_From one of Dr. Parr's Letters_.
His letters put me in mind of tumult and anarchy; there is sedition in
every sentence; syllable has no longer any confidence in syllable, but
dissolves its connexion as preferring an alliance with the succeeding
word. A page of his epistle looks like the floor of a garden-house,
covered with old, crooked nails, which have just been released from a
century's durance in a brick wall. I cannot cast my eyes on his
character without being religious. This is the only good effect I have
derived from his writings; he brings into my mind the resurrection,
and paints the tumultuous resuscitation of awakened men with a pencil
of masterly confusion. I am fully convinced of one thing, either that
he or his pen is intoxicated when he writes to me, for his letters
seem to have borrowed the reel of wine, and stagger from one corner of
the sheet to the other. They remind me of Lord Chatham's
administration, lying together heads and points in one truckle-bed.
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