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184.--To Francis Hodgson.
Newstead Abbey, September 13, 1811.
My Dear Hodgson,--I thank you for your song, or, rather, your two
songs,--your new song on love, and your _old song_ on _religion_. [1] I
admire the _first_ sincerely, and in turn call upon you to _admire_ the
following on Anacreon Moore's new operatic farce, [2] or farcical
opera--call it which you will:
Good plays are scarce,
So Moore writes _Farce_;
Is Fame like his so brittle?
We knew before
That "_Little's" Moore_,
But now _'tis Moore_ that's _Little_.
I won't dispute with you on the Arcana of your new calling; they are
Bagatelles like the King of Poland's rosary. One remark, and I have
done; the basis of your religion is _injustice_; the _Son_ of _God_, the
_pure_, the _immaculate_, the _innocent_, is sacrificed for the
_Guilty_. This proves _His_ heroism; but no more does away _man's_ guilt
than a schoolboy's volunteering to be flogged for another would
exculpate the dunce from negligence, or preserve him from the Rod. You
degrade the Creator, in the first place, by making Him a begetter of
children; and in the next you convert Him into a Tyrant over an
immaculate and injured Being, who is sent into existence to suffer death
for the benefit of some millions of Scoundrels, who, after all, seem as
likely to be damned as ever. As to miracles, I agree with Hume that it
is more probable men should _lie_ or be _deceived_, than that things out
of the course of Nature should so happen.
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