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turalists tell us, is comprised within the compass of a summer's day. Indeed, these winter-flies bave a still shorter date. Into what dark regions mine is retired, with the rest, I don't know. But if you would amuse yourself with my thoughts, for sixpence you may have my Discourse on the Lord's Supper; for, as small as the price is, it is too big to send you in my frank.

On this occasion, I will tell you what (though perhaps I may have told you before) I said in the drawing-room to a knot of courtiers in the old king's time. One chanced to say, he heard the king was not well. Hush, said colonel Robinson, it is not polite or decent to talk in this manner; the king is always well and in health; you are never to suppose that the diseases of his subjects ever approach his royal person. I perceive then, colonel, replied I, there is some difference be tween your master and mine. Mine was subject to all human infirmities, sin excepted: yours is subject to none, sin excepted. But as concerning my discourse, it is assuredly orthodox: so says the archbishop of Canterbury; and that I have demolished both Hoadly and Bossuet: for

""Tis the same rope at either end they twist."

The archbishop did not say this, but Mr. Pope. However, the archbishop says, what you are likely enough to say after him-that the people, for whom I intend this edition, are not likely to profit much by it.

Decay of parts all must have, if not feel, poets as well as priests: and it is true what was told you, that Voltaire has lately given evidence to this truth. What you say of this poet's turn would

make an excellent note to-But, sage historians 'tis your part, &c. and perhaps shall do so.

God bless you; and, when you write next, let me know how your good mother does; that is, whether her health continues such as not to increase your cares and anxieties.

LETTER VII.

MR. HURD TO THE BISHOP OF GLOUCESTER.

Thurcaston, Dec. 25, 1761.

THOUGH I troubled your lordship with a letter not long since, yet you will perhaps excuse my appearing before you, at this time, with my Christmas salutations: a good old custom, which shows our forefathers made a right use of the best tidings that ever came from heaven; I mean, to increase good-will towards men.

Your lordship will take a guess, from the sermonic cast of this sentence, at my late employment. Though I am not likely to be called upon in this way, I know not what led me to try my hand at a popular sermon or two: I say popular, because the subjects and manner of handling are such, but not of the sort that are proper for my Leicestershire people. To what purpose I have taken this trouble, your lordship may one day understand. For you, who are my example and guide in these exercises, must also be my judge. If you blame, I may learn to write better if you approve, I shall require no other theatre. But when does your lordship think to instruct us on this head, in the address to your clergy? Certainly,

:

the common way of sermonizing is most wretched: neither sense, nor eloquence; reason, nor pathos. Even our better models are very defective. I have lately turned over Dr. Clarke's large collection, for the use of my parish; and yet, with much altering, and many additions, I have been able to pick out no more than eight or ten that I could think passable for that purpose. He is clear and happy enough in the explication of scripture; but miserably cold and lifeless; no invention, no dignity, no force; utterly incapable of enlarging on a plain thought, or of striking out new ones: in short, much less of a genius than I had supposed him.

"Tis well you have not my doings before you, while I am taking this liberty with my betters. But, as I said, your lordship shall one day have it in your power to revenge this flippancy upon me.

Your lordship has furnished me with a good part of my winter's entertainment, I mean by the books you recommended to me. I have read the Political Memoirs of Abbé St. Pierre. I am much taken with the old man honest and sensible; full of his projects, and very fond of them; an immor. tal enemy to the glory of Louis the XIVth, I suppose, in part, from the memory of his disgrace in the academy, which no Frenchman could ever forget; in short, like our Burnet, of some importance to himself, and a great talker. These, I think, are the outlines of his character. I love him for his generous sentiments, which in a churchman of his communion are the more commendable, and indeed make amends for the lay-bigotry of M. Crevier.

I have by accident got a sight of this mighty Fingal. I believe I mentioned my suspicions of the Fragments: they are ten-fold greater of this epic poem. To say nothing of the want of external evidence, or, which looks still worse, bis shuffling over in such a manner the little evidence he pretends to give us, every page appears to me to afford internal evidence of forgery. His very citations of parallel passages bear against him. In poems of such rude antiquity, there might be some Hashes of genius. But here they are continual, and clothed in very classical expression. Besides, no images, no sentiments, but what are matched in other writers, or may be accounted for from usages still subsisting, or well known from the story of other nations: in short, nothing but what the enlightened editor can well explain himself. Above all, what are we to think of a long epic poem, disposed, in form, into six books, with a beginning, middle, and end, and enlivened, in the classic taste, with episodes? Still this is nothing. What are we to think of a work of this length, preserved and handed down to us entire, by oral tradition, for 1400 years without a chasm, or so much as a various reading, I should rather say, speaking? Put all this together, and if Fingal be not a forgery, convict; all I have to say is, that the sophists have a fine time of it. They may write, and lie on, with perfect security. And yet has this prodigy of North Britain set the world agape. Mr. Gray believes in it; and without doubt this Scotsman may persuade us, by the same arts, that Fingal is an original poem, as another employed to prove that Milton was a pla

giary. But let James Macpherson beware the
consequence.
Truth will out, they say, and
then-

"Qui Bavium non odit, amet tua carmina, Mævi."

My dear lord, excuse this rhapsody, which I write currente calamo; and let me hear that your lordship, Mrs. Warburton, and the dear boy, are perfectly well. I think to write by this post to Mr. Allen.

ECA

BO

DONNA
NUE TIC

LETTER VIII.

THE BISHOP OF GLOUCESTER TO MR. HURD.

Grosvenor-square, Nov. 24, 1762.

MY DEAR RECTOR OF FOLKTON *,

THIS shall be only to remind you of what you may forget.

Imprimis, your first fruits. Your friend Pearson has put me in mind of this.

Item. Should you not write a letter of thanks to the chancellor, into whose favour you seem to have been much crept?

Item. Should you not write to the bishop of London, to thank him for his recommendation to his brothers?

Item. Should you not write a letter of thanks to the archbishop of York? I have sent you his letter enclosed.

*The sinecure rectory of Folkton, near Hunmanby, E. R. of Yorkshire, vacated by the translation of Dr. Osbaldiston from Carlisle to London, and giveu me by the chancellor, lord Nor. thington, at the request of Mr. Allen.-H.

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