But my intentions of further proceeding in this matter have, as at present, very sensibly subsided; for many wise and many good might reasonably object to making those holy last dying words mere pegs to hang moral tales upon.

The idea might please one little sect, and anger half the world; I care not to behold it accomplished, and question my own capabilities; only, as it has been an authorial project heretofore conceived by me, suffer it to boast this brief existence.
* * * * * It is scandalously reported of some folks that they are not musical, a calumny that has been whispered of myself: and, though against my own convictions, (who will confess he "has not music in his soul ?") I partly acquiesce; that is to say--for, of such a charge, self-defence claims to explain a little--although I _am_ charmed with all manner of music, still for choice I prefer a German chorus to an Italian solo, and an English glee to a French jig.

Accordingly the operatic world have every reason to despise my taste: especially if I add that Welsh songs, and Scotch and Irish national melodies--[where are our English gone ?]--rejoice my heart beyond Mozart and Rossini.

And now this next little notion is scarcely of substance sufficient to assume the garb of authorship: it is little more than a passing whim, but I choose for the very notion's sake to make it better known.

Except in a very few instances--as Haydn's '_Seasons_,' e.g .-- Oratorios, from some conventional idea of Lent, we may suppose, seem obligated to concern matters sacred.