You are so thoughtless about your dress, that I cannot help giving you a little warning against your return.  Remember, everybody that comes from abroad is cense to come from France, and whatever they wear at their first reappearance immediately grows the fashion.  Now if, as is very likely, you should through inadvertence change hats with a master of a Dutch smack, Offley will be upon the watch, will conclude you took your pattern from M. de Bareil, and in a week’s time we shall all be equipped like Dutch skippers.  You see I speak very disinterestedly; for, as I never wear a hat myself, it is indifferent to me what sort of hat I don’t wear.  Adieu!  I hope nothing in this letter, if it is opened, will affect the conferences, nor hasten our rupture with Holland.  Lest it should, I send it to Lord Holdernesse’s office; concluding, like Lady Betty Waldegrave, that the Government never suspect what they send under their own covers.

ROBERTSON’S “HISTORY OF SCOTLAND”—­COMPARISON OF RAMSAY AND REYNOLDS AS PORTRAIT-PAINTERS—­SIR DAVID’S “HISTORY OF THE GOWRIE CONSPIRACY."

TO SIR DAVID DALRYMPLE.

STRAWBERRY HILL, Feb. 25, 1759.

I think, Sir, I have perceived enough of the amiable benignity of your mind, to be sure that you will like to hear the praises of your friend.[1] Indeed, there is but one opinion about Mr. Robertson’s “History [of Scotland].”  I don’t remember any other work that ever met universal approbation.  Since the Romans and the Greeks, who have now an exclusive charter for being the best writers in every kind, he is the historian that pleases me best; and though what he has been so indulgent as to say of me ought to shut my mouth, I own I have been unmeasured in my commendations.  I have forfeited my own modesty rather than not do justice to him.  I did send him my opinion some time ago, and hope he received it.  I can add, with the strictest truth, that he is regarded here as one of the greatest men that this island has produced.  I say island, but you know, Sir, that I am disposed to say Scotland.  I have discovered another very agreeable writer among your countrymen, and in a profession where I did not look for an author; it is Mr. Ramsay, the painter, whose pieces being anonymous, have been overlooked.  He has a great deal of genuine wit, and a very just manner of reasoning.  In his own walk, he has great merit.  He and Mr. Reynolds are our favourite painters, and two of the very best we ever had.  Indeed, the number of good has been very small, considering the numbers there are.  A very few years ago there were computed two thousand portrait-painters in London; I do not exaggerate the computation, but diminish it; though I think it must have been exaggerated.  Mr. Reynolds and Mr. Ramsay can scarce be rivals; their manners are so different.  The former is bold, and has a kind of tempestuous colouring, yet with dignity and grace; the latter is all delicacy.  Mr. Reynolds seldom succeeds in women; Mr. Ramsay is formed to paint them.