"As I have not received any answer from you, sir, I conclude that you persevere in the resolution of refusing all marks of his majesty's goodness, as long as they must remain a secret. I have, therefore, applied to General Conway to have this condition removed; and I have been so fortunate as to obtain his promise, that he would speak to the king for that purpose. It will only be requisite, said he, that we know previously from M. Rousseau, whether he would accept of a pension publicly granted him, that his majesty may not be exposed to a second refusal. He gave me authority to write to you on the subject; and I beg to hear your resolution as soon as possible. If you give your consent, which I earnestly entreat you to do, I know that I can depend on the good offices of the Duke of Richmond to second General Conway's application; so that I have no doubt of success. I am, my dear sir, yours, with great sincerity."[326:1] This brought on the first gust of the storm. On 23d June, Rousseau wrote his celebrated letter, beginning with the observation, that his silence, interpreted by Hume's conscience, must have convinced the latter that the whole of his horrible designs were discovered. In this letter nothing is more remarkable than the contrast between the frantic bitterness of the language, and the elaborate neatness of the penmanship, which, if handwriting conveyed a notion of character, would represent a calm, contented mind, gratifying itself by the exercise of the petty art of caligraphy. A fac-simile of the concluding paragraph is given, that the reader may have an opportunity of marking this singular contrast. [Illustration] Hume, now thoroughly angry, wrote as follows:-- HUME _to_ ROUSSEAU. "_June 26, 1766._