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again obliged to declare the said assertion to be a most infamous and malicious falsehood; and I again call upon you to stand forth, avow yourself, and prove the charge. If you can make it out to the satisfaction of any one man in the kingdom, I will be content to be thought the worst man in it; if you do not, what must the nation think of you! Party has nothing to do in this affair; you have made a personal attack upon my honour, defained me by a most vile calumny, which might possibly have sunk into oblivion, had not such uncommon pains been taken to renew and perpetuate this scandal, chiefly because it has been told in good language; for I give you full credit for your elegant diction, well-turned periods, and Attic wit; but wit is oftentimes false, though it may appear brilliant; which is exactly the case of your whole performance. But, sir, I am obliged, in the most serious manner, to accuse you of being guilty of falsities. You have said the thing that is not. To support your story, you have recourse to the following irresistible argument: “You sold the companions of your victory, because, when the sixteenth regiment was given to you, you was silent. The conclusion is inevitable.” I believe that such deep and accurate reasoning could only come from such an extraordinary writer as Junius. But, unfortunately for you, the premises, as well as the conclusion, are absolutely false. Many applications have been made to the ministry on the subject of the Manilla ransom, since the time of my being colonel of that regiment. As I have for some years quitted London, I was obliged to have recourse to the Honourable Colonel Monson and Sir Samuel Cornish to negociate for me; in the last autumn, I personally delivered a memorial to the Earl of Shelburne, at his seat in Wiltshire. As you have told us of your importance, that you are a person of rank and fortune, and above a common bribe,

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you may, in all probability, be not unknown to his lordship, who can satisfy you of the truth of what I say. But I shall now take the liberty, sir, to seize your battery, and turn it against yourself. If your puerile and tinsel logic could carry the least weight or conviction with it, how must you stand affected by the inevitable conclusion, as you are pleased to term it? According to Junius, silence is guilt. In many of the public papers, you have been called, in the most direct and offensive terms, a liar and a coward. When did you reply to these foul accusations? You have been quite silent, quite chop-fallen; therefore, because you was silent, the nation has a right to pronounce you to be both a liar and a coward, from your own argument. But, sir, I will give you fair play; I will afford you an opportunity to wipe off the first appellation, by desiring the proofs of your charge against me. Produce them! To wipe off the last, produce yourself. People cannot bear any longer your lion's skin, and the despicable imposture of the old Roman name which you have affected. For the future, assume the name of some modern * bravo and dark assassin; let your appellation have some affinity to your practice. But if I must perish, Junius, let me perish in the face of day; be for once a generous and open enemy. I allow, that Gothic appeals to cold iron are no better proofs of a man's honesty and veracity, than hot iron and burning ploughshares are of female chastity; but a soldier's honour is as delicate as a woman's; it must not be suspected. You have dared to throw more than a suspicion upon mine; you cannot but know the consequences, which even the meekness of Christianity would pardon me for, after the injury you have done me.

WILLIAM DRAPER.

* Was Brutus an ancient bravo and dark assassin ? or, does Sir W.D. think it criminal to stab a tyrant to the heart?

LETTER XXV.

Hcret lateri lethalis arundo.

TO

SIR WILLIAM DRAPER, K.B.

SIR,

September 25, 1769. After so long an interval, I did not expect to see the debate revived between us. My answer to your last letter shall be short; for I write to you with reluctance, and I hope we shall now conelude our correspondence for eyer.

Had you been originally, and without provocation, attacked by an anonymous writer, you would have some right to demand his name. But in this cause you are a volunteer. You engaged in it with the unpremeditated gallantry of a soldier. You were content to set your name in opposition to a man, who would probably continue in concealment. You understood the terms upon which we were to correspond, and gave at least a tacit assent to them. After voluntarily attacking me under the character of Junius, what possible right have you to know me under any other? Will you forgive me if I insinuate to you, that you foresaw some honour in the apparent spirit of coming forward in person, and that you were not quite indifferent to the display of your literary qualifications?

You cannot but know, that the republication of my letters was no more than a catch-penny contrivance of a printer, in which it was impossible I should be concerned, and for which I am noway answerable. At the same time, I wish you to understand, that, if I

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do not take the trouble of reprinting these papers, it is not from any fear of giving offence to Sir William Draper.

Your remarks upon a signature adopted merely for distinction, are unworthy of notice; but, when you tell me, I have submitted to be called a liar and a coward, I must ask you, in my turn, whether you seriously think it any way incumbent upon me to take notice of the silly invectives of every simpleton who writes in a newspaper; and what opinion you would have conceived of my discretion, if I had suffered myself to be the dupe of so shallow an artifice?

Your appeal to the sword, though consistent enough with your late profession, will neither prove your innocence, nor clear you from suspicion. Your complaints with regard to the Manilla ransom were,

for considerable time, a distress to government. You are appointed (greatly out of your turn) to the command of a regiment; and, during that administration, we heard no more of Sir William Draper. The facts of which I speak, may, indeed, be variously accounted for; but they are too notorious to be denied; and I think you might have learned at the university, that a false conclusion is an error in argument, not a breach of veracity. Your solicitations, I doubt not, were renewed under another administration. Admitting the fact, I fear an indifferent person would only infer from it, that experience had made you acquainted with the benefits of complaining. Remember, sir, that you have yourself confessed, that, considering the critical situation of this country, the ministry are in the right to temporize with Spain. This confession reduces you to an unfortunate dilemma. By renewing your solicitations, you must either mean to force your country into a war, at a inost unseasonable juncture, or, having no view or expectation of that

kind, that you look for nothing but a private compensation to yourself.

As to me, it is by no means necessary that I should be exposed to the resentment of the worst and the most powerful men in this country, though I may be indifferent about yours. Though you would fight, there are others who would assassinate. • But, after all, sir, where is the injury? You assure me, that my logic is puerile and tinsel: that it carries not the least weight or conviction; that my premises are false, and my conclusions absurd. If this be a just description of me, how is it possible for such a writer to disturb your peace of mind, or to injure a character so well established as yours? Take care, Sir William, how you indulge this unruly temper, lest the world should suspect, that conscience has some share in your resentments. You have more to fear from the treachery of your own passions, than from any malevo. lence of mine.

I believe, sir, you will never know me. A considerable time must certainly elapse, before we are personally acquainted. You need not, however, regret the delay, or suffer an apprehension, that any length of time can restore you to the Christian meekness of your temper, and disappoint your present indignation. If I understand your character, there is in your own breast a repository, in which your resentments may be safely laid up for future occasions, and preserved without the hazard of diminution. The odiq in longum jaciens, quæ reconderet, auctaque promeret, I thought had only belonged to the worst character of antiquity. The text is in Tacitus; you know best where to look for the commentary.

JUNIUS,

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