[From Letters of Bishop Hildesley]

Letter LXXIII

Bishopscourt, February 12, 1763.

On Monday last, who should come over, but Mr John Moore, from Kirk Arbory (133), to bring me a horse he had picked up from a neighbouring farmer, which he thought would suit me. Accordingly we settled it to make a trial. Tuesday stopped us, by a heavy fall of snow; but on Wednesday afternoon we sallied forth, he on my little horse and I on that which he brought; and, notwithstanding his character of a fine, light, easy trot, I said but little, and only changed for my own in return; when my palfrey soon showed the recommender the difference: mine trotting so fast, and so easily, that my Arbory jockey was quite spent with heat and fatigue, by keeping pace with me on his farmer's nag; and this I thought the best means of bringing him to own it could not do for me. You will smile when I tell you, that I went to Mr Curghey. and got him to be the purchaser ! and I really think it will suit him very well, as he does not generally choose to ride as briskly as somebody you know.

Now, is not this sad, impertinent stuff. to write to my brother Moore, in his present circumstances? "Brother Sewell does not treat, me thus; but sends me comfortable doctrines, to help to alleviate my present troubles." Well, sir, when you come hither, I have a panacea, which I will venture to set up against his for efficacy; and pronounce it the best medicine, too, in the universe, for afflicted souls, next to the sacred volume itself, that I ever met with. So pray, come away, and try my recipe.

But, whilst we are in the body, in vain shall we expect to be always, or altogether spiritual ; and. therefore, I sent you a detail about a horse and a palfrey, by way of chitchat : For, though I well knew, in your present state, it will be looked upon as trash, not fit to be set before you either for physick or food ; yet it. is such as, sooner or later, human creatures must be content to hear or see; unless they will shut, both ears and eyes, till they can bear impertinent sounds, and unentertaining sights. At present, I know you are better pleased with other kinds of subjects; such as, "not being long after your beloved associate," and "renewing your acquaintance, in a spiritual sense, and in another state." This, my friend, may be an innocent indulgence of imagination, to soothe the painful thoughts of the late separation; but you certainly will find that you must come down to something lower, in time, unless you pretend to be a devoted instance of unremitting sorrow. Returns of plaintive sensibility it must be expected will occasionally arise, for a, considerable time; perhaps for the whole time of survivorship; but returns also of usual cheerfulness will oftentimes take place. This is the course of the world, and of human nature. An intermixture of good and evil, of pleasure and pain, is the constitution of this state of trial; and though not wholly, yet great part of each, is more or less the effect, of that conception, to which our weak judgments unavoidably reader us subject.

But to tell a man of your sense that we are all mortal, and that the best of friends, sooner or later, unless they go together, must part would comparatively be stark nonsense, or, at least, a useless species of observation, affordi"g neither comfort nor information. I remember some one of our divines, I believe it is Tillotsen, takes notice of the trite consolation sometimes given to a person, upon the loss of a dear friend : "Come, since it can't be helped, cease to grieve" ; or, "why do you grieve?" The answer is excellent; "It is, therefore, I grieve, because it cannot be helped; for, if it could, I should have no occasion to grieve."

Thus you see, sir, I run on, without study or method, whenever I take up my pen to you, clapping down what comes uppermost. And though I own this manner of writing may seem too indelicate for the oppressed mind of an afflicted man, yet I think I would rather hazard something's not being quite so palatable, than the taking more time to consider, 'till opportunity might thereby often slip for writing to you. Both my handwriting and my thoughts are much of a sort, equally obscure and hasty: Such as they are, I shall have hard luck, if no good at all, but the reverse, should arise from the multitude of addresses sent you on the melancholy occasion which has drawn them from me.

Your affectionate Friend, MARK SODOR & MAN.

To the fire, if you please, sir; for I am ashamed of it.