For consider, your letters may
be intercepted. It is true, they have not many perils to undergo. They
are not handed from post-house to post-house. There are no impertinent
office-keepers to inspect them by land. There are no privateers to
capture them by sea. But, my lord, they have perils to encounter, the
very recollection of which makes me tremble to the inmost fibre of my
frame. They are ale-houses, my lord. Think for a moment of the
clattering of porter-pots, and the scream of my goodly hostess. Imagine
that the blazing fire smiles through the impenetrable window, and that
the kitchen shakes with the peals of laughter. These are temptations, my
lord, that no mortal porter can withstand. When the unvaried countenance
of his gracious sovereign smiles invitation upon him from the weather
beaten sign-post, what loyal heart but must be melted into compliance.
From all these considerations, my lord, I would advise you to write with
invisible ink. Milk I believe will serve the purpose, though I am
afraid, that the milk that is hawked about the streets of London, has
rather too much water in it. The juice of lemon is a sovereign recipe.
There are a variety of other preparations that will answer the purpose.
But these may be learned from the most vulgar and accessible sources of
information.
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