in no degree affluent circumstances, their generosity was such, they never regarded any expense that was in their power, and almost out of it, in whatever concerned the welfare of their children. We are three brothers of us. The eldest settled very reputably in their own way, and the youngest in the Birmingham trade. For myself, a poor scholar, as you know, I am almost ashamed to own to you how solicitous they always were to furnish me with all the opportunities of the best and most liberal education. My case in so many particulars resembles that which the Roman poet describes as his own, that with Pope's wit I could apply almost every circumstance of it to myself. And if ever I were to wish in earnest to be a poet, it would be for the sake of doing justice to so uncommon a virtue. I should be a wretch if I did not conclude, as he does, "si Natura juberet A certis annis ævum remeare peractum, Atque alios legere ad fastum quoscunque parentes, In a word, when they had fixed us in such a rank of life as they designed, and believed would satisfy us, they very wisely left the business of the world to those who wanted it more, or liked it better. They considered what age and declining health seemed to demand of them, reserving to themselves only such a support as their few and little wants made them think sufficient. I should beg pardon for troubling you with this humble history; but the subjects of it are so much, and so tenderly, in my thoughts at present, that if I wrote at all, I could hardly help writing about them. I shall long to hear that you have put the last hand to the "View of Bolingbroke." If ever you write above yourself, it is when your zeal for truth and religion animates you to expose the "ignorance of foolish men.” I am ever most warmly, &c. LETTER IV. Richard Hurd. Dr. Hurd to Dr. Warburton. Shifnal, Sept. 13, 1755. Your truly friendly letter of the thirty first past, brought me all the relief I am capable of in my present situation. Yet that relief had been greater if the fact were, as you suppose, that the best of fathers is removing from me, in this maturity of age, by a gradual, insensible decay of nature; in which case, I could have drawn to myself much ease from the considerations which you so kindly suggest to me. But it is not his being out of all hope of recovery, (which I knew long since, and was prepared for,) but his being in perpetual pain, that afflicts me so much. I left him last night in this dis tressful condition. So near a prospect of death, and so rough a passage to it! I own to you I cannot be a witness of this in one whom nature and ten thousand obligations have made so dear to me, without the utmost uneasiness. Nay, I think, my sense of the calamity is sharpened by the very temper and firmness of mind with which he bears it. I thank God, an attachment to this world has not as yet been among my vices. But were I as fond of it, as prosperous and happy men sometimes are, what I have seen and felt for this last month were enough to mortify such foolish affections. And in truth it would amaze one, that a few instances like this, which hardly any man is out of the reach of, did not strike dead all the passions, were it not that Providence has determined, in spite of ourselves, by means of these instincts, to accomplish his own great purposes. But why do I trouble my best friend with this sad tale, and these rambling reflections? I designed only to tell him that Í am quite unhappy here, and that, though it is more than time for me to return to Cambridge, I have no power of coming to a thought of leaving this place. However, a very few weeks, perhaps a few days, may put an end to this irresolution. I thank you for your fine observation on the neglect to reform the Ecclesiastical Laws. It is a very material one, and deserves to be well considered: but of these matters, when I return to my books, and my mind is more easy. I wish you all the happiness this world will admit. I know of nothing that reconciles me more to it, than the sense of having in it such a friend as you. I have the greatest obligations to Mrs. Warburton and the rest of your family for their kind condolence. My best respects and sincere good wishes attend them. I must ever be &c. Richard Hurd. LETTER V. Dr. Hurd to Dr. Warburton. Cambridge, Dec. 1, 1755. I have to tell you that it has pleased God to release my father from his great misery. You will guess the rest, when I acquaint you that his case was can cerous. All his family have great reason to be thankful for his deliverance: and yet I find myself not so well prepared for the stroke as I had thought. He was the best of men in all relations; and had a generosity of mind that was amazing in his rank of life. In his long and great affliction he showed a temper which philosophers only talk of. If he had any foible, it was, perhaps, his too great fondness for the unworthiest of his sons. My mother is better than could be expected from her melancholy attendance: yet her health has suffered.I have many letters to write; but I would not omit 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. Richard Hurd. LETTER VI. 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 dispo sition. 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 Gibral tar to the Highlands of Scotland. To these suppose 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, |