_Dec._ 11, 1780.
I should have been shamefully ungrateful, Sir, if I could ever forget
all the favours I have received from you, and had omitted any mark of
respect to you that it was in my power to show. Indeed, what you are so
good as to thank me for was a poor trifle, but it was all I had or shall
have of the kind. It was imperfect too, as some painters of name have
died since it was printed, which was nine years ago. They will be added
with your kind notices, should I live, which is not probable, to see a
new edition wanted. Sixty-three years, and a great deal of illness, are
too speaking mementos not to be attended to; and when the public has
been more indulgent than one had any right to expect, it is not decent
to load it with one's dotage!
I believe, Sir, that I may have been over-candid to Hogarth, and that
his spirit and youth and talent may have hurried him into more real
caricatures than I specified; yet he certainly restrained his bent that
way pretty early. Charteris,[1] I have seen; but though some years
older than you, Sir, I cannot say I have at all a perfect idea of him;
nor did I ever hear the curious anecdote you tell me of the banker and
my father. I was much better acquainted with Archbishop Blackburne. He
lived within two doors of my father in Downing Street, and took much
notice of me when I was near man.... He was a little hurt at not being
raised to Canterbury on Wake's death [1737], and said to my father, "You
did not think on me; but it is true, I am too old, I am too old."
Perhaps, Sir, these are gossiping stories, but at least they hurt nobody
now.
[Footnote 1: Colonel Charteris, satirised by Hogarth's introduction of
his portrait in the "Harlot's Progress," was at his death still more
bitterly branded by Swift's friend, Dr. Arbuthnot, in the epitaph he
proposed for him: "Here continueth to rot the body of Francis Charteris,
who, in the course of his long life, displayed every vice except
prodigality and hypocrisy. His insatiable avarice saved him from the
first: his matchless impudence from the second." And he concludes it
with the explanation that his life was not useless, since "it was
intended to show by his example of how small estimation inordinate
wealth is in the sight of Almighty God, since He bestowed it on the most
unworthy of mortals."]
I can say little, Sir, for my stupidity or forgetfulness about Hogarth's
poetry, which I still am not sure I ever heard, though I knew him so
well; but it is an additional argument for my distrusting myself, if my
memory fails, which is very possible. A whole volume of Richardson's[1]
poetry has been published since my volume was printed, not much to the
honour of his muse, but exceedingly so to that of his piety and amiable
heart. You will be pleased, too, Sir, with a story Lord Chesterfield
told me (too late too) of Jervas,[2] who piqued himself on the reverse,
on total infidelity. One day that he had talked very indecently in that
strain, Dr. Arbuthnot,[3] who was as devout as Richardson, said to him,
"Come, Jervas, this is all an air and affectation; nobody is a sounder
believer than you."--"I!" said Jervas, "I believe nothing."--"Yes, but
you do," replied the Doctor; "nay, you not only believe, but practise:
you are so scrupulous an observer of the commandments, that you never
make the likeness of anything that is in heaven above, or on the earth
beneath, or," &c.
[Footnote 1: Richardson was a London bookseller, the author of the three
longest novels in the English language--"Pamela," "Clarissa Harbour,"
and "Sir Charles Grandison." They were extravagantly praised in their
day. But it was to ridicule "Pamela" that Fielding wrote "Joseph
Andrews."]
[Footnote 2: Jervas was a fashionable portrait-painter in the first half
of the century. Lady Mary Montague, in one of her letters, speaks of him
in terms of the highest praise.]
[Footnote 3: Dr. Arbuthnot was the author of the celebrated satire on
the Partition Treaties, entitled "The History of John Bull," to which
Englishmen have ever since owed their popular nickname. It is to him
also that Pope dedicated the Prologue to his "Satires and Epistles."]
I fear, Sir, this letter is too long for thanks, and that I have been
proving what I have said, of my growing superannuated; but, having made
my will in my last volume, you may look on this as a codicil.
P.S.--I had sealed my letter, Sir, but break it open, lest you should
think soon, that I do not know what I say, or break my resolution
lightly. I shall be able to send you in about two months a very curious
work that I am going to print, and is actually in the press; but there
is not a syllable of my writing in it. It is a discovery just made of
two very ancient manuscripts, copies of which were found in two or three
libraries in Germany, and of which there are more complete manuscripts
at Cambridge. They are of the eleventh century at lowest, and prove
that painting in oil was then known, above three hundred years before
the pretended invention of Van Eyck. The manuscripts themselves will be
printed, with a full introductory Dissertation by the discoverer, Mr.
Raspe, a very learned German, formerly librarian to the Landgrave of
Hesse, and who writes English surprisingly well. The manuscripts are in
the most barbarous monkish Latin, and are much such works as our
booksellers publish of receipts for mixing colours, varnishes, &c. One
of the authors, who calls himself Theophilus, was a monk; the other,
Heraclius, is totally unknown; but the proofs are unquestionable. As my
press is out of order, and that besides it would take up too much time
to print them there, they will be printed here at my expense, and if
there is any surplus, it will be for Raspe's benefit.
_THE PRINCE OF WALES--HURRICANE AT BARBADOES--A "VOICE FROM ST.
HELENA."_