My letter cannot set out before to-morrow; therefore I will postpone the conclusion.  In the mean time I must scold you very seriously for the cameo you have sent me by Mr. Morrice.  This house is full of your presents and of my blushes.  I love any one of them as an earnest of your friendship; but I hate so many.  You force upon me an air most contrary to my disposition.  I cannot thank you for your kindness; I entreated you to send me nothing more.  You leave me no alternative but to seem interested or ungrateful.  I can only check your generosity by being brutal.  If I had a grain of power, I would affront you and call your presents bribes.  I never gave you anything but a coffee-pot.  If I could buy a diamond as big as the Caligula, and a less would not be so valuable, I would send it you.  In one word, I will not accept the cameo, unless you give me a promise under your hand that it shall be the last present you send me.  I cannot stir about this house without your gifts staring me in the face.  Do you think I have no conscience?  I am sorry Mr. Morrice is no better, and wonder at his return.  What can invite him to this country?  Home never was so homely.

6th.

It is not true that a meeting-house has been burnt.  I believe a Popish chapel in the city has been attacked:  and they talk here of some disturbance yesterday, which is probable; for, when grace, robbery, and mischief make an alliance, they do not like to give over:—­but ten miles from the spot are a thousand from truth.  My letter must go to town before night, or would be too late for the post.  If you do not hear from me again immediately, you will be sure that this bourrasque has subsided.

Thursday 8th.

I am exceedingly vexed.  I sent this letter to Berkeley Square on Tuesday, but by the present confusions my servant did not receive it in time.  I came myself yesterday, and found a horrible scene.  Lord Mansfield’s house was just burnt down, and at night there were shocking disorders.  London and Southwark were on fire in six places; but the regular troops quelled the sedition by daybreak, and everything now is quiet.  A camp of ten thousand men is formed in Hyde Park, and regiments of horse and foot arrive every hour.

Friday morn, 9th.

All has been quiet to-night.  I am going to Strawberry for a little rest.  Your nephew told me last night that he sends you constant journals just now.

HOGARTH—­COLONEL CHARTERIS—­ARCHBISHOP BLACKBURNE—­JERVAS—­RICHARDSON’S POETRY.

TO SIR DAVID DALRYMPLE.

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!