e
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."]

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