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desired me to reach him the Ethics. He then referred to the ninth and tenth chapters of that treatise, where he deduces the immortality of the soul from her natural desire of future happiness. Aristotle, he said, had been supposed to hold the soul to be mortal, by those who did not rightly understand his philosophy. The mistake arose from his speaking of the operations of the soul as corporeal. In this sense he often applied the word Tex or intellect, as a corporeal instrument depending only on phantasy. But he then means only the passive intellect or thinking faculty, which is corporeal, but subordinate to a superior intellect which is indestructible. This conversation was fixed in my memory, because it led me to a more careful perusal of the Ethics, and convinced me of the accuracy and extent of Parr's knowledge.

Parr certainly looked upon Sir James Mackintosh as a great metaphysician; and I have often been present at debates between them on these subjects. The sturdy "dialectician of the North" was sometimes compelled to give in. "Jemmy, why do you seek a refuge in such miserable logomachics?" gave one evening a sudden termination to a discussion, which had already occupied more time than in a mixed company topics of this kind are usually allowed.

It is to be lamented, that, like other friendships, that of Parr and Mackintosh suffered a long interruption. It were an injustice to both to rake up the circumstance that led to it. I met Sir James one day, when he alluded to the misunderstanding. "You and Parr not friends!" I exclaimed, with some movement of surprise; "why, you were the idol whom he worshipped."- -"That may be," replied Mackintosh; "but Parr is sometimes a furious iconoclast, who knocks down the idols he has set up." They were afterwards reconciled through the intervention of Perry.

Of Hippancy of remark on religious subjects, Parr was highly impatient. He once, in my hearing, rebuked a Mr. F a barrister, in good set terms. The gentleman had somewhat inconsiderately observed, that it was human authority only that had put the seal of authenticity on the books of scripture, and that the councils of Trent and of Nice had decided those that were apocryphal, and those that were not so. Parr, with some difficulty, heard him to the end of his sentence, when a most ominous puff issued from his pipe. Then he addressed him nearly in these words: "Mr. Frith, or Mr. Forth, or Mr. Froth-excuse me if I forget your name-I have not the honour of your acquaintance, and the specimen you have just given us of your theological science, does not make me highly ambitious of it: Sir, give me leave to tell you, that you are as far from correct chronology in your remark, as from right reasoning. Those two councils, which sat at widely remote periods of time, had nothing to do with the distinction between the books at present received in our church: it arose from the consent of the early churches, and is built upon the authority of the ancient fathers. You have mentioned an opinion on a subject which you ought never to have approached, and have betrayed ignorance without modesty, and pedantry without learning. Leave these matters to maturer knowledge and sounder understandings. advice I honestly give you. In the words of Lucretius I will inforce it: 'Ne mea dona tibi studio disposta fideli,

Intellecta priusquam sint contempta relinquas.""

This

It was, I think, in 1800, the spring of that year, that Parr had lodgings at a Mr. Hayward's of Carey-street. I met him at the Whig Club, which was then held at the Crown and Anchor. He invited me to sup with him. There were present that evening, the late Mr. Whitbread, Sir James Mackintosh, Dr. Joseph Warton, Lord Grey, and Mr. Fonblanque, the Chancery lawyer. A debate arose between Parr and Fonblanque upon the origin of justice. Parr referred it to a moral sense-the moralis facultas of Grotius. This was combated by Mr. Fonblanque with some degree of verbosity, which Parr very happily turned into ridicule. Fonblanque could bear himself no longer; but with great solemnity addressed Parr thus. "I am astonished that a man of such acknowledged powers as Dr. Parr should condescend to

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such mean instruments of controversy as that of misrepresenting his antagonist." Parr, taking the pipe out of his mouth at the end of this pompous sentence, thus rejoined: Mr. Fonblanque, Sir, why should I ridicule positions, which, the moment they are stated, provoke a smile? and why should I misrepresent that, which you have already weakened by your own diffusion, and perplexed by your own reiteration?" The gravity of this dialogue was genuine farce.

I have already mentioned the complexion of Parr's politics. The moderation of his sentiments, which, though maintained with firmness, were never unseasonably obtruded, did not exempt him during the Birmingham riots from the menaces of the brutalised mob, who, Parr always believed, were goaded on by the clergy and other bigoted persons. His house was certainly threatened, and arrangements were made for putting it into a state of defence. It was conjectured, that his acquaintance with Dr. Priestley, with whom he widely differed on theological subjects, but whom he highly venerated for his scientific attainments, had brought down these denunciations of popular vengeance. After a protracted state of alarm and suspense, it was found that the rioters had proceeded in another direction. In a pamphlet published by Parr on the subject of the riots, he thus alludes to the circumstance. I quote from memory, for I have not the book. After avowing his occasional visits to Dr. Priestley, he proceeds thus:

"And was it for this, and this only, that for three days and three nights my family was threatened by brutal ruffians; my house devoted to conflagration by midnight incendiaries; my books, the pride of my youth and the solace of my declining years, doomed to destruction? Of all the paradoxes that perplex conjecture and baffle probability, Man is the most tormenting. He is a savage in the bosom of society; a tyrant for the supposed honour of his country; the persecutor of his species for the imaginary glory of his God."

The pamphlet which Parr entitled "Sequel to a Printed Paper," &c., had its origin in a singular incident. In the midst of the "Church and King" cry of that day (it prevailed most vehemently in Birmingham and its neighbourhood) he had received an anonymous letter full of offensive allusions to his political sentiments. This letter, by a rapid, but as it afterwards turned out an erroneous inference, he ascribed to a Mr. Curtis, rector of one of the parishes at Birmingham, and wrote a long and elaborate reply to it, which he sent in manuscript to that gentleman. To this Curtis rejoined in a printed pamphlet, disavowing the letter, and incidentally entering with some warmth into the political discussions with which the public mind was then heated. Parr's pamphlet, which I have mentioned, was, in law-phrase, the sur-rejoinder to this. He gave it the contemptuous title of "Sequel to a Printed Paper by the Reverend William Curtis," &c. It is a laboured composition, de omnibus rebus et quibusdam aliis-a kind of drag-net, which brought up along with the great subjects, "whereof all Europe rang from side to side," a whole fry of petty provincial polemics and local gossipings, all indiscriminately dignified with the same solemnity of dissertation, and the same ceaseless recurrence of the triplet, with which it was Parr's peculiar theory of composition to treat every topic, however trivial and subordinate. As for the poor rector, he was covered from head to foot with learned vituperation, through a long string of passages from Greek and Roman antiquity. These were sometimes translated in a tone of affected commiseration for the supposed ignorance of Curtis. This tract, however, is by no means the happiest specimen of Parr's talents. It displays, indeed, a wonderful power of giving importance to what is essentially insignificant, but, as a whole, it is little more than a massive accumulation of words,

"Sine pondere habentia pondus."

After all, it was never satisfactorily proved that the anonymous letter,

which had conjured up this storm of eloquence, came from Curtis. He himself disavowed it; and his disavowal, in default of all proof to the contrary, ought to have been acquiesced in. On the other hand, it was more than suspected to have been a trick of Tom Sheridan, who sent it in a disguised hand to Parr. Tom, indeed, did not foresee the angry controversy on which so much good passion was afterwards wasted; for there was no love of mischief in his freaks, and he valued his venerable preceptor too highly to give him unnecessary pain. I have reason to believe, that some years afterwards this excellent youth acknowledged the fact; and not without the self-reproach of an honourable and ingenuous mind.

There is a curious literary fact connected with this pamphlet, which I cannot forbear mentioning, not as proving any thing with respect to Parr, the variety and extent of whose attainments are beyond all question, but as an illustration in general of the art of piling up a Cyclopean structure of learned quotations, like those which Parr brought together to prove Curtis a blockhead. Not long after its appearance (from Parr's reputation, and the reading scattered over its pages, it made considerable noise), a friend of Mr. Curtis composed a small pamphlet, disputing the originality of the learning displayed in Parr's work, and professing to show that the passages quoted did not rush in the first instance from the stores of his own memory, but were taken second-hand from the compilations of grammarians, particularly from that of Stobæus, where they might be found ready ticketed and labelled under their respective heads.

Now, to such an imputation, Parr, of all men in the world, was least open. But it did by a curious coincidence happen, that in his Tract six or seven Greek passages followed in the same order in which they had been ranged by Stobaeus. As I have said already, it proves little or nothing against Parr. A learned friend of mine once tried a similar experiment, upon the "Pursuits of Literature,"--that is to say, upon the notes in that confused lumber-room of quotations-by tracing in like manner a long series of them to secondary sources. Yet no man ever disputed the learning of Mathias.

Parr wrote another pamphlet, much shorter indeed, but much abler, upon the subject of the Birmingham riots. It may be remembered, that the primary cause of those disturbances was the obstinacy of a party in the town, who, in spite of every warning or remonstrance, and of the strongest indications of the popular feeling against them, persisted in celebrating the anniversary of the French Revolution. The consequences are well known. Notwithstanding this awful admonition, the same persons, previous to the 14th of July in the following year, expressed their determination to commemorate the same event. Parr lamented their infatuation, and, to dissuade them from an obstinate adherence to their resolution, addressed them in the little tract I have just mentioned. He gave it the quaint title of a "Letter from a Citizen of Irenopolis to a Citizen of Eleutheropolis." It is a calm, but dignified remonstrance, urged with great force of argument, and in easy and flowing language. It was written in nine hours, currente calamo, and its ease and its simplicity are perhaps owing to this circumstance. In respect to Parr's fulldressed and laboured compositions, it was his deshabille style, if I may so call it. It had, however, a powerful effect, and weaned the hot-headed young men, for whom it was principally intended, from their absurd project. Parr, when he occasionally came to London, sometimes visited Mrs. Linley, Sheridan's mother-in-law, at her house in Southampton-street, Covent-garden. She was then advanced in years, but I have heard him say, that he could trace, as he thought, in her countenance, many of the traits which he had often admired in Mrs. Sheridan and her sister Mrs. Tickell. Parr said, that a fine woman in years was viewed with a sort of feeling, like that of seeing the temples of the Gods in ruin. Her fare was homely; but at her table he did as he liked. To the hospitable interrogation, upon his preparing to dine with her, of "Doctor, what shall I give you for dinner?" his almost invariable answer was, "Nothing, iny dear Madam, but

a shoulder of mutton; but then you are not to forget the onion-sauce." I mention this to show, that Parr, though fond of good eating, was not an epicure; for a shoulder of mutton, with its perpetual adjunct, onion sauce, was for many years among his household divinities.

Mrs. Linley, several years after the death of her husband, was desirous of publishing a volume of the posthumous music of that eminent composer. Sheridan undertook to procure the Prince of Wales's permission to dedicate it to his Royal Highness, at the same time promising to write the dedication himself. The subscription was filled, the engraving struck off; weeks and weeks glided away, and no dedication. Her perplexity was mentioned to Parr, who instantly dictated the following, at least as near as I can recollect it.

"To His Royal Highness George Prince of Wales, &c. &c.

"Sir, It is the natural wish of one, from whom death has taken the best and tenderest of friends, to seek a laudable solace of her sorrows, by carrying into effect the wishes, that lay the nearest to his heart, whilst living. It was one of the most cherished purposes of my deceased husband, to place this volume at the feet of your Royal Highness, whom he reverenced as the skilful judge, and loved as the munificent patron, of his favourite art. Under the authority of such an example, and the auspices of such a protection, may I be permitted to hope, that Music in this island will vindicate her rank, not merely among the idle amusements, which minister to our pleasures, but among the salutary influences, which soften and amend the heart? I have the honour to be, &c. &c.

M. LINLEY."

This dedication was not adopted; for not long after it had been sent to Mrs. Linley, Sheridan's arrived. Talking once with him on the subject of dedications in a friend's library, he desired me to take down the first volume of Burney's History of Music, and to read to him the dedication of that work to the Queen. "There," said he, "there is the true refinement of compliment without adulation. In the short compass of a few lines are comprised no small degree of the force, and nearly all the graces, and the harmonies of the English Language. But Burney did not write it. Johnson wrote it; and on this, as on other occasions, showed himself an accomplished courtier. Jemmy Boswell.ought to have known that Johnson wrote it. I had it from good authority; besides it is Johnson's internally." It is singular that Boswell, who exerted so much industry in tracing all the papers of this kind which Johnson wrote for his friends, should have omitted this dedication. How truly Johnsonian is the following passage:

"The science of musical sounds has been depreciated as appealing only to the ear, and affording nothing more than a fugitive and temporary delight; but it may justly be considered as the art, which unites corporal with intellectual pleasure, by a species of enjoyment, which gratifies sense, without weakening reason; and which, therefore, the Great may cultivate without debasement, and the Good may enjoy without depravation."

THE PAST.

THE visions of the buried time come thronging dearer far
Than joys the present hour can give, than present objects are ;—
I love to dwell among their shades, unfolding to my view
The dreams of perish'd men and years, and by-gone glory too.
For though such retrospect is sad, it is a sadness sweet,
The forms of those whom we revere in memory to greet,
Since nothing in this changing world is constant but decay,
And early flowers but bloom the first, to pass the first away!

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A YEAR IN HUNGARY.

A Tale founded in fact, and translated from the Spanish of the Rev. Joseph Blanco White.

In the season of youth, when the spirits mount like new wine into the head, the country in general disposes to a joyousness of feeling that overflows the whole heart; but in the soberer days of middle age the beauties of the rural scene produce a pleasure, which, in its outward effects, might almost be mistaken for melancholy.

Friends of my youth! (whithersoever the dreadful storm in which Spain has been sunk may have tossed you) Oh, if these lines should ever reach you, and recall the pleasant memory of the days in which, upon the banks of the Guadalquivir and the Manzanares, we dissipated in the delights of friendship, and of the fields, the bitter sense of our Country's slavery; know that at the end of many years, and in the repose of that period of life which borders on old age, and in the sobriety of that experience which narrows the range to the flights of hope,-your friend can never spend a spring-day upon the delightful banks of the Thames without mingling his tears with the remembrance of the companions of his youth. Why are they not here? I say within myselfwhy have not they too broken in time, as I have done, the political chains wherewith the name of country rivets them to a soil to which freedom of thought and of opinion are unknown? Alas! those chains are doubled upon them by the generous hope of being of service to a people whom the poison of superstition has worked into delirium, and over whom ignorance and despotism lord it as they will. But where is the remedy for ills like those of Spain? Where is the probable cure for a superstition that has rooted itself there for ages?

I am giving, however, I am sensible, but a bad proof of the repose of which I spoke at first; but when a mournful idea suddenly presents itself to the mind, cold and rude of soul must that writer be, who through fear of a digression can forbear to give free course for a moment to the affections excited in his heart. As the story, moreover, which I am about to relate is of a melancholy nature, the mournful recollections which have visited me may serve, by the similarity of their tone, to prepare the ear, like a prelude in music, for what is to follow. Return we then to the banks of the Thames.

On a lovely spring-day, in which the earth appeared canopied with one of those delicious skies, which are occasionally seen in the uncertain climate of England, I felt disposed to make an excursion in the steamvessel, which at this season of the year daily ascends the river from the Tower of London as far as the beautiful town of Richmond. A light breeze from the South-west stirred the waters and the leaves with just the degree of motion necessary to dissipate the sense of that heavy stillness, which, by reason of the moisture wherewith the atmosphere abounds in calm and sunny days, hangs over the rural scene in England.

After I had waited for a while by the river-side, diverted by the bustling scene which the neighbourhood of London presents at all hours, I descried at a distance the moving column of smoke which indicated the approach of the vessel. In a short time the vessel itself appeared, cutting its way majestically through the water, and dashed on

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