—your spices—your
dancing-girls—and the whole detail
of Eastern, effeminate foppery—flimsy splendour—and
glittering magnificence;—so thou
thinkest—and I rejoice with thee and for
thee. Shall I say what my heart suggests?
No, you will feel it praise—and call it
flattery. Shall I say, Your worthy parent
read your filial letter to me—and embalmed
the grateful tribute of a virtuous son with
his precious tears?—Will you believe?—he
was for some minutes speechless through
joy!—Imagine you see us—our heads close
together—comparing notes;—imagine you
hear the honest plaudits of love and friendship
sounding in thy ears;—’tis glory to be
proud on such occasions—’tis the pride of
merit:—and as you allow me to counsel
you with freedom—I do strongly advise you
to love praise—to court praise—to win it
by every honest, laudable exertion—and be
oft, very often jealous of it:—examine the
source it proceeds from—and encourage and
cherish it accordingly.—Fear not—mankind
are not too lavish of it—censure is dealt
out by wholesale—while praise is very
sparingly distributed:—nine times in ten
mankind may err in their blame—but in its
praises the world is seldom, if ever, mistaken.—Mark—I
praise thee sincerely, for the whole
and every part of thy conduct in regard to my
two sable brethren[14]. I was an ass—or else
I might have judged from the national antipathy
and prejudice through custom even
of the Gentoos towards their woolly-headed
brethren, and the well-known dignity of my
Lords the Whites, of the impropriety of my
request.—I therefore not only acquit thee
honourably—but condemn myself for giving
thee the trouble to explain a right conduct.—I
fear you will hardly make out this
scrawl, although it is written with a pen
of thy father’s—a present mended from a
parcel of old quills by his foreman, or brother
C——d.—Your honest brother Joseph
came post with your letters—good-will
shining in his face—joy in his innocent
eyes:—he promises to be as much a W——
as his Indian brother:—you flatter my vanity
in supposing my friendship of any utility
to Joe;—he has in his good father
Moses and the Prophets—which you have
had, and availed yourself well of the blessing—and
I trust Joe will do the same—besides
having precept and example from a
worthy and loving brother.—Poor M——,
your favourite—I scarce knew her;—she was
as pure within, as amiable without:—she
enriches the circle of the blest—and you
have a friend in heaven.
I hope you sometimes—aye often—consult
with Dr. Young’s Night Thoughts—carry
him in your pockets—court him—quote
him—delight in him—make him your
own—and laugh at the wit, and wisdom,
and fashion of the world:—that book, well
studied, will make you know the value of
death—and open your eyes to the snares of
life; its precepts will exalt the festive hour,
brighten and bless the gloom of solitude,
comfort thy heart, and smooth thy pillow
in sickness, and gild with lustre thy prosperity—disarm
death itself of its terrors, and
sweetly soften the hour of dissolution.—I recommend
to all young people, who do me
the honour to ask my opinion—I recommend,
if their stomachs are strong enough
for such intellectual food, Dr. Young’s
Night Thoughts—the Paradise Lost—and
the Seasons;—which, with Nelson’s Feasts
and Fasts, a Bible and Prayer-book, used for
twenty years to make my travelling library—and
I do think it a very rich one. I never
trouble my very distant friends with articles
of news—the public prints do it so much
better—and then they may answer for their
untruths;—for among the multitude of our
public prints, it is hard to say which lyes
most.
Your enclosed trust was directly delivered
to the fair hands it was addressed to:—I
have the authority to say, it gave great pleasure
to both the ladies and your friend Mr.
R——, who wears the same cordial friendly
heart in his breast as when you first knew
him.—Your friend Mr. John R—— is still
at New York with the guards—where he is
very deservedly honoured, loved, and esteemed:—he
corresponds with his old acquaintance—and
does me the honour to remember me
amongst his friends:—our toast in P. Gardens
is often the three Johns—R——,
W——e, and O——, an honest—therefore
a noble triumvirate.
I feel old age insensibly stealing on me—and,
alas! am obliged to borrow the aid
of spectacles, for any kind of small print:—Time
keeps pacing on, and we delude
ourselves with the hope of reaching first
this stage, and then the next; till that ravenous
rogue Death puts a final end to our
folly.
All this is true—and yet I please and
flatter myself with the hope of living to see
you in your native country—with every
comfort possessed—crowned with the honest
man’s best ambition, a fair character.—May
your worthy, your respectable parents, relations,
and friends, enjoy that pleasure!
and that you may realize every fond hope
of all who love you, is the wish of
Your sincere friend,
IGNATIUS SANCHO.
Postscript.
This letter is of a decent length—I expect
a return with interest.—Mrs. Sancho
joins me in good wishes, love, and compliments.
LETTER CXXXIII. TO J—— S——, ESQ .
Charles-Street, June 6, 1780.
DEAR AND MOST RESPECTED SIR,
IN the midst of the most cruel and ridiculous
confusion—I am now set down to
give you a very imperfect sketch of the maddest
people—that the maddest times were
ever plagued with.—The public prints have
informed you (without doubt) of last Friday’s
transactions;—the insanity of Ld. G.
G. and the worse than Negro barbarity of
the populace; the burnings and devastations
of each night—you will also see in the prints;—this
day, by consent, was set apart for
the farther consideration of the wished-for
repeal;—the people (who had their proper
cue from his lordship) assembled by ten
o’clock in the morning.—Lord N—h, who
had been up in council at home till four in
the morning, got to the house before eleven,
just a quarter of an hour before the associators
reached Palace-yard:—but, I should
tell you, in council there was a deputation
from all parties;—the S—— party were for
prosecuting Lord G——, and leaving him
at large;—the At—y G——l laughed at the
idea, and declared it was doing just nothing;—the
M——y were for his expulsion, and
so dropping him gently into insignificancy;—that
was thought wrong, as he would still
be industrious in mischief;—the R——m
party, I should suppose, you will think
counselled best, which is, this day to expel
him the house—commit him to the Tower—and
then prosecute him at leisure—by
which means he will lose the opportunity of
getting a seat in the next parliament—and
have decent leisure to repent him of the
heavy evils he has occasioned.—There is at
this present moment at least a hundred thousand
poor, miserable ragged rabble, from
twelve to sixty years of age, with blue cockades
in their hats—besides half as many women
and children—all parading the streets—the
bridge—the park—ready for any and
every mischief.—Gracious God! what’s the
matter now? I was obliged to leave off—the
shouts of the mob—the horrid clashing
of swords—and the clutter of a multitude in
swiftest motion—drew me to the door—when
every one in the street was employed in
shutting up shop—It is now just five o’clock—the
ballad-singers are exhausting their musical
talents with the downfall of Popery,
S—h, and N—h. Lord S—h narrowly escaped
with life about an hour since;—the
mob seized his chariot going to the house,
broke his glasses, and, in struggling to get
his lordship out, somehow have cut his face;
the guards flew to his assistance—the light-horse
scowered the road, got his chariot, escorted
him from the coffee-house, where he
had fled for protection, to his carriage, and
guarded him bleeding very fast home. This—this—is
liberty! genuine British liberty!—This
instant about two thousand liberty
boys are swearing and swaggering by with
large sticks—thus armed in hopes of meeting
with the Irish chairmen and labourers—all
the guards are out—and all the horse;—the
poor fellows are just worn out for want
of rest—having been on duty ever since Friday.
Thank heaven, it rains; may it increase,
so as to send these deluded wretches
safe to their homes, their families, and wives!
About two this afternoon a large party took
it into their heads to visit the King and
Queen, and entered the Park for that purpose—but
found the guard too numerous to
be forced, and after some useless attempts
gave it up. It is reported, the house will
either be prorogued, or parliament dissolved,
this evening—as it is in vain to think of attending
any business while this anarchy lasts.
I cannot but felicitate you, my good friend,
upon the happy distance you are placed from
our scene of confusion.—May foul Discord
and her cursed train never nearer
approach your blessed abode! Tell Mrs.
S——, her good heart would ach, did she
see the anxiety, the woe, in the faces of
mothers, wives, and sweethearts, each equally
anxious for the object of their wishes,
the beloved of their hearts. Mrs. Sancho
and self both cordially join in love and gratitude,
and every good wish—crowned with
the peace of God, which passeth all understanding,
&c.
I am, dear Sir,
Yours ever by inclination,
IGN. SANCHO.
Postscript,
The Sardinian ambassador offered 500 guineas
to the rabble, to save a painting of
our Saviour from the flames, and 1000
guineas not to destroy an exceeding fine organ:
the gentry told him, they would burn
him if they could get at him, and destroyed
the picture and organ directly. I am not
sorry I was born in Afric.—I shall tire you,
I fear—and, if I cannot get a frank, make
you pay dear for bad news. There is
about a thousand mad men, armed with
clubs, bludgeons, and crows, just now set
off for Newgate, to liberate, they say, their
honest comrades.—I wish they do not some
of them lose their lives of liberty before
morning. It is thought by many who discern
deeply, that there is more at the bottom
of this business than merely the repeal
of an act—which as has yet produced no
bad consequences, and perhaps never might.—I
am forced to own, that I am for an
universal toleration. Let us convert by our
example, and conquer by our meekness and
brotherly love!
Eight o’clock. Lord G—— G—— has
this moment announced to my Lords the
mob—that the act shall be repealed this
evening:—upon this, they gave a hundred
chears—took the horses from his hackney-coach,
and rolled him full jollily away:—they
are huzzaing now ready to crack their
throats.
Huzza!
I am forced to conclude for want of room—the
remainder in our next.
LETTER CXXXIV. TO J—— S——, ESQ .
Charles Street, June 9, 1780.
MY DEAR SIR,
GOVERNMENT is sunk in lethargic
stupor—anarchy reigns—when I look
back to the glorious time of a George II.
and a Pitt’s administration—my heart sinks
at the bitter contrast. We may now say
of England, as was heretofore said of Great
Babylon—“the beauty of the excellency of
the Chaldees is no more;”—the Fleet
Prison, the Marshalsea, King’s-Bench, both
Compters, Clerkenwell, and Tothill-Fields,
with Newgate, are flung open;—Newgate
partly burned, and 300 felons, from thence
only, let loose upon the world. Lord
M——’s house in town suffered martyrdom;
and his sweet box at Caen Wood
escaped almost miraculously, for the mob
had just arrived, and were beginning with
it, when a strong detachment from the
guards and light-horse came most critically
to its rescue—the library, and, what is of
more consequence, papers and deeds of vast
value, were all cruelly consumed in the
flames. Ld. N—’s house was attacked; but
they had previous notice, and were ready
for them. The Bank, the Treasury, and
thirty of the chief noblemen’s houses, are
doomed to suffer by the insurgents. There
were six of the rioters killed at Ld.
M——’s, and, what is remarkable, a
daring chap, escaped from Newgate, condemned
to die this day, was the most active
in mischief at Ld. M——’s, and was
the first person shot by the soldiers; so he
found death a few hours sooner than if he
had not been released.—The ministry have
tried lenity, and have experienced its inutility;
and martial law is this night to be declared.—If
any body of people above ten
in number are seen together, and refuse to
disperse, they are to be fired at without any
further ceremony—so we expect terrible
work before morning.—The insurgents visited
the Tower, but it would not do:—they
had better luck in the Artillery-ground,
where they found and took to their use
500 stand of arms; a great error in city
politics, not to have secured them first.—It
is wonderful to hear the execrable nonsense
that is industriously circulated amongst the
credulous mob, who are told his M——y
regularly goes to mass at Ld. P—re’s chaple—and
they believe it, and that he pays
out of his privy purse Peter-pence to
Rome. Such is the temper of the times—from
too relaxed a government;—and a
King and Queen on the throne who possess
every virtue. May God, in his mercy,
grant that the present scourge may operate
to our repentance and amendment! that it
may produce the fruits of better thinking,
better doing, and in the end make us a
wise, virtuous, and happy people!—I am,
dear Sir, truly, Mrs. S——’s and your
most grateful and obliged friend and servant,
I. SANCHO.
The remainder in our next.
Half past nine o’clock.
King’s-Bench prison is now in flames,
and the prisoners at large; two fires in
Holborn now burning.
