Armstrong died at his house in Russel Street, Covent Garden, September 7, 1779, in consequence of an accidental contusion in his thigh, received while getting into a carriage. He was found, to the surprise of the world, to have saved the sum of £2000 out of his moderate income, which for many years had consisted of nothing more than his half-pay.
Dr Armstrong was much beloved and respected by his friends for his gentle and amiable dispositions, as well as his extensive knowledge and abilities; but a kind of morbid sensibility preyed upon his temper, and a languid listlessness too frequently interrupted his intellectual efforts. With Thomson's Castle of
Dr A. I hate politics; but I have been ill used by you, Dr Wilkes, on the occasion.
Mr W. On the contrary, Doctor, I was the injured friend.
Dr A. I thought you for many years the most amiable friend in the world, and loved your company the most; but you distinguished yourself by grossly abusing my countrymen in the North Briton—although I never read much of that paper.
Mr W. You passed your time, I am satisfied, much better. Who told you, Doctor, what particular numbers I wrote? It is droll, but the bitterest of these papers, which was attributed to me, was a description of Scotland, first printed in the last century, on Charles I.'s return from thence in 1633. Were you ever, Doctor, personally attacked by me? Were you not, although a Scotsman, at the very time of the North Briton, complimented by me, in conjunction with Churchill, in the best thing I wrote, the mock 'Dedication to Mortimer?'
Dr A. To be praised along with such a writer, I think an abuse.
Mr W. The world thinks far otherwise of that wonderful genius Churchill; but you, Doctor, have sacrificed private friendship at the altar of politics. After many years of mutual intercourse of good offices, you broke every tie of friendship with me on no pretence but a suspicion, for you did not ask for proof, of my having abused your country, that country I have for years together heard you inveigh against, in the bitterest terms, for nastiness and nationality.
Dr A. I only did it in joke, Sir; you did it with bitterness; but it was my country.
Mr W. No man has abused England so much as Shakspeare, or France so much as Voltaire- yet they remain the favourites of two great nations, conscious of their own superiority. Were you, Doctor, attacked by me in any one instance? Was not the most friendly correspondence carried on with you the whole time, till you broke it off by a letter, in 1763, in which you declared to me, that you could not with honour associate with one who had distinguished himself by abusing your country, and that you remained with all due sincerity? I remember that was the strange phrase.
Dr A. You never answered that letter, Sir.
Mr W. What answer could I give you, Doctor? You had put a period to the intercourse between us. I still continued to our common friends to speak of you in terms of respect, while you were grossly abusing me. You said to Boswell, Millar, and others, "I hope there is a hell, that Wilkes may lie in it."
Dr A. In a passion I might say so. People do not often speak thl minds in a passion.
Mr W. I thought they generally did, Doctor!
Dr A. I was thoroughly provoked, although I still acknowledge my great pecuniary obligations to you—although, I dare say, I would have got the money elsewhere.
Mr W. I was always happy to render you every service in my power; and I little imagined a liberal mind, like yours, could have been worked up by designing men to write mo such a letter in answer to an affectionate one I sent you, in the prospect of your return.
Dr A. I was happier with you than any man in the world for a great many years, and complimented you not a little in the Day, and you did not write to me for a year and a half after that.
Mr W. Your memory does not serve you faithfully, Doctor. In three or four months at farthest, you had two or three letters from me together, on your return to the head-quarters of the army. I am abused in Dies for that publication, and the manner, both of which you approved.
Dr A. I did so.
Mr W. I was abused at first, I am told, in the manuscript of Dies, for having sold the copy, and put the money in my pocket; but that charge was suppressed in the printed letter.
Dr A. I know nothing of that, and will do you justice.
Mr W. Will you call upon Mr D, our common friend, your countryman, and ask him what he thinks of your conduct to me, if it has not been wholly unjustifiable?
Dr A. Have I your leave to ask Mr Woodfall in your name about the letters?
Mr W. I have already told you, Doctor, what directions he has from me. Take four-and-twenty hours to consider what you have to do, and let me know the result.
Dr A. I am sorry to have taken up so much of your time, Sir.
Mr W. It stands in no need of an apology, Doctor. I am glad to see you. Good morrow.
N.B.—These minutes were taken down the same afternoon, and sent to a friend.
