communicating, what so tenderly concerns me, to my best friend.

I thank you for your books and your kind letters. Mr. Balguy and I think much more hardly of Jortin than you do. I could say much of this matter at another time. I am &c.

LETTER VI.

Richard Hurd.

Dr. Warburton's answer to the preceding letter.

I ought rather to rejoice with all who loved that good man lately released, than to condole with them. Can there be a greater consolation to his friends than that he was snatched from human miseries to the reward of his labours? You I am sure must rejoice, amidst all the tenderness of filial piety, and the softenings of natural affection. The gentle melancholy, that the incessant memory of so indulgent a parent, and so excellent a man, will make habitual, will be always brightened with the sense of his present happiness; where, perhaps, one of his pleasures is his ministering-care over those who were dearest to him in life. I dare say this will be your case, because the same circumstances have made it mine. My great concern for you was while your father was languishing on his deathbed. And my concern at present is for your mother's grief and ill state of health.

As I know your excellent nature, I conjure you by our friendship to divert your mind by the conversation of your friends, and by reading, till you have fortified it sufficiently to bear the reflection on this common calamity of our nature, without any other emotion than that occasioned by a kind of soothing melancholy, which perhaps keeps it in a better frame than any other kind of disposition. You see what man is, whenever so little within the

verge of matter and motion in a ferment. The affair of Lisbon has made men tremble, as well as the Continent shake, from one end of Europe to another; from Gibraltar to the Highlands of Scotland. To suppose these desolations the scourge of Heaven for human impieties, is a dreadful reflection; and yet to suppose ourselves in a forlorn and fatherless world, is ten times a more frightful consideration. In the first case, we may reasonably hope to avoid our destruction by the amendment of our manners; in the latter, we are kept incessantly alarmed by the blind rage of warring elements.

The relation of the captain of a vessel, to the Admiralty, as Mr. Yorke told me the story, has something very striking in it. He lay off Lisbon on this fatal first of November, preparing to hoist sail for England. He looked towards the city, in the morning, which gave the promise of a fine day; and he saw that proud metropolis rise above the waves, flourishing in wealth and plenty, 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 to me. 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.

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. He 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.

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, 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

* 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.

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.

I would have come to you directly, but you do not say 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 melancholy 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; 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;

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.