Sunday drawing-room, there was brilliancy with the utmost gaiety, such as had not been witnessed for many a year. After a few days the duke returned northward, departing with the same modesty that had marked his arrival. He left at one in the morning, but even at that ghostly hour, and in that inclement season, he was done honour to by a crowd which he could scarcely penetrate, whose torches were flashed to their brightest, and whose voices were pitched to the loudest, as their last ‘God speed!’ The temper of London may be seen in one of Walpole’s letters, in which he alludes to the too great favour which had been always shown towards Scotland since the last rebellion; and he expresses a hope that the duke will make an end of it. [Sidenote: _LONDON MOBS._] In the meantime, old rancour against the Jacobites was embittered by the publication of various ‘provocating pamphlets;’ and the month came to a conclusion with the preachings of the 30th of January, and the comments made on the sermons next day. Bishop Mawson, of Chichester, preached before the Lords at St. Peter’s, Westminster; Dr. Rutherford before the Commons at St. Margaret’s; while a reverend gentleman, who is variously called ‘Pursack’ and ‘Persover,’ aroused the echoes of St. Paul’s in the ears of the Lord Mayor and Aldermen. Finally, an anonymous poet swept the lyre in laudation of the duke. How he made the chords ring may be gathered from a single line:―― Blast, gracious God, th’ assassins’ hell-bred scheme!