nature. There is something in it, which cannot be conceived, without a confusion of ideas, nor expressed, without a solecism in language. Sir William Draper is still that fatal friend Lord Granby found him. Yet I am ready to do justice to his generosity; if, indeed, it be not something more than generous, to be the voluntary advocate of men, who think themselves injured by his assistance; and to consider nothing in the cause he adopts, but the difficulty of defending it. I thought however he had been better read in the history of the human heart, than to compare or confound the tortures of the body with those of the mind. He ought to have known, though perhaps it might not be his interest to confess, that no outward tyranny can reach the mind. If conscience plays the tyrant, it would be greatly for the benefit of the world that she were more arbitrary, and far less placable, than some men find her.
But it seems I have outraged the feelings of a father's heart.—Am I, indeed, so injudicious? Does Sir William Draper think I would have hazarded my credit with a generous nation, by so gross a violation of the
