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ger on every one that comes in his way; while, instead of a genial and generous strain of admiration for the man whom he pretends to eulogise, he keeps incessantly pouring out reproaches against those, compared with whom, either in virtue or in talents, he, be he who he may, would at once be "diminished to his head." Reflecting persons are not thus to be deceived. This writer does not wear the air of sincerity and truth. He does not care one iota about the character of the Bishop of Landaff-he assumes an appearance of veneration for that great man, that he may indulge his spleen against a man far greater still, and he drivels out his impotent eulogies on Richard Watson, that he may mingle them with still more impotent execrations on William Pitt.

When he asserts that Pitt had no doubts of the orthodoxy of Watson, and thought him in all respects wor thy of promotion to a richer See, but that he was afraid to offend his Sovereign, lest he might lose his place, and therefore, in deference to what is called the prejudices of that Sovereign, sacrificed the duty he owed to the interests of religion, he asserts what he knew to be false. Pitt never did, and never could think Watson a fit person to be raised to the very highest dignities of the church. That divine had, beyond all bounds of reason, at one time given up his mind to an admiration of the French Revolution-a revolution which at no period was such as to demand the unqualified praise of a minister of our religion. Though he afterwards abjured his faith in the revolutionary creed, there still remained in his political opinions much of the ancient leaven-he was a man who submitted impatiently to constituted authority in others, though most ambitious to possess it in himself-he saw no especial merit in the establishment of the church of England, and felt for it no especial veneration-and though this Reviewer says, with a most laughable simplicity, that "he never was a party-man," it is reluctantly admitted by his best friends, that he was in all temporal things ambitious overmuch, while it was, and is, notorious to the whole world, that he often interfered with mean party-politics in a way highly unbecoming his sacred profession.-Pitt was right in thinking, that moderation, temper,

suavity, meekness, and Christian humility, are qualities essential in the character of that churchman who sits on the Episcopal bench. He did not think, that high stations in the church establishment were to be demanded as a right-claimed as a possession-seized on as a prey. He thought, and he thought justly, that with all his talents, erudition, and virtues, Richard Watson was not entitled to higher promotion than he enjoyed.

That this view of Bishop Watson's character was a just one, his Memoirs have shewn to all the world. It is a gross absurdity to maintain, that men are to be made bishops solely on the score of talents. It is still more absurd to maintain, that if a man of talents has been made a bishop, it is wicked and infamous not to continue to promote him to the highest bishoprick of all. This Reviewer could not have more dolorously whined over the fate of Watson, or more bitterly vituperated Pitt, though the minister had left the theologian to pine away in poverty and oblivion. He, and others of his Whig friends, seem most tenderly alive to their own interests and those of their party. The good things of this life, contrary to the ordinary laws of nature, acquire magnitude in proportion to their distance, and offices of trust and honour, in church and state, assume to them a more magnificent and overshadowing grandeur in the hopeless distance of an everlasting perspective. It is a sure way of making themselves and their friends ridiculous, to be constantly deploring the injustice of ministers to the great men of their party; and there cannot be a more ludicrous instance of such folly, than this of holding up to commiseration the late Bishop of Landaff as a neglected man, cruelly suffered to drag out his existence with only five thousand a year of church preferment. It can but excite laughter to hear such complaints uttered for the sake of a man who wanted only those highest of all honours which he did not deserve, and who can be said to have been disappointed only because his arrogance was boundless and his ambition insatiable.

We ought almost to beg our readers' pardon for thus exposing the self-evident folly of all such accusations; but we wished to direct their attention to the pitiful weapons with

which this pitiful person has tried to wound the character of William Pitt. At this time of day, such imbecile attacks move something more than derision. We cannot bear to see one of the greatest intellects the world has ever produced treated in this way, even by an implacable enemy, If the giant statue is to be moved from its pedestal, it cannot be by a pigmy's hand. The voice of England has decreed that Pitt was a great man in his failings as in his strength; and it is now expected, by the people of England, that his character shall be spoken of, even by his enemies, with such a tone of feeling as the illustrious dead demand from all worthy to be their compatriots. In our blame of the great spirits who have left us, it is fitting that we hold in memory the imperishable impression which their characters have left on the mind of the country. We are unworthy of being sons of that country, if we disturb the awful repose of its veneration for the dead, by words which would have been condemned as splenetic and vile had they been applied to the living. It is one of the finest things in the character of our people, that they always think and feel truly of the great men who have died in their country's service. Pitt so died; and if his conduct is to be arraigned, let it be in a way unknown to this Reviewer, with some portion of that magnificence of language, and elevation of sentiment, that clothed the son of Chatham with perpetual power; let it be with all the freedom, but, at the same time, with all the dignity, of one who feels what noble ashes lie every where spread around his feet.

But we have a few words to say of more solemn import; and we ask, what manner of man he must be, who can think of what his Sovereign now is, and yet fears not to speak of him with bitterness and insult. We will not disgrace our pages with the dark disloyalty of this despiser of his King. But we will tell him, that he knows nothing of the spirit that reigns in this island, if he expects any other reward for that disloyalty than universal contempt and indignation. The Edinburgh Review is, we believe, the only journal of any pretensions to good feeling or principle that has spoken disrespectfully of the King; yet they, forsooth, are all true lovers of a limited monarchy. It

is with their loyalty as with their religion. They pretend to fear God and to honour the king; yet for twenty years have they been insidiously attacking Christianity, and they have not been on this, and many former instances of still greater atrocity, ashamed sneeringly to insult their Sovereign, now that his crown is laid by, and his head strewed with the dust and ashes

of affliction. That grand principle is admitted in its full force by all, of calling to a strict account the character of the kings of England when death has laid them side by side with their subjects. But we must not antedate our King's death that we may clutch the privilege of dissecting his life. It is well that kings should know that posterity will judge them with stern impartiality. We, who are free men, will send our free thoughts down into the grave. But we think not of this our privilege of free men, till death puts it into our hands, and then we use it with a solemn awe and a lofty compunction. But this man snatches it as a right which he impatiently thinks has been too long withheld—he frets because his Sovereign yet lives—he chides the tardy tomb that will not relax "its ponderous and marble jaws," and he angrily snatches, as it were out of the hand of nature, that privilege of condemnation which she would grant only when its object is a lump of earth. No genuine Briton would, like this Reviewer, suppose the King dead, on a fiction, that he might calumniate his memory. In other similar cases death calms anger, and often elevates it into a feeling that is sublime; but here the reviler seats himself within the shadow of the grave, that under its protection he may rail in safety against the human being whom it has entombed. This is a sight which the people of Britain will not calmly endure.

Having thus meanly calumniated a great dead statesman, and cruelly insulted his afflicted King, it is somewhat startling to hear this man advocating the cause of Christianity, and lamenting the untoward worldly lot of its successful champions.

Risum teneatis amici ?

An infidel writer, in an infidel Review, with a grave face, and in the dullest of all possible words, accuses the King and his Ministers of having neglected the interests of the only true religion. But we will ask him,

and his coadjutors and abettors, if the late Bishop of Landaff deserved honour and reward for his defence of Christianity (and he deserved and received it too), what do the infidel writers in the Edinburgh Review deserve for the twenty years warfare they have been waging against that same Christianity? This is a subject on which they ought not to open their mouths, for they open them but to confound themselves, and better to remain dumb for ever, than thus blindly to call down shame and punishment on their own degraded heads. They talk of Gibbon as having been "the most effectual" enemy of the Christian faith, and hypocritically eulogise Watson as his triumphant antagonist. They themselves, without any of Gibbon's eloquence or erudition, possess all his disbelief, and all his insidious malignity; and if Watson is worthy of all good men's reverence for having disarmed Gibbon, and blunted the edge of his weapons, they are deserving of all good men's hate for having picked up those weapons, tried to restore their edge, and wielded them with a determined, though a feeble hostility.

But this writer, with all his affected zeal for Christianity, is, after all, not quite comfortable in the idea of being thought a Christian. And he lets us know, that if Christianity can only be attacked in a calm, quiet, gentlemanly, philosophical manner, it is quite allowable to do so; as if it were a question of good manners, courtesy, and decorum, rather than one affecting the eternal happiness of the human soul.

"To attack," says he, " by ribaldry, or with virulence, or before the multitude, what millions of our fellow creatures believe, and hold sacred as well as dear, is beyond all question a serious offence, and the law punishes it as such. But to investigate religious questions as philosophers, calmly and seriously, with the anxiety of their high importance, and the diffidence which their intricacy prescribes, is not only allowable but meritorious; and if the conscientious inquirer is led by the light of his understanding TO A CONCLUSION DIFFERENT FROM THAT OF THE COMMUNITY, he may still, we should think, in many cases

PROMULGATE IT TO THE PHILOSOPHI

CAL WORLD," &c.

The meaning of all this is plain enough the Edinburgh Reviewer wishes to stand well with his infidel

friends, and, if possible, with his own inconsistent infidel self; and has, therefore, not scrupled to give the name of serious, anxious, conscientious, philosophical doubts, to the indecent, sneering, insidious, and malignant attacks of Gibbon, whose mind, whenever he spoke of Christianity, fell into melancholy degradation; and what is, if possible, still more barefaced, he has applied the same language of commendation to the feeble and feverish scepticism of the Edinburgh Review. The time is gone by when the reputation of being a philosopher could be acquired by disbelieving Christianity. The truth of Christianity is established; and none but weak or wicked persons would in these days seek to revive the long-exploded, and often refuted fooleries, misnamed arguments, by which soi-disant philosophers once strove to effect its overthrow. Had the Edinburgh Reviewers been high-souled and melancholy sceptics; preyed on in the solitude of meditation by fears that rose up from, and darkly overshadowed, the grave; had they shewn themselves to mourn over and deplore the curse of their own incurable infidelity; had they thought and spoken in the spirit of that religion whose divine origin was yet doubted by their reason; had they envied the happiness of the true believer, and expressed their own doubts, not in order to create or increase those of others, but if possible to obtain relief from the direful weight of darkness that loaded their own souls,-then might we have read their thoughts with a profound commiseration, extended to them not only forgiveness but sympathy, and acknowledged them to have had the feelings, if not the faith of Christians. But conscience tells them that such is not the nature of their scepticism. And when one of their number now dares to insinuate that it is so, he is met at once with an indignant denial from the whole Christian population of the land.There is nothing more shocking in their infidelity than its levity, except it be its ignorance. as unsuccessfully look throughout their writings for one lofty sentiment in their scepticism, as for one trace of knowledge of the history or evidence of Divine Revelation. They want scholarship sufficient to enable them to pass for decent infidels-they

We may

have been denied a degree in the schools of scepticism. There is not one of all their number who understands the language of the New Testament.

Before we conclude, let us shortly notice the feeble and querulous complaints which we understand the friends of this class of writers have, in the soreness of their wounded affection, been piping abroad. They would fain charge us with an unwarrantable interference with their religious opinions, which, it is said, are between themselves and their God. We know that there is, or ought to be, a sanctuary in every man's bosom, in which his own contrite spirit may hold converse with the Divine Being. Into that sanctuary we never sought sacrilegiously to enter. But the religion of the Edinburgh Reviewers is not between themselves and their God. Shame to the hypocrite who dares to utter such a falsehood. It is between themselves and the whole world. They have forced it upon those who wished not to hear it, they have juggled it into our minds under the cover of far different matters, they have decoyed us unawares into the dark nooks of their infidelity, when we believed that we were walking in an open country and in daylight-they have met us suddenly at the corners of streets, and thrust their manifestoes into our unwilling hands -they have, at times, ventured to cry loudly from the house-top. And can it indeed be, that now they wish to throw themselves on our mercy-on our charity-on our christian forbearance and to demand for themselves, after a long course of loud and brazen infidelity, a respectful and soothing attention to their feelings forsooththey who have all their lifetime so bitterly, and so savagely, and so unremittingly persecuted, reviled and ridiculed all those who fortunately differed from them in their religious belief. If they or their friends wish at once to subject themselves to the charge of the grossest and most foolish falsehood, let them declare boldly that the Edinburgh Review never attacked Christianity. The whole world knows that they have been its unceasing foes. And the whole world acknowledges that their wickedness in having so attacked Christianity, is only equalled by their folly in now denying it, and their pusillanimity under

that punishment which is now inflicting upon them, and of which they have as yet sustained but a very insig nificant portion.

The querulous eulogists of this infidel Journal have made use of a very delicate but perhaps not very apposite illustration. The religion of a man, they say, is like the virtue of a woman, and may be destroyed by the slightest breath. This is not happy. We cannot, for our lives, perceive any resemblance between a modest young virgin and an impudent old Edinburgh Reviewer. Were a young lady to make immodest gestures to gentlemen on the street, and indulge in loose conversation, no doubt her virtue would be suspected. But the reputation of a well-behaved woman is very safe in this country-and so is that of a sincere christian. When, however, a man tells the whole world that he does not believe Christianity, what can the world do but take him at his word ? Nor does it at all alter the matter, that his disbelief may have been told by inuendo and insinuation. It is not incumbent on us to shew an extreme and sensitive delicacy in our language to a man who has wholly dismissed it from his own practice and really, if we were seeking for a simile to apply to any of the infidel Edinburgh Reviewers, it would be just the reverse of that now so current among the agitated friends of their dissolving Confederacy.

LETTER FROM GRAY THE POET TO COUNT ALGAROTTI.

dence of Count Algarotti, in the possession [This Letter is taken from the Corresponof Mr Murray.]

SIR,

Cambridge, Sept. 9, 1763.

I RECEIVED, some time since, the unexpected honour of a letter from you, and the promise of a pleasure, which, till of late, I had not the opportunity of enjoying. Forgive me if I make my acknowledgments in my native tongue, as I see it is perfectly familiar to you; and I (though not unacquainted with the writings of Italy) should, from disuse, speak its language with an ill grace, and with still more constraint to one, who possesses it in all its strength and purity.

I see, with great satisfaction, your

efforts to reunite the congenial arts of Poetry, Musick, and the Dance, which, with the assistance of Painting and Architecture, regulated by taste, and supported by magnificence and power, might form the noblest scene, and bestow the sublimest pleasure, that the imagination can conceive: but who shall realize these delightful visions? There is, I own, one prince in Europe, that wants neither the will, the spirit, nor the ability; but can he call up Milton from his grave, can he reanimate Marcello, or bid the Barberina or the Sallé move again? Can he (as much a King as he is) govern an Ita lian Virtuosa, destroy her caprice and impertinence, without hurting her talents, or command those unmeaning graces and tricks of voice to be silent, that have gained her the adoration of her own country?

One cause that so long has hindered and (I fear) will hinder that happy union which you propose, seems to me to be this, that Poetry (which, as you allow, must lead the way, and direct the operations of the subordinate arts) implies at least a liberal education, a degree of literature, and various knowledge; whereas the others (with a few exceptions) are in the hands of slaves and mercenaries, I mean, of people without education, who, though neither destitute of genius, nor insensible to fame, must yet make gain their principal end, and subject themselves to the prevailing taste of those, whose fortune only distinguishes them from the multitude.

I can not help telling you, that eight or ten years ago, I was a witness of the power of your comic musick. There was a little troop of Buffi that exhibited a Burletta in London-not in the Opera House, where the audience is chiefly of the better sort, but on one of the common theatres, full of all kinds of people; and, I believe, the fuller from that natural aversion we bear to foreigners;-their looks and their noise made it evident they did not come thither to hear;-and, on similar occasions, I have known candles lighted-broken bottles and pen knives flung on the stage-the benches torn up the scenes hurried into the streets and set on fire. The curtain drew up, the musick was of Cocchi, with a few airs of Pergolesi interspersed: the singers were, as usual, deplorable, but there was one Girl (she called herself the

Nicollina) with little voice and less beauty, but with the utmost justness of ear-the strongest expression of countenance-the most speaking eyes-the greatest vivacity and variety of gesture. Her first appearance instantly fixed their attention; the tumult sunk at once, or, if any murmur rose, it was soon hushed by a general cry for silence. Her first air ravished every body

they forgot their prejudices-they forgot that they did not understand a word of the language,-they entered into all the humour of the part-made her repeat all her songs and continued their transports, their laughter, and applause, to the end of the piece. Within these three last years the Paganina and Amici have met with almost the same applause, once a-week, from a politer audience, on the Opera stage.

The truth is, the Opera itself, though supported here at a great expence for so many years, has rather maintained itself by the admiration bestow'd on a few particular voices, or the borrow'd taste of a few Men of condition, that have learned in Italy how to admire, than by any genuine love we bear to the Italian musick: nor have we yet got any style of our own, and this I attribute, in a great measure, to the language which, in spite of its energy, plenty, and the crowd of excellent writers this nation has produced, does yet, I am sorry to say it, retain too much of its barbarous original to adapt itself to musical composition. I by no means wish to have been born any thing but an Englishman; yet I should rejoice to exchange tongues with Italy.

Why this Nation has made no advances hitherto, in painting and sculpture, is hard to say. The fact is undeniable, and we have the vanity to apologize for our ourselves, as Virgil did for the Romans, " Excudent alii," &c. It is sure that Architecture had introduced itself in the reign of the unfortunate Charles the first, and Inigo Jones has left us some few monuments of his skill, that shew him capable of greater things. Charles had not only a love for the beautiful arts, but some taste in them. The confusion that soon follow'd, swept away his magnificent collection-the artists were dispersed or ruin'd-and the arts disregarded till very lately. The young Monarch now on the throne is said to esteem and understand them;

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