mind, without reserve or disguise. There is something in disclosing to a friend the occasional emotions of one's heart, that wonderfully contributes to soothe and allay its perturbations, in all its most pensive or anxious moments. Nature, indeed, seems to have cast us with a general disposition to communication; though, at the same time, it must be acknowledged, there are few to whom one may safely be communicative. Have I not reason, then, to esteem it as one of the most desirable circumstances of my life, that I dare, without scruple or danger, think aloud to Philotes? It is merely to exercise that happy privilege I now take up my pen; and you must expect nothing in this letter but the picture of my heart in one of its splenetic hours. There are certain seasons, perhaps, in every man's life, when he is dissatisfied with himself and every thing around him, without being able to give a substantial reason for being so. At least, I am unwilling to think that this dark cloud, which at present hangs over my mind, is peculiar to my constitution, and never gathers in any breast but my own. It is much more, however, my concern to dissipate this vapour in myself, than to discover that it sometimes arises in others: as there is no disposition a man would rather endeavour to cherish, than a constant aptitude of being pleased: but my practice will not always credit my philosophy, and I find it much easier to point out my distemper than to remove it. After all, is it not a mortifying consideration, that the powers of reason should be less prevalent than those of matter; and that a page of Seneca cannot raise the spirits, when a pint of claret will? It might, methinks, somewhat abate the insolence of human pride, to consider, that it is but increasing or diminishing the velocity of certain fluids in the animal machine, to elate the soul with the gayest hopes, or sink her into the deepest despair; to depress the hero into a coward, or advance the coward into a hero. It is to some such mechanical cause I am inclined to attribute the present gloominess of my mind: at the same time, I will confess, there is something in that very consideration, which gives strength to the fit, and renders it so much the more difficult to throw off. For, tell me, is it not a discouraging reflection to find one's self "servile," as Shakspeare expresses it, to every skyey influence," and the sport of every paltry atom? to owe the ease of one's mind, not only to the disposition of one's own body, but almost to that of every other which surrounds us? Adieu. I am, &c. XIV. TO ORONTES. THE passage you quote is entirely in my sentiments. I agree both with that celebrated author and yourself, that our oratory is by no means in a state of perfection; and, though it has much strength and solidity, that it may yet be rendered far more polished and affecting. The growth, indeed, of eloquence, even in those countries where she flourished most, has ever been exceedingly slow. Athens had been in possession of all the other polite improvements, long before her pretensions to the persuasive arts were in any degree considerable; as the earliest orator of note among the Ro mans did not appear sooner than about a century before Tully. That great master of persuasion, taking notice of this remarkable circumstance, assigns it as an evidence of the superior difficulty of his favourite art. Possibly there may be some truth in the observation; but whatever the cause be, the fact, I believe, is undeniable. Accordingly, eloquence has by no means made equal advances in our own country with her sister arts; and though we have seen some excellent poets, and a few good painters, rise up amongst us, yet I know not whether our nation can supply us with a single orator of deserved eminence. One cannot but be surprised at this, when it is considered that we have a profession set apart for the purposes of persuasion; and which not only affords the most animating and interesting topics of rhetoric, but wherein a talent of this kind would prove the likeliest, perhaps, of any other to obtain those ambitious prizes, which were thought to contribute so much to the successful progress of ancient eloquence. Among the principal defects of our English orators, their general disregard of harmony has, I think, been the least observed. It would be injustice, indeed, to deny that we have some performances of this kind amongst us, tolerably musical; but it must be acknowledged, at the same time, that it is more the effect of accident than design, and rather a proof of the power of our language, than of the art of our orators. Dr. Tillotson, who is frequently mentioned as having carried this species of eloquence to its high. : est perfection, seems to have had no sort of notion of rhetorical numbers: and may I venture, Orontes, to add, without hazarding the imputation of an affected singularity, that I think no man had ever less pretensions to genuine oratory, than this celebrated preacher? If any thing could raise a flame of eloquence in the breast of an orator, there is no occasion upon which, one should imagine, it would be more likely to break out, than in celebrating departed merit yet, the two sermons which he preached upon the death of Mr. Gouge and Dr. Whichcote are as cold and languid performances, as were ever, perhaps, produced upon such an animating subject. One cannot, indeed, but regret, that he who abounds with such noble and generous sentiments, should want the art of setting them off with all the advantage they deserve; that the sublime in morals should not be attended with a suitable elevation of language. The truth, however, is, his words are frequently ill-chosen, and almost always ill-placed; his periods are both tedious and unharmonious, as his metaphors are generally mean, and often ridiculous. It were easy to produce numberless instances in support of this assertion. Thus, in his sermon preached before queen Anne, when she was princess of Denmark, he talks of squeezing a parable, thrusting religion by, driving a strict bargain with God, sharking shifts, &c. and, speaking of the day of judgment, he describes the world as cracking about our ears. I cannot, however, but acknowledge, in justice to the oratorical character of this most valuable prelate, that there is a noble simplicity in some few of his ser mons, as his excellent discourse on Sincerity deserves to be mentioned with particular applause. But to show his deficiency in the article I am considering at present, the following stricture will be sufficient, among many others that might be cited to the same purpose. "One might be apt," says he, " to think, at first view, that this parable was overdone, and wanted something of a due decorum; it being hardly credible, that a man, after he had been so mercifully and generously dealt withal, as upon his humble request to have so huge a debt so freely forgiven, should, whilst the memory of so much mercy was fresh upon him, even in the very next moment, handle his fellow-servant, who had made the same humble request to him which he had done to his Lord, with so much roughness and cruelty for so inconsiderable a sum." This whole period (not to mention other objections which might justly be raised against it) is unmusical throughout; but the concluding members, which ought to have been particularly flowing, are most miserably loose and disjointed. If the delicacy of Tully's ear was so exquisitely refined, as not always to be satisfied even when he read Demosthenes, how would it have been offended at the harshness and dissonance of so unharmonious a sentence! Nothing, perhaps, throws our eloquence at a greater distance from that of the ancients, than this Gothic arrangement; as those wonderful effects, which sometimes attended their elocution, were, in all probability, chiefly owing to their skill in |