and founded on a rock that promised a poet's eternity, at least, to its grandeur. He looked an hour after; and saw the city involved in flames, and sinking in thunder. A sight more awful, mortal eyes could not behold on this side the day of doom.

I am &c.

William Warburton.

LETTER VII.

Dr. Hurd to Dr. Warburton.

Cambridge, Aug. 27, 1757.

I write one line, before I set out, to tell you how tenderly affected I am by your goodness to my poor mother. The honour of such a visit was best acknowledged by the language of the heart. And this, I am persuaded, would not be wanting, however she might be unable to express her sense of it in any other manner. Nothing, I know, can exceed her gratitude for your constant favours And if they make me happy on other accounts, think how they rejoice me when I see them contribute, as they do, to make her happy, who is so dear to me.

to me.

He

I must have more than the bias of filial piety in my mind, to be mistaken in thinking she is all you so kindly conceive of her. My father was just such another. had the same simplicity of mind, and goodness of heart, with an understanding that dignified both. In a word, my dear sir, (for though I spoke of writing but one line, I could fill my paper on this subject,) it has pleased Heaven to bestow upon me two of its choicest blessings, the best of parents and the best of friends. While I live, I must retain the warmest sense of such mercies; and, of course, be more than I can express, &c.

Richard Hurd.

LETTER VIII.

Dr. Warburton to Dr Hurd.

My dear friend,

I am willing to tell you with my own pen, as soon as I am able, that my cure proceeds as the physical people could wish. Providence has been graciously pleased to relieve this bad accident with the most favourable circumstances. Next to that, they tell me, I am indebted to a long habit of temperance; not otherwise meritorious, for I think I stumbled upon temperance in the pursuit of pleasure.

Ever most affectionately yours,

William Gloucester.

* Of breaking his left arm, by a fall in the garden of Prior Park,

13

CHAPTER VIII.

EXTRACTS FROM THE LETTERS OF MR.

GRAY."

LETTER I.

To his mother.

Cambridge, Nov. 7, 1749.

The news which I have just received from you, equally surprises and afflicts me. I have lost a person whom I loved very much*, and whom I have been used to from my infancy. But I am much more concerned for your loss, the circumstances of which I forbear to dwell upon, as you must be too sensible of them yourself: and you will, I fear, more and more need a consolation that no one can give, except HE who has preserved her to you so many years, and at last, when it was his pleasure, has taken her from us to himself; and perhaps, if we reflect upon what she felt in this life, we may look upon this as an instance of his goodness both to her, and to those who loved her. She might have languished many years before our eyes, in a continual increase of pain, and totally helpless: she might have long wished for the end of her misery without being able to attain it: or, she might even have lost all sense,

His aunt, Mrs. Mary Antrobus. She died on the fifth of November, and was buried in a vault in Stoke church-yard near the chancel door; in which also his mother and himself, according to the direction in his will, were afterwards buried.

and yet continued to breathe; a sad spectacle to such as must have felt more for her than she could have done for herself. However you may deplore your own loss, yet think that she is at last easy and happy; and has now more occasion to pity us than we her. I hope, and beg, you will support yourself with that resignation which we owe to HIM who gave us our being for our good, and who deprives us of it for the same reason.

say

I would have come to you directly, but you do not whether you desire I should or not; if you do, I beg I may know it, for there is nothing to hinder me, and I am in very good health.

LETTER II.

To Mr. Mason.

Durham, Dec. 26, 1753.

A little while before I received your melan

choly letter, I had been informed by Mr. Charles Avison

of one of the sad events you mention *.

I know what it is to lose persons whom one's eyes and

heart have long been used to; and I never desire to part with the remembrance of that loss, nor would I wish that you should. It is some consolation that you had time to acquaint yourself with the idea beforehand; and that your father suffered but little pain. After I have said this, I cannot help expressing my surprise at the disposition he has made of his affairs. I must (if you will suffer me to say so) call it great weakness: and yet perhaps your affliction for him is heightened by that very weakness;

*The death of Mr. Mason's father, and of Dr. Marmaduke Pricket, a young physician of his own age, with whom he was brought up from infancy, who died of the same infectious fever.

for, I know, it is possible to feel an additional sorrow for the faults of those whom we have loved, even when those faults have been greatly injurious to ourselves.— Let me desire you not to expose yourself to any further danger in the midst of that scene of sickness and death; but withdraw as soon as possible to some place at a little distance, in the country, for I do not, in the least, like your situation. I do not attempt to console you on the state your fortune is left in: if it were far worse, the good opinion I have of you tells me, you will not the sooner do any thing mean or unworthy of yourself; and consequently I cannot pity you on this account, but I do sincerely on the new loss you have had of a good and friendly man, whose memory I honour. I have seen the scene you describe, and I know how dreadful it is: I know too I am the better for it. We are all idle and thoughtless beings: and we have no sense, no use in the world, any longer than that sad impression lasts; the deeper it is engraved the better.

LETTER III.

To Mr. Nicholls.

IT is long since I heard you were gone in haste into Yorkshire, on account of your mother's illness. The same letter informed me that she was recovered otherwise, I had then written to you, only to beg you would take care of her; and to tell you that I had discovered a thing very little known, which is, that, in one's whole life, one can never have any more than a single mother. You may think this is obvious; and, what you call, a trite observation. You are a green gosling! I was, at the same age, very near as wise as you; and yet I never discovered this truth, (with full