b^^ 'o 8 1 A LETTERS ,l*M®MAg ©^AT* TWO VOLUMES IN ONE. BOSTON : WELLS AND LILLY, COUkT-ETRlET. 1820. THC LETTERS ■ffffi®ffiAS ©EAm CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED FROM THE WALPOLE AND MASON COLLECTIONS, VOL. I. MDCCCXX. DANIEL LLOY'H AUG. 1.S64 Most of the numerous editions of the Poeti- cal Works x)f Gray have his Biography pre- fixed, from the materials furnished by Mr. Mason's Memoirs. The present edition of his correspondence professes to give his " Let- ters" only. The Orford collection has fur- nished fourteen, which have been inserted in their proper places ; but the notes, ex- cepting a few marked B. (Lord Orford's edi- txjr, Mr. Berry) are taken from Mr. Mason's edition. The propriety of retaining the few Let- ters of Gray's early friend, Mr. West, will be readily admitted by the reader. LETTERS THOMAS GRAY. I. FROM MR. WEST* TO MR. GRAY. You use me very cruelly : you have sent me but one letter since I have been at Ox- ford, and that too agreeable not to make me sensible how great my loss is in not having more. Next to seeing you is the pleasure of seeing your hand-writing ; next to hear- ing you is the pleasure of hearing from you. * Mr. West's father was lord chancellor of Ireland. His grand- father, by the mother, the famous bishop Burnet. He removed from Eton to Oxford, about the same time that Mr, Gray left that place for Cambridge. In April, 1738, he left Christ Church for the Inner Temple, and Mr. Gray removed from Peterhouse to town the latter end of that year ; intending also to apply himself to the study of the law in the same society. Really and sincerely I wonder at you, that you thought it not worth while to answer my last letter. I hope this will have better success in behalf of your quondom school- fellow ; in behalf of one who has walked hand in hand with you, like the two chil- dren in the wood, Through many a flowery path and shelly grot, Where learning luU'd us in her private maze. The very thought, you see, tips my pen with poetry, and brings Eton to my view. Consider me very seriously here in a strange country, inhabited by things that call them- selves doctors and masters of arts ; a coun- try flowing with syllogisms and ale, where Horace and Virgil are equally unknown ; consider me, I say, in this melancholy light, and then think if something be not due to Yours. Christ Church, Nov. 14, 1735. P. S. I desire you will send me soon, and truly and possitively, a History of your own time.* * Alluding to his g;randfatber*s history. GRAY S LETTERS. 7 II. TO MR. WEST> Permit me again to write to you, though I have so long neglected my duty, and forgive my brevity, when I tell you, it is occasioned wholly by the hurry I am in to get to a place where I expect to meet with no other pleasure than the sight of you ; for I am preparing for London in a few days at fur- thest. I do not wonder in the least at your frequent blaming my indolence, it ought rather to be called ingratitude, and I am obliged to your goodness for softening so harsh an appellation. When we meet, it will, however, be my greatest of pleasures to know what you do, what you read, and how j^ou spend your time, &€. &c. and to tell what I do not read, and how I do not, &c. for almost all the employment of my hours may be best explained by negatives ; take my word and experience upon it, doing nothing is a most amusing business ; and yet neither some- thing nor nothing gives me any pleasure. When you have seen one of my days, you have seen a whole year of my life ; they go round and round like the blind horse in the mill, only he has the satisfaction of fancying 8 GRAY S LETTERS. he makes a progress, and gets some ground ; my eyes are open enough to see the same dull prospect, and to know that having made four-and-twenty steps more, I shall be just where I was : I may, better than most peo- ple, say my life is but a span, were 1 not afraid lest you should not believe that a per- son so short lived could write even so long a letter as this ; in short, I believe I must not send you the history of m^^ own time, till 1 can send you that also of the Refor- mation.* However, as the most undeserv- ing people in the world must sure have the vanity to wish somebody had a regard for them, so I need not wonder at my own, in being jdeased that you care about me. You need not doubt, therefore, of having a first row in the front box of my little heart, and I believe you are not in danger of being crowded there ; it is asking you to an old play, indeed, but you will be candid enough to excuse the whole piece for the sake of a i^ew tolerable lines. For this little while past I have been playing with Statins ; we yesterday had a game at quoits together : you will easily for- * CaiT)'ing on the a,llusJon to the other history wiitten by Mi'. West's granilfather. gray's letters. 9 giFe me for having broke his head, as you have a little pique to him. I send you my translation, which I did not engage in be- cause I liked that part of the poem, nor do I now send it to you because I think it de- serves it, but merely to show you how I mispend my days. Third in the labours of the Disc came on, With sturdy step and slow, Hippomedon, &c.* Cambridge, May 8, 1736. Til. FROM MR. WEST. 1 AGREE with you that you have broke Sta- tius's head, but it is in like manner as Ap- pollo broke Hyacinth's, you have foiled him infinitely at his own weapon : I must insist on seeing the rest of your translation, and then I will examine it entire, and compare • See Poem.?. As all the fragments and posthumous pieces of poetry have been included in the later editicms of Mr. Gray's poetical works, it has not been always thought necessaiy to give them at large in this edition of his " Letters ••" an exception to this rule has however been made in favour of Mr. West's poems ; and tiiepoe^nata of Mr. Gray sometimes could not be omitted with- out violence to his con"espondencc. 10 gray's letters. it with the Latin, and be very wise and se- vere, and put on an inflexible face, such as becomes the character of a true son of Aris- tarchus, of hypercritical memory. In the mean while, And calm'd the terrors of his claws in gold, is exactly Statius — Summos auro mansueve- rat ungues. I never kn-ew before that the golden fangs on hammercloths were so old a fashion. Your Hymeneal I was told was the best in the Cambridge collection before I saw it, and, indeed, it is no great compli- ment to tell you I thought it so when I had seen it, but sincerely it pleased me best. Methinks the college bards have run into a strange taste on this occasion. Such soft unmeaning stuff about Venus and Cupid, and Peleus and Thetis, and Zephyrs and Dryads, was never read. As for my poor little Ec- logue, it has been condemned and beheaded by our Westminster judges; an exordium of about sixteen lines absolutely cut off, and its other limbs quartered in a most barbarous manner. I will send it you in my next as my true and lawful heir, in exclusion of the pretender, who has the impudence to appear under my name. As yet I have not looked into sir Isaac. Public disputations I hate; mathematics I gray's letters. 1| reverence; history, morality, and natural philosphy have the greatest charms in my eye; but who can forget poetry? they call it idleness, but it is surely the most enchanting thing in-the world, "ac dulce otium etpaene omni negotio pulchrius." I am, dear sir, yours while I am R. W. Christ Church, May 24, 1736. IV. TO MR. WEST. You must know that I do not take degrees, and, after this term, shall have nothing more of college impertinences to undergo, which I trust will be some pleasure to you, as it is a great one to me. I have endured lectures daily and hourly since I came last, supported by the hopes of being shortly at full liberty to give myself up to my friends and classical companions, who, poor souls! though I see them fallen into great contempt with most people here, yet I cannot help sticking to them, and out of a spirit of obstinacy (I think) love them the better for it; and, in- deed, what can I do else? Must I plunge into 12 metaphysics? AlasI I cannot see in the dark; nature has not furnished me with the optics of a cat. Must I pore upon mathe- tics? AlasI I cannot see in too much light; I am no eagle. It is very possible that two and two make four, but I would not give four farthings to demonstrate this ever so clearly; and if these be the profits of life, give me the amusements of it. The people I behold all around me, it seems, know all this and more, and yet I do not know one of them who inspires me with any ambition of being like him. Surely it was of this place, now Cambridge, but formerly known by the name of Babylon, that the prophet spoke when he said, "the wild beasts of the desert shall dwell there, and their houses shall be full of doleful creatures, and owls shall build there, and satyrs shall dance there; their forts and towers shall be a den forever, a joy of wild asses; there shall the great owl make her nest, and lay and hatch and gather under her shadow; it shall be a court of dragons; the screech owl also shall rest there, and find for herself a place of rest." You see here is a pretty collection of deso- late animals, which is verified in this town to a tittle, and perhaps it may also allude to your habitation, for you know all types may gray's letters. 13 be taken by abundance of handles; however, I defy your owls to match mine. If the default of your spirits and nerves be nothing but the effect of the hyp, I have no more to say. We all must submit to that wayward queen; I too in no small degree own her sway. I feel her mfluence while I speak her power. But if it be a real distemper, pray take more care of your health, if not for your own at least for our sakes, and do not be so soon weary of this little world: I do not know what refined* friendships you may have contracted in the other, but pray do not be in a hurry to see your acquaintance above; among your terrestrial familiars, however, though I say it that should not say it, there positively is not one that has a greater es- teem for you than Yours most sincerly, &c. Peterhouse, Dec. 1736. • Perhaps he meant to ridicule the affected maimar of Mrs, Howe's letters from the dead to tjie living. 14 gray's letters. V. -FROM MR. WEST. I CONGRATULATE you On jouF being about to leave college,* and rejoice much you carry no degrees with you. For [ would not have You dignified, and I not, for the world, you would have insulted me so. My eyes, such as they are, like yours, are neither meta- physical nor mathematical; I have, never- theless, a great respect for your connois- seurs that way, but am always contented to be their humble admirer. Your collection of desolate animals pleased me so much: but Oxford, I can assure you, has her owls that match yours, and the prophecy has cer- tainly a squint that way. Well, you are leaving this dismal land of bondage, and which way are you turning your face? Your friends, indeed, may be happy in yoti, but what will you do with your classic compan- ions? An imi of court is aS hotfid a place * I suspect that Mr West mistook his correspondent; who, in saying he did not take degrees, meant only to let his friend know that he should soon be released from lectures and disputations. It is certain that Mr. Gray continued at college near two years after the time he wrote the preceding letter. gray's letters. 13 as a college, and a moot case is as dear to gentle dulness as a syllogism. But where- ever you go, let me beg you not to throw- poetry, "like a nauseous weed away;" che- rish its sweets in your bosom; they will serve you now and then to correct the dis- gusting sober follies of the common law, misce stultitiam consiiiis brevem, dulce est desipere in loco; so said Horace to Virgil, those two sons of Anac in poetry, and so say I to you, in this degenerate land of pig- mies, Mix with your grave designs a little pleasure, JEach day of business has its hour of leisure. In one of these hours I hope, dear sir, you will sometimes think of me, write to me, and know me yours, that is, write freely tome and openly, as Ido to you, and to give you a proof of it, 1 have sent you an elegy of Tibullus translated, Tibullus, you must know, is my favourite elegiac poet; for his language is more ele- gant and his thoughts more natural than Ovid's. Ovid excels him only in wit, of 16 gray's letters. which no poet had more in my opin- ion. The reason I choose so melancholy a kind of poesie, is because my low spirits and constant ill health (things in me not imagina- ry, as you surmise, but too real, alas! and, I fear, constitutional) "have tuned my heart to elegies of woe;" and this likewise is the reason why I am the most irregular thing alive at college, for you may depend upon it I value my health above what they call discipline. As for this poor unlicked thing of an elegy, pray criticise it unmer- cifully, for I send it with that intent. In- deed your late translation of Statins might have deterred me: but I know you are not more able to excel others, than you are apt to forgive the want of excellence, especially when it is found in the productions of Your most sincere friend. Christ Church, Dec. 22, 1736. VI. TO MR. WALPOLE. You can never weary me with the repetition of any thing that makes me sensible of your kindness: since that has been the only gray's letters. 17 idea of any social happiness that I have al- most ever received, and which (begging your pardon for thinking so differently from you in such cases) I would by no means have parted with for an exemption from all the uneasinesses mixed with it: But it would be unjust to imagine my taste was any rule for yours; for which reason my letters are shorter and less frequent than they would be, had 1 any materials but myself to enter- tain you with. Love and brown sugar must be a poor regale for one of your gout, and, alas! you know I am by trade a grocer.* Scandal (if I had any) is a merchandise you do not profess dealing in; now and then, in- deed, and to oblige a friend, you may per- haps slip a little out of your pocket, as a de- cayed gentlewoman would a piece of right mecklin, or a little quantity of run tea, but this only now and then, not to make a prac- tice of it. Monsters appertaining to this cli- mate you have seen already, both wet and dry. So you perceive within how narrow bounds my pen is circumscribed, and the whole contents of my share in our corres- * i.e. A man who deals only in coarse and ordinary wares: to these he compares the plain sincerity of his own friendship, undisguised by flattery ; which, had he chosen to carry on theal* lusion, he might have termed the trade of a Confeetiona:. VOL. IV. 2 18 gray's letters. pondence may be reduced under the two heads of 1st, You, 2dly, 1; the first is, in- deed a subject to expatiate upon, but you might IrJUgh at me for talking about what I do not understand; tiie second is so tiny, so tiresome, that you shall hear no more of it than that it is ever Yours. Beterhouse, Dec. 23, 1736. VII. FROM MR. WEST. I HAVE been very ill, and am still hardly re- covered. Do you remember Elegy 5th, Book the 3d, of Tibullus, Vos tenet, &c. and do you remember a letter of Mr. Pope's, in sickness, to Mr. Steele? This melancholy elegy and this melancholy letter I turned into a more melancholy epistle of my own, dur- ing my sickness, in the way of imitation; and thi< I send to you and my friends at Cambridge, not to divert Ihem, for it cannot, but merely to show them how sincere I was when sick: I hope my sending it to them now may convince them I am no less sincere, though perhaps more simple, when weil?|: gray's letters. 19 AD AMICOS.'^ Yes, Tiappy youths, on Camus' sedgy side, You feel each joy that friendship can divide j Each realm of science and of art explore, And witli the ancient blend the modem lore. Studious alone to Itam whate'er may tend To raise the genius or the heart to mend ; Now pleased along the cloister'd walk you rovC; And tiace the verdant mazes of the grove. Where social oft, and oft alone, ye choose To catch tie zephjT and to court the muse. Meantime at me (while all devoid of art These lines give back the image of my heart) At me the power that comes or soon or late, Or aims, or seems to aim, the dart of fate ; From you remote, methinks, alone I stand Like some sad exile in a desert land ; Around no friends their lenient cai-e to join In mutual Avarmth. and mix their heart with min«k Or rtal pains, or those which fancy raise. For ever blot the sunshine of my days ; To sickness still, and still to grief a prey, Htalth turns from me her rosy face away. Just Heaven ! what sin, ere life begins to blconi, Devotes my head ui.timely to the tomb ? Did e'er this hand against a brother's life Drug the dire bowl, or point the murderous knife ? Did e'er this tongue the slanderer's tale proclaim, * Almost all TibuUus's elegy is imitated in this little piece, *om whence his transition to Mx: Pope's letter is very artfully «ontnved, and be»p«aks adepree of jud£:<.jaeut mueb beyfflad Mr W«pt;6 yeaK. 20 gray's letters. Or madly violate my Maker's name ? Did e'er this heart betray a friend or foe, Or Imow a thought but all the world might know ? As yet, just staited from the lists of time, My gi'owing years have scarcely told their prime ; Useless, as yet, through life I've idly run, No pleasures tasted, and few duties done. ♦ Ah, who, ere autumn's mellowing suns appear, Would pluck the promise of the venial year ? Or, ere the grapes their purple hue betray, Tear the crude cluster from the mourning spray ? Stern Power of Fate, whose ebon sceptre rules The Stygian deserts and Cimmerian pools, Forbear, nor rashly smite my youthful heart, A victim yet unworthy of thy dart : Ah, stay till age shall blast my withering face. Shake in my head, and falter in my pace ; Then aim the sliaft, then meditate the blow, i' And to the dead my willing shade shall go. How weak is Man to Reason's judging eye ! Born in this moment, in the next we die ; Part mortal clay . and part ethereal fire, Too proud to creep, too humble to aspire. In vain our plans of happiness we raise, Pain is our lot, and patience is our praise ; Wealth, lineager honours, conquest, or a throne, * Quid fraudare juvat vitem crescentibus uvis ? Et modo uata mala vellere poma manu ? So the original. The paraphrase seems to me infinitely more beautiful. There is a peculiar blemish in the second line, arising from the synonimes mala and poma t Here he quits TibuUus : the ten foUowiog verses hare but a remote reference to Mjr. Pope's letter. gray's letters. 21 Are what the wise would fear to call their own. Health is at best a vain precarious thing, And fair-faced youth is ever on the wing : * 'Tis like the stream, beside whose watery bed Some blooming plant exalts his flowery bead, Nursed by the wave the spreading bi*anches rise. Shade all the ground and flourish to the skies ; The waves the while beneath in secret flow, And underline the "hollow bank below ; "Wide and more wide the waters urge their way, Bare all the roots and on their fibres prey. Too late the plant bewails his foolish pride, And sinks, untimely, in the whelming tide. But why repine ? does life desei've my sigh ? Few will lament ray loss whene'er I die. t For those the wretches I despise or hate, I neither envy nor regard their fate. For me. whene'er all-conquering Death shall spread His wings around my unrepining head, X 1 care not ; though this face be seen no more, * " Youth, at the very best, is but the betrayer of human life jt, a gentler and smoother manner than age : 'tis iike the stream that noui-ishes a plant upon a bank, and causes it to flourish and blos- som to the sight, but at the same time is undermining it at the root in secret." Papers IVorks, vol 7 page ^54, Isf. edit Warburton. Mr. "West, by prolonging his paraphrase of this simile, gives it ad- ditional beauty from that very circumstance, but he ought to have introduced it by Mr Pope's own thought. '" Youth is a betrayer ;" his couplet preceding the simile conveys too general a reflection. t " I am not at all uneasy at the tliought that many men, whom I never had any esteem for, are likely to enjoy this world after me." Vide ibid. % "The morning after my exit the sun will rise as bright as cTer, t)ie flowers smell as sweet, the plants spring as green ;" so 22 gray's letters. The world will pass as dieerful as before ; Bright as before the day-star will appeal*. The fields as verdant, and the skies as clear ; Nor storms nor comets will my doom declare. Nor signs on earth, nor portents in the air ; Unknftwn and silent will depart my breath, Nor Nature e'er take notice of my death. Yet some there are (ere spent my vital days) "Within whose breasts my tomb I wish to raise. Loved in my life, lamented in my end, Their praise would crown me ss their precepts mend : To (hem may these fond lines my name endear, Not from the Poet but the Friend sincere. Christ Church, July 4, 1737. VIII. TO MR. WEST. After a month's expectation of jou, anJ a fortnight's despair, at Canibridge, I am come far Mr. "West copies his original, but instead of the following part of the sentence, " People will laugh as heartily and marry as fast as they used to do," he inserts a more solemn idea. Nor storms nor comets, &c." justly perceiving that the elegiac turn of his epistle would not admit so ludicrous a thought, as was in its place in Mr Pope's familiar letter ; so that we see, young as he was, he had obtained the art of judiciously selecting ; one of the first provinces of good gray's letters. 23 to town, and to better hopes of seeing you. If what you sent me last be the product of your melancholy, what may I not expect from your more cheerful hours? For by this time the ill-health that you complain of is (I hope) quite departed; though, if I were self-interested, 1 ought to wish for the con- tinuance of any thing that could be the oc- casion of so much pleasure to me. Low spirits are my true and faithful companions; they get up with me, go to bed with me, make journeys and returns as I do; nay, and pay visits, and will even affect to be jocose, and force a feeble laugh with me: but most commonly we sit alone together, and are the prettiest insipid company in the world. However, when you come, 1 believe they must undergo the fate of all hua»ble compa- nions, and be discarded. Would I could turn them to the same use that you have done, and make an Apollo of them. If they could write such verses with me, not hartshorn, nor spirit of amber, nor all that furnishes the closet of an apothecary's wi- dow, should persuade me to part with them: But, while 1 write to you, I hear the bad news of Lady Wal pole's death on Saturday night last. Forgive me if the thought of what my poor l^Qrace miist feel on that ac- 24 gray's letters. count, obliges me to have done in reminding you that I am Yours, &c. London, Aug. 22, 1737. IX. TO MR. WALPOLE. I WAS hindered in my last, and so could not give you all the trouble I would have done. The description of a road, which your coach wheels have so often honoured, it would be needless to give you: suffice it that I arrived safe* at my uncle's, who is a great hunter in imagination; his dogs take up every chair in the house, so I am forced to stand at this present writing; and though the gout forbids him gallopping after them in the field, yet he continues still to regale his ears and nose with their comfortable noise and stink. He holds me mighty cheap, I perceive, for walk- ing when I should ride, and reading when I should hunt. My comfort amidst all this is, that I have, at the distance of half a mile, through a green lane, a forest (the vulgar call it a common) all m}' own, at least as good * At Biu-nbaiQ in Buckinghamshire. gray's letters. 25 as so, for I spy no human thing in it but my- self. It is a little chaos of mountains and precipices; mountains, it is true, that do not fiscend much above the clouds, nor are the declivities quite so amazing as Dover cliff; but just such hills as people who love their necks as well as I do may venture to climb, and crags that give the eye as much plea- sure as if they were more dangerous: Both vale and hill are covered with most venera- ble beeches, and other very reverend vege- tables, that, like most other ancient people, are always dreaming out their old stories to the winds, And as they bow their hoary tops relate, ^ In murmuring sounds, the dark decrees of fate ; "While visions, as poetic eyes avow, Cling to each leaf and swarm on every bough. At the foot of one of these squats me I, (11 penseroso) and there grow to the trunk for a whole morning. The timorous hare and sportive squirrel gambol around me like Adam in Paradise, before he had an Eve; but I think he did not use to read Virgil, as I commonly do there. In this situation I often converse with my Horace, aloud too, that is talk to you, but I do not remember that I ever heard you answer me. I beg 26 gray's letters. pardon for faking all the conversation to my- self, but it is entirely your own fault. We have old Mr. Southern at a gentleman's house a little way off, who often comes to see us: he is now seventy-seven years old, and has almost wholly lost his memory; but is as agreeable as an old man can be, at least I persuide myself so when I look at him, and think of Isabella and Oroonoko. I shall be in town in about three weeks. Adieu. , September, 1737. X. TO MR. WALPOLE.* I SYMPATHIZE With you in the sufferings which you foresee are coming upon you. We are both at present, I imagine, in no very agreeable situation; for my part 1 am under the misfortune of having nothing to do, but it is a misfortune which, thank my stars, I can pretty well bear. 1 ou are in a confu- sion of wine, and roaring, and hunting, and tobacco, and, heaven be praised, you too can pretty well bear it; while our evils are no more, I believe we shall not much repine. I imagine, however, you will rather choose *At this time with his father at Houghton* gray's letters. 27 to converse with the living dead, that adorn the walls of your apartments, than with the dead living that deck the middles of them; and prefer a picture of still life to the reali- ties of a noisy one, and, as I guess, will imi- tate what you prefer, and for an hour or two at noon will stick yourself up as formal as if you had been fixed in your frame for these hundred years, with a pink or rose in one hand, and a great seal ring on the other. Your name, 1 assure you, has been propagat- ed in these countries by a convert of yours, one * * * ; he has brought over his whole family to you: they were before pretty good Whigs, but now they are absolute Walpoli- ans. We have hardly any body in the par- ish but knows exactly the dimensions of the hall and saloon at Houghton, and begin to believe that the ^lantern is not so great a consumer of the fat of the land as disaffected persons have said: For your reputation, we keep to ourselves your not hunting nor drinking hogan, either of which here would be sufficient to lay your honour in the dust. To-morrow se'nnight I hope to be in town, and not long after at Cambridge. I am, &c. Barnbam, Sept. 1737. * A favourite object of Toifv satire at the time. 28 gray's letters. XI. FROM MR. WEST TO MR. GRAY. Receiving no answer to my last letter, which I writ above a month ago, I must own I am a little uneasy. The slight shadow of you which! had in town,* has only served to en- dear you to me the more. The moments I passed with you made a strong impression upon me. I singled you out for a friend, and I would have you know me to be yours,' if you deem me worthy. Alas, Gray, you cannot imagine how miserably my time passes away. My health and nerves and spirits are, thank my stars, the very worst, I think, in Oxford. Four-and-twenty hours of pure unalloyed health together, are as un- known to me as the 400,000 characters in the Chinese vocabulary. One of my com- plaints has of late been so over-civil as to visit me regularly once a month — -jam certus conviva. This is a painful nervous head- ache, which perhaps you have sometimes heard me speak of before. Give me leave to say, I find no physic comparable to your letters. If, as it is said in Ecclesiasticus, ''Friendship be the physic of the mind," gray's letters. 29 prescribe to me, dear Gray, as often and as much as you think proper, I shall be a most obedient patient. Nonego Fidis irascar medicis, ofFendar amicis. I venture here to write you down a Greek epigram,* which I lately turned into Latin, and hope you will excuse it. Perspicui paerum ludentem in raargine ri^i Immersit vitreae limpidus error aquae : Ai gelido ut mater moribundum e flumme traxit Credula, et amplexu fiinus inane fovet ; Paulatim puer in dilecto pectore, somno Languidus, aetemum iumina composuit. Adieu ! I am going to my tutor's • lectures on one Puffendorff, a very jurisprudent au- thor as you shall read on a summer's day. Believe me yours, &c, Christ Church, Dec. 2, 1738. * Of Posidippus. Fide Anthologia, II. Stephan.fi, 280. 30 gray's letters. XII. TO MR. WEST. LiTERAS mi Favoni !* abs te demum,iinclius- tertins credo, accepi plane mellitas, nisi forte qua de aegritudine quadam tua dictum: atque hoc sane mihi habitum est non paulo acer- bius, quod te capitis morbo implicitum esse intellexi; oh morbum mihi quam odiosum! qui de industria id agit, ut ego in singulos menses, Dii boni, quantis jucunditatibus or- barer! quam ex animo mihi dolendum est, quod Medio de fonte leporum Surgit amari aliqiiid .' Salutem, mehercule, nolo, tarn parvipendas, atque amicis tam improbe consulas: quan- quam tute fortassis aestuas angusto limite mundi, viamque (ut dicitur) affectas Oljmpo, nos tamen non esse tam sublimes, utpote qui hisce in sordibus et faece diutius paululum versari voluraus, reminiscendum est: iilae tuee Musae, si te ament modo, derelinqui f * Mr. Gray, in all bis Latin compositions, addressed to this gen- tleman, calls bim Favoiiiu*, in allusion tu the name of Wt»t* gray's letters. 31 paulisper non nimis aegre patientur: indulge, amabo te, plusquam soles, corporis exercita- tionibus: magis te campus habeat, aprico magis te dedas otio, ut ne id ingenium quod tam cultum curas, diligenter nimis dum foves, officiosarum matrum ritu, interimas. Vide quaeso, quam <«T^«;tjft»5 tecum agimus. Si de his pharmacis non satis liquet, sunt festivitates meraB, sunt facetis et risus; quos ego equidem si adhibere nequeo, tamen ad praBcipiendum (ut raedicorum fere mos est) certe satis sim; id, quod poetice sub finem epistolai lusisti, mihi gratissimum quidem ac- cidit; admodum Latine coctum et conditum tetrasticon, Graecam tamen illam ec^iXuxt mi- rifice sapit: tu quod restat, vide, sodes, hu- jusce hominis ignorantiam; cum, unde hoc tibi sit depromptum, (ut fatear) prorsus nescio: sane ego equidem niliil in capsis re- perio quo tibi minimae partis solutio fiat. Vale, et me ut soles, ama. A. D. 11 Ealend. Fefaruar. xrii.* FROM MR. WEST. I OUGHT to answer yon in Latin, but I feel I dare not enter the lists with you — cupidum, pater optime, vires deficiunt. Seriously, you write in that language with a grace and an Augustan urbanity, that amazes me: Your Greek too is perfect in its kind. And here let me wonder that a man, longe Graecorum doctissimus, should be at a loss for the verse and chapter whence my epigram is taken. I am sorry 1 have not my Aldus with me, that I might satisfy your curiosity; but he, with all my other literary folks, are left at Oxford, and therefore you must still rest in suspense. I thank you again and again for your medical prescription. I know very well that those "risus, festivitates, et face-* tiae" would contribute greatly to my cure, but then you must be my apothecary as well as physician, and make up the dose as well as direct it; send me, therefore, an electuary * This was written in French, but as I doubted whether it would stand the test of polite criticism, so well as the preceding would of learned, I chose to translate so much of it as I thought neeessary in order to preserve the chain of conrespoudence. gray's letters. 33 of these drugs, made up "secundum artem, et eris mihi magnus Apollo," in both his ca- pacities, as a god of poets and a god of phy- sicians. Wish me.joy of leaving my college, and leave yours as fast as you can. 1 shall be settled at the temple very soon. Dartmouth-Street, Feb. 21, 1737-8. XIV. TO MR. WEST. * Barbaras aedesaditure mecum Quas Eris semper fovet inquleta, Lis ubi late souat, et togatum iEstuat agmen ! Dulcius qiianto, patulis sub uTmi Hospitae raniis ten;Pre jacentem Sic libris lioras, tenuitjue inertes Fallere Musa ? Ssepe enim curis vagor expedita Mente ; dun', hlandara meditans Camoenam, Vix malo rori, meminive seiae Cedere nocti ; * I choose to call this delicate Sapphic Ode the first original pi»- ductioi) of Mr. Gr.y's muse ; for verses imposed rfthc r by school mastereor tutors, ought xiot, I think, to be tal*;eii irto tht- conside- ration. There is seldom a versv t" at flows well from the pen of a real poet if it does uot flow yoluntarily. roL. IV. 3 :34 GRAY S LETTERS. Et, pedes quo me rapiunt, in omni Colle Parnassiiin videor videre FertJlem silvae, gelidamque in orani Fonte Aganippen. Risit et Ver me, facilesque Nymphs Pfare captantem, nee ineleganti, Mane quicquid de violis eundo Surripit aura : Me reclinatuni teneram per herbam j Qua leves cursus aqua cunque ducit, Et moras dulci strepitu lapillo Nectit in omni. Hse novo nostrum fere pectus anno Simplices curae tenuere, coelum Quaradiu sudum explicuit Favoni Purior hora : Otia et campos nee adhuc relinquo, Nee raagls Phcebo Clytie fidelis ; (Ingruant venti licet, et senescat Mollior sestas.) Namque, seu, laetos hominum labores Prataque et monies recreante curru, Purpura tractus oriens Eoos Vestit, et auro ; Sedulus servo veneratus orbem Prodigum splendoris : amoeniori Sive dilectam meditatur igne Pingere Caljlen j Usque dura, fulgore magis magis jam Languido circum, variala nube? / Labitur furtim, viridisque in umbras Seena reoessit. rray's letters. 35 O ego felix, vice si (uec unquam Surgerem nirsus) !*iinili cadentem Parca me lenis sineret quieto Fallere Letho ! Multa flagranti radiisque cincto Iritegris ah ! quam nihil inviderem, Cum Dei ardentes xuedius quadrigas Soutit Olympus ? Ohe ! amicule noster, et unde, sodes tu fiov9-o7FXTXKTog ad 60 repcntc evasisti ? jam te rogitatururn credo. Nescio, nercle, sic plane habet. Quicquid enim nugarum ««■< v^6Xns inter ambulandum in palimpsesto sciiptitavi, hisce te maxime impertiri visum est, quippe quern probare, quod meum est, aut certe ignoscere solitum probe novi : bona tua venia sit si forte videar in fine subtristior ; nam risui jamdudum salutem dixi : etiam paulo mcestitiae studiosiorem fac- tum sci'.^s, promptumque, Katmn 5raA«<« ^ct- X^Viii ffTiVilV KXKX^ O lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros \ Ducentium ortus ex animo ; quater Felix I ill iino qui scateutera Pectore te, pia Nympha, seusit. Sed de me satis. Cura ut valeas, Jan. 1738. 3t) GRAY S LETTERS. XV. FROM MR. WEST. I RETURN you a thousand thanks for your elegant ode, and wish you every joy you wish yourself in it. — But, take my word for it, you will never spend so agreeable a day here as you describe : alas ! the sun with us only rises to show us the way to Westmin- ster-Hall. — Nor must I forget thanking you for your little Alcaic fragment. The optic Naiads are infinitely obliged to you. I was last week at Richmond Lodge, with Mr. Walpole, for two days, and dined with ^Cardinal Fleury ; as far as my short sight can go, the character of his great art and penetration is very just, he is indeed Nulli peneti-abilis astro. I go to-morrow to Epsom, where I shall be for about a month. Excuse me, 1 am in haste, t but believe me always, &c. August 29, 1738. • Sir Robert Walpole. t Mr. West seems to have beeh, indeed, in haste when he writ tliis letter ; else, surely, his fine taste w«uld have led him to have gray's letters. 37 XVI. TO MR. WALPOLE. My dear sir, I should say* Mr. Inspector General of the Exports and Imports ; but that appellation would make but an odd figure in conjunction with the three familiar monosyllables above written, for Non bene couveiiiunt nee In una setle moiantur Majestas et ainor. Which is, being interpreted. Love does not live at the Custom-house ; however, by what style, title, or denomination soever you choose to be dignified or distinguished hereafter, these three words will stick by you like a bur, and you can no more get quit of these and your christian name than St. Anthony could of his pig. My motions at present (which you are pleased to ask been more profuse in bis praise of the Alcaic fi-agment. He might (I think) have said, without paying too extravagant a compliment to Mr. Gray's genius, that no poet of the Augustan age ever pro- duced four moi'e perfect lines, or what would sooner impose upon the best critic, as being a genuine ancient composition. ^ * Mr. Walpole was just named to that post, which he exchanged fMn after for that of Usher of the Exchequer. 38 gray's letters. fifter) are much like those of a pendulum or . (*Dr. Longically speaking) oscillatory. I swing from chapel or hall home, or from home to chapel or hall. All the strange in- cidents that happen in my journeys and re- turns I shall be sure to acquaint you with ; the most wonderful is, that it now rains ex- ceedingly, this has refreshed thej prospect, as the way for the most part lies between green fields on either hand, terminated with buildings at some distance, castles, I pre- sume, and of great antiquity. The roads are very good, being, as I suspect, the works of Julius Caesar's army, for they still preserve, in many places, the appearance of a pave- ment in pretty good repair, and, if they were not so near home, might perhaps be as much admired as the Via Appia ; there .are at present several rivulets to he crossed, and which serve to enliven the view all around. The country is exceeding fruitful in ravens and such black cattle ; but, not to tire you with my travels, I abruptly con- clude. Yours, &c. August, 1738. * Dr. Long, the master of Pembroke-Hall, at this time read lec- tures in exj)eriraeutal philosoj)hy. t All that follows is a humorously byperbolie description ef t\e quadrangle of Peter-House. GRAY*SXETTERS. 39 XVII. TO MR. WEST. I AM coming away all so fast, and leaving behind me, without the least remorse, all the beauties of Sturbridge Fair. Its white bears may roar, its apes may wring their hands, and crocodiles cry their eyes out, aU's one for that; I shall not once visit them, nor so much as take my leave. The university has published a severe edict against schis- matical congregations, and created half a dozen new little procterlings to see its orders executed, being under mighty apprehensions lest ^Henley and his gilt tub should come to the fair and seduce their young ones : but their pains are to small purpose, for lo, after all, he is not coming. 1 am at this instant in the very agonies of leaving college, and would not wish the worst of my enemies a worse situation. If you knew the dust, the old boxes, the bed- steads, and tutors that are about my ears, you would look upon this letter as a great effort of my resolution and unconcernedness in th* • Orator Henley. 40 gray's lctters. midst of evils. I fill up my paper with a loose sort of version of that scene in Pastor Fido that begins, Care selve beati.* Sept, 1738. XVIII. FROM MR. WEST. 1 THANK you again and again for your two last most agreeable letters. They could not have come more a-propos; I was without any books to divert me, and they supplied the want of every thing: I made them my classics in the country; they were my Ho- race and Tibulius — Non ita loquor assentandi causa, ut probe nosti si me noris, verum quia sic mea est sententia. I am but just come to town, and, to show you my esteem of your favours, I venture to send you by the penny-post, to your fatiier's, what you will find on the next page: I hope it will reach you soon after your arrival, your boxes out of the Avaggon, yourself out of the coach, and tutors out of your memor3^ Adieu, we shall see one another, I hope, to-morrow.. * This Latin version is extremely elegiac, [but as it is only a rersion I do not insert it. j gray's letters. 41 ELEGIA. Quod mib; tam gfratse misisti dona Camoenae, Qualia Mse'ialsus Pan Deus ipse velit, Ainplf^ctor t^ Graie, et toto corde reposco. Oh desiderium jam niniis usque meum ! Et niihi riiva placent, et me qiioque ssepe volentem Diixerunt Dryades per sua prata Dese ; Sicubi lympha fugit liquido pede, sive virentem, ^lagna deciis Hemoris. quercus opaeat huraum : lUuc mane novo vagor, iliuc vespere sero, Et. noto ut jacui gramiue, nota cano. Nee nosti-a ignorant divinam Amarj llida silva : Ah, si desit Amor, nil mihi rura placent. Hie jvig'S habitat Deus, ille in vallibus imis, Reguat et in Ccelis, regnat et OceaHO ; Ille gregem taurosque dofnat ; ssevique leonem Semini* ; ille fevos, ultus Adonin, apros : Quin et fei-vet amore nemus, rainoque sub omni Coneentu tremulo pluiuna gaudet ans. Dur« etiam in silvis agitant connubia plantse, Dura etiam et fertur saxa aniinasse Venus. Dui-ior et saxis. et robove durior ille est, Siiiecro siquis pectore araare vetat : Non illi in manibus sanctum deponei-e pignus, Non illi arcanum cor aperire velim ; Nescit amicltias, teneros qui nescit amores : Ah ! si nulla Venus, nil mihi rura placent. Me licet a p«tria long^ ir. teilure jul^erent Externa positunj rluctre Fata dies ; Si vultus modo araatus adessct, non ego contra Plorarem magnos voce quersnte De»s. 42 gray's letters. At dulci in gnereio curarum oblivia Nil ci ptreoi praiter posse placere mose ; Nee i)ona fortuiise aspiciens, ueque juuiiera Ilia ir.tra optarem bi-achia cara mori. Sep. 17, 1738. Mr. Gray continued at his father's house in Comhill till itie March following;, n which iiterval Mr. Walpole, Keing disiiiclin- ad lo r:ter so early into parlia.iient, prevailed on sir Robert Wal- pole to ptrmit him to f;o abroad, and on Mr. Gray to be the c«ra- paiiiun of his travels. The correspondence is defective towaixJs the end of his travels, and includes i.o drscriptiou either of Venice or its te.Titory ; the last places which Mr. Gray visited : a defect whicl was occasioned by an unfortui.nte disaj^reement between him and Mr Walpole, and ejided in iheir stpuvation at Regpno. Mr. Gray wtnt befoi-e him to Venice ; and staying there oiily til) he Qould fit d means of returning tu England, he made the best of his way home, repassing the Alps, and following almost the sawie route through France by which he had before gone to Italy. XIX. TO HIS MOTHER. Amiens, April 1, N. S. 1739. As we made but a very short journey to- day, and came to our inn early, I sit down to give you some account of our expedition. On the '29th (according to the style here) we left Dover at twelve at noon, and with a gray's letters. 43 pretty brisk gale, which pleased every body mij^hty well, except myself, who was ex- tremely sick the whole time; we reached Calais by five: the weather changed, and it began to snow hard the minute we got into the harbour, where we took the boat, and soon landed. Calais is an exceeding old, but very pretty town, and we hardly saw any thing there that was not so new and so dif- ferent from England, that it surprised us agreeably. We went the next morning to tba great church, and were at high mass (it being Easter Monday). We saw also the Convent of the Capuchins, and the nuns of St. Dominic; with these last we held much conversation, especially with an English nun, a Mrs, Davis, of whose work I sent you, by the return of the p-icquet, a letter-case to remember her by. In the afternoon we took a post chaise (it still snowing very hard) for Boulogne, which was only eighteen miles further. This chaise is a strange sort of conveyance, of much greater use than beau- ty, resembling an ill-shaped chariot, only with the door opening before instead of the side; three horses draw it, one between the shafts, and the other two on each side, on one of which the postillion rides, and drivel 44 gray's letters. too.* This ^vehicle will, upon occasion, go fourscore miles a daj, but Mr. Walpole, be- ing in no hurry, chooses to make easy jour- neys of it, and they are easy ones indeed; for the motion is much like that of a sedan; we go about six miles an hour, and com- monly change horses at the end of it. It is true they are no very graceful steeds, but they go well, and through roads which they say are bad for France, but to me they seem gravel walks and bowling-greens; in short, it vvould be the finest travelling in the world, were it not for the inns, which are mostly terrible places indeed. But to describe our progress somewhiit more regularly, we came into Boulogne when it was almost dark, and went out pretty early on Tuesday morning; so that all 1 can say about it is, that it is a large, old, fortified tovvn, with more English in it than French. On Tuesday we were to go to Abbeville, seventeen leagues, or fifty- one short English miles; but by the way we dined at Montreuil, much to our hearts' con- tent, on stinking mutton cutlets, addled eggs, and ditch water. Madame the hostess made her appearance in long lappets of bone lace, and a sack of linsey-woolsey. We supped • This was before the introduction of post-chaises hevCj or it waold ttot hare appeared a sircumstsuie* worthy notice. grayV^ letters. • 45 and lodged pretty well at Abbeville, and had time to see a little of it before we caoie out this morning. There are seventeen con- vents in it, out of which we i?avv the chapels of the Minims and the Carmelite nuns. We are now come further thirt}^^ miles to Amiens, the chief city of the province of Picardy. We have seen the cathedral, which is just what that of Canierbury must have been be- fore the reformation. It is about the same size, a huge Gothic building, beset on the outside with thousands of small statues, and within adorned with beautiful painted win- dows, and a vast number of chapels, dressed out in all their linery of altar-pieces, em- broidery, gilding, and marble. Over the high altar are *f)reserved, in a very large wrought shrine of massy gold, the relics of St. Firmin, their patron saint. We went also to the chapels of the Jesuit, and Ursu- line nuns, the latter of which is very richly adorned. To-morrow we shall lie at Cler- mont, and next day reach Paris. The coun- try we have passed through hitherto has been flat, open, but agreeably diversifjed with villages, fields well-cultivated, and little rivers. On every hillock is a windmill, a crucitix, or a Virgin Mary dressed m flowers, and a sarcenet robe; one sees not many peo- 46 gray's letters. pie or carriages on the road; now and then indeed you meet a strolling friar, a country- man with his great muif, or a woman riding astride on a little ass, with short petticoats, and a great head-dress of blue wool. * * * XX. TO M R. WEST. Paris, April 12, 1739. Enfin done me voici a Paris. Mr. Walpole is gone out to supper at lord Conway's, and here 1 remain alone, though invited too. Do not think I make a merit of writing to you preferably to a good supper; for these three days we have been here, have ac- tuidly given me an aversion to eating in gen- eral. If hunger be the best sauce to meat, the French are certainly the worst cooks in the world; for what tables we have seen have been so delicately served, and so pro- fusely, that," after rising from one of them, one imagines it impossible ever to eat again. And now, if I tell you all I have in my head, you will believe me mad; mais n'importe, courage, allons! for if I wait till my head grow clear and settle a little, you may stay GRAY S LETTERS. 47 long enough for a letter. Six days have we been coming hither, which other people do in two: they have not been disagreeable ones; through a fine, open country, admira- ble roads, and i^i an easy conveyance; the inns not absolutely intolerable, and images quite unusual presenting themselves on all hands. At Amiens we saw the fine cathedral, and eat pate de perdix; passed through the park of Chantilly by the duke of Bourbon's palace, which we only beheld as we passed; broke down at Lausarche; slopped at St. Denis, saw all the beautiful monuments of the kings of France, and the vast treasures of the abbey, rubies, and emeralds as big as small eggs, crucifixes and vows, crowns and reliquaires, of inestimable value; but of all their curiosities the thing the most to our tastes, and which they indeed do the justice to esteem the glory of their collection, was a vase of an entire onyx, measuring at least five inches over, three deep, and of great thickness. It is at least two thousand years old, the beauty of the stone and the sculpture upon it (representing the mysteries of Bac- chus) beyond expression admirable; we have dreamed of it ever since. The jolly old Bene- dictine, that showed us the treasures had in his youth been ten years a soldier; he laugh- 48 ed at all the relics, was very full of stories, and mighty obliging; On Saturday evening we got to Paris, atid were driving through the streets a long while before we knew where vve were. The minute we came, voila Ptfilors Holdernepse, Conway, and his brother; all stayed supper, and till two o'clock in the morning, for here nobody ever sleeps; it is not the way* Next day go to dine at my lord Holdernesse's, there was the Abbe Prevot, author of the Cleveland, and sev'eral other pieces much esteemed: the rest were Englisli. At night we went to the Fandore; a spectacle literally, for it is nothing bat a beautiful piece of machinery of three scenes. The first represents the chaos, and by degrees the separation of the elements: the second, the temple of Jupiter, and the giving of the box to Pandora: the third, the opening of the box, and all the mischiefs that ensued. An absurd design, but executed in the highest perfection, and that in one of the finest theatres in the world; it is the grande salle des machines in tlie paiais des Tuilleries. Next day dined at Icrd Waldegrave's: then to the opera. Imagine to yourself for the drama four acts* * The French opera has only three acts, but often a prologue on a different subject, which (as Mr. Wilpole informs me, who saw it at the same time) was the case in this very representation. gray's letters. 49 entirely unconnected with each other, each founded on some little history, skilf'tlly taken out of an ancient author, e g. Ovid's Metamorphoses, &c. and with great address converted into a French piece of gallantry. For instance, that which 1 sa\v, called the Ballet de la Paix, had its first act built upon the story of Nireus. Homer having said that he was the handsomest man of his time, the poet, imagining such a one could not want a mistress, has given him one. These two come in and singsentiment in lamentable strains, neither air nor recitative; only, to one's great joy, they are every now and then interrupted by a dance, or (to one's great sorrow) by a chorus that borders the stage from one end to the other, and screams, past all power of simile to represent. The second act was Baucis and Philemon. Baucis is a beautiful young shepherdess, and Phile- mon her swain. Jupiter falls in love with her, but nothing will prevail upon her; so it is all mighty well, and the chorus sing and dance the praises of Constancy. The two other acts were about Iphis and lanthe, and the judgment of Paris. Imagine, I say, all this transacted by cracked voices,, trilling di- visions upon two' notes and a half, accompa- nied by an orchestra of humstrums, and a VOL. IV. 4 50 ORAV S LETTERS. whole house more attentive than if Farinelli sung, and you will almost have formed a just notion of the thing. Our astonishment at tl.eir absurdit}' you can never conceive; we had enough to do to express it by screaming an hour louder than the whole dramatis per- sonee. We have also seen twice the Come- die Fran^oise; first, the Mahomet Second, a tragedy that has had a great run of late; and the thing itself does not want its beauties, but the actors are beyond measure delightful. Mademoiselle Gaussin (M. Voltaire's Zara) has with a charming (though little) person the most pathetic tone of voice, the finest expression in her face, and most proper ac- tion imaginable. There is also a Dufrene, who did the chief character, a handsome man and a prodigious fine actor. The second we saw was the Philosophe marie, and here they performed as well in comedy; there is a Mademoiselle Quinault, somewhat in Mrs. Clive's way, and a Monsieur Grandval, in the nature of Wilks, who is the genteelest thing in the world. There are several more would be much admired in England, and many (whom we have not seen) much cele- brated here. Great part of our time is speut in seeing churches aild palaces full of fine pictures, &c. the quarter of which is gray's letters. 61 not yet exhausted. For my part, I could entertain myself this month merely with the common streets and the people in them. * * *• XXI. TO MR. WEST. Paris, May 22, 1739. After the little particulars aforesaid i sliould have proceeded to a journal of our transac- tions for this week past, should have carried you post from hence to Versailles, hurried you through the gardens to Trianon, back again to Paris, so away to Chantilly. But the fatigue is perhaps more than you can bear, and moreover I think 1 have reason to stomach your last piece of gravity. Sup- posing you were in your soberest mood I am sorry you should think me capable of ever being so dissipe, so evapore, as not to be in a condition of relishing any thing you could say to me'. And now, if you have a mind to make your peace with me, arouse ye from your megrims and your melancholies, and (for exercise is good for you) throw away your night-cap, call for your jack- 62 gray's letters. boots, and set out with me, last Saturday evening, for Versailles and so at eight o'clock, passing through a road speckled with vines, and villas, and hares, and par- tridges, we arrive at the great avenue, flanked on either hand with a double row of trees about half a mile long, and with the palace itsfflf to terminate the view; facing which, on each side of you, is placed a semi- circle of very handsome buildings, which form the stables. These we will not enter into, because you know we are no jockies. Well! and is this the great front of Ver- sailles? What a huge heap of littlenessl it is composed, as it were, of three courts, all open to the eye at once, and gradually di- minishing till you come to the ro)'al apart- ments, which on this side present but half a dozen windows and a balcony. This last is all that can be called a front, for the rest is only great wings. The hue of all this mass is black, dirty red, and yellow; the first pro- ceeding from stone changed by age; the second, from- a mixture of brick; and the last, from a profusion of tarnished gilding. You cannot see a more disagreeable tout- ensemble; and, to finish the matter, it is all stuck over in many places with small busts of a tawny hue between every two windows. gray's letters. 53 We pass through this to go into the garden, and here the case is indeed altered; nothing can be vaster and more magnificent than the back front; before it a very spacious terrace spreads itself, adorned with two large basins; these are bordered and lined (as most of the others) with white marble, with band- some statues of bronze reclined on their edges. From hence you 'descend a huge flight of steps into a semi-circle formed by woods, that are cut all round into niches, whjch are filled with beautiful copies of all the famous antique statues in white marble. Just in the midst is t)ie basin of Latona; she and her children are standing on the top of a rock in the middle, on the sides of which are the peasants, some half, some totally changed into frogs, all which throw out water at her in great plenty. From thi«; place runs on the great alley, which brings YOU into a complete round, where is the basin of Apollo, the biggest in the gardens. He is rising in his car out of the water, sur- rounded by nymphs and tritons, all in bronze, and finely executed; and these, as tho}^ play, raise a perfect storm about him: be- yond this is the great canal, a prodigious long piece of water, that terminates the whole. All this you have at one coup d'oeil b4 GRAY S LETTERS. in entering the garden, which is truly great. I cannot say as much of the general taste of the place; every thing you behold savours too much of art; all is forced, all is con- strained about you; statues and vases sowed every where without distinction; sugar- loaves and minced-pies of yew; scrawl- work of box, and little squirting jets d'eau, besides a great sameness in the walks, cannot help striking one at first sight, not to men- tion the silliest of labyrinths, and all ^Esop's fabl'S in water; since these were designed in usumDelphini only. Here then we walk by moon light, and hear the ladies and the night- ingales sing. Next morning, being Whitsun- day, make ready to go to the Installation of nine knights du Saint Esprit, Cambis is one:* high mass celebrated with music, great crowd, much incense, king, queen, dauphin, mesdames, cardinals, and court! knights ar- rayed by his majesty; reverences before the altar, not bows, but curtsies; stiff hams; much tittering among the ladi-es; trumpets, kettle-drums, and fifes. My dear West, I am vastly delighted with Trianon, all of us with Chantilly; if you would know why, you *The Comte de Cambis w.^ lately returned from his Embassy in Eu^landt e tell you, is highly and justly offended at you for not in- quiring, long l3efore this, concerning her symmetry and proportions. * * * XXXIV. FROM MR. WEST. ELEGIA.* IRvgo des'idiae videov tibi crimine dignus ; Et rnerito : victas do tibi spoiiic manus. Arguor et veteres nimium contemuere Musas, Irata et nobis est Medicsea Venus. Mene iffitur statuas et inania saxa vereri ! Stultule ! marmorea quid raihi cum Venere ? Hie verae, liic vivae Venei'es, et niille per urbem, Quaruin nulla queat non placuisse Jovi. Cedite Romanse fonuosae, et eedite Graiae, Sintq'ic oiiiita Helenae nomeu et H rmionae ! Et, quascimque lefert setas vttus, Heroinae : Unus honor nostris jam venit Angliasin. Oh quales vultus, OIi quantum nunien ocellis ! * The letter which accompanied this little el'^gy is not extauc Probably it was only enclosed in one to Mr. Walpole. 92 gray's letters. I nunc et Tuscas improbe confer opes. Ne tamen haec obtusa niniis prsecordia credas, Neu me adeo nulla Pallade progonitum : Testoi- Pieridumque uinbi-as et fluraina Pindi, Me quoque Calliopes semper amasse chores ; Et dudum Ausonias urbes, et visere Graias Cura est, ingenio si licet ire meo : Sive est Phidiacum niarmor, seu Mentoris aera, Seu paries Coo nobilis e calamo ; Nee minus artificum magna argumenta recentum Romanique decus nominis et Veneti : Qua Furor et Mavors et ssevo in nianiiore vultus, Quaque et formoso mollior sere Venus ; Quaque loquax spirat fucus, vivique labores, Et quicquid calamo dulcius ausa manus : Hie nemora, et sola moerens Melibceus in umbra, Lymphaque muscoso prosiliens lapide ; Illic majus opus, faciesque in pariete major Exsurgens, Divum et numina Ccelicolum. O vos felices, quibus hajc cognoscere fas est, Et tota Italia, qua patet usque, frui .' Nulla dies vobis eat injucunda, nee usquam Noritis quid sit tempora amara pati. XXXV. TO HIS MOTHER. Florence, aiarch 19, 1740. The pope^ is at last dead, and we are to set out for Rome on Monday next. The con- * Clement the Twkslfth. gray's letters. 93 clave is still sitting there, and likely to con- tinue so soaie timo longer, as the two French cardinals are but just arrived, and the Ger- man ones are still expected. It agrees mighty ill with those that remain enclosed: Ottoboni is already dead of an apoplexy; Altieri and sever^ others are said to be dying, or very bad: yet it is not expected to break up till after Easter. We shall lie at Sienna the first night, spend a day there, and in two more get to Rome. One begins to see in this country the first promises of an Italian spring, clear unclouded skies, and warm suns, such as are not often felt in England; yet, for your sake, I hope at pre- sent you have your proportion of them, and that ail your frosts, and snows, and short- breaths are, by this time, utterly vanished. i have nothing new or particular to inform you of; and, if you see things at home go on much in their old course, you must not ima- gine them more various abroad. The di- versions of a Florentine Lent are composed of a sermon in the morning, full of hell and the devil; a dinner at noon, full of fish and meager diet; and, in the evening, what is called a conversazione, a sort of assembly at the principal people's houses, full of i can- not tell what: Besides this, there is twice a week a very grand concert. * * * 94 gray's letters. XXXVI. TO HIS MOTHER. Rome, April 2, N, S. 1740. This is the third day since we came to Rome, but the first hour I have had to write to you in. The journe}? from Florence cost us four da}'s, one of which was spent at Sienna, an agreeable, clean, old city, of no great magnificence or extent; but in a fine situation, and good air. What it has most considerable is its cathedral a huge pile of marble, black and white laid alternately, and laboured with a Gothic niceness and delicacy in the old-fashioned way. Within too are some paintings and sculpture of considerable hands. The sight of this, and some collec- tions that were showed us in private houses, were a sufficient employment for the little time we were to pass there; and the next morning we set forward on our journey: through a country very oddly composed; for some miles you have a continual scene of little mountains cultivated from top to bot- tom with rows of olive trees, or else elms, each of which has its vine twining about it, and mixing with the branches; and corn gray's letters. 95 sown between all the ranks. This, diversi- tiecl with numerous small houses and con- vents, makes the most agreeable pros})ect in the world: But, all of a sudden, it alters to black barren hills, as far as the eye cau reach, that seem never to have been capa- ble of culture, and are as uglj as useless. Such is the country for some time before one comes to Mount Radicofani, a terrible hi tck hill, on the top of which we were to lodge that night. It is very hia;h, and difficult of ascent; and at the foot of it we were much embarrassed by the fall of one of the poor horses that drew us. This accident obliged another chaise, which was coming down, to stop also; and out of it peeped a figure in a red cloak, with a nandkerchief tied round its head, which, by its voice and mien, seemed a fit old woman; but upon its getting out, appeared to be Senesino, who was returning from Naples to Sienna, the place of his birth and residence. On the highest part of the mountain is an old fortress, and near it a house built by one of the grand dukes for a hunting-seat, but now converted into an inn: It is the shell of a large fabric, but such an inside, such chambers, and accom- modations, that your cellar is a palace in comparison; and your cat sups and lies much 96 better than we did; for, it beinga saint's eve, there was nothing but eggs. We devoured our meager fare; and, after stopping up the windows with the quilts, were obliged to lie upon the straw beds in our clothes. Such are the conveniences in a road, that is, as it were, the great thoroughfare of all the world. Just on the otiier side of this mountain, at Ponte Centino, one enters the patrimony of the church; a most delicious country, but thinly inhabited. That night brought us to Viterbo, a city of a more lively appearance than any we had lately met with; the houses have glass windows, which is not very usual here; and most of the streets are terminated by a handsome fountain. Here we had the pleasure of breaking our fast on the leg of an old hare and some broiled crows. Next morning, in descending Mount Viterbo, we lirst discovered (though at near thirty miles distance) the cupola of St. Peter's, and a little after began to enter on an old Roman pavement, with now and then a ruined tower, or a sepulchre on each hand. We now had a clear view of the city, though not to the best advantage, as coming along a plain quite upon a level with it; however, it ap- peared very vast, and surrounded with mag- nificent villas and gardens. We soon after gray's letters. 97 crossed the Tiber, a river that ancient Rome made more considerable than any oierit of its own could have done: However, it is not contemptibly small, but a good handsome stream; very deep, yet somewhat of a muddy complexion. The lirst entrance of Rome is prodigiously striking. It is by a noble gate, designed by Michael Angelo, and adorned with statues; this brings you into a large square, in the midst of which is a vast obe- lisk of granite, ani in front you have at one view two churches of a handsome architec- ture, and so much ahke, that they are called the Twins; with three streets, the middle- most of which is one of the longest in Rome, As high as my expectation was raised, I con- fess, the magnificence of this city infinitely surpasses it. You cannot pass along a street, but you have views of some palace, or church", or square, or fountain, the most picturesque and noble one can imagine. We have not yet set about considering its beauties, ancient and modern, with atten- tion; but have already taken a slight tran- sient view of some of the most remarkable. St. Peter's I saw the day after we arrived, and was struck dumb with wonder. I there saw the cardinal D'Auvergne, one of the French ones, who, upon coming offhis jour- VOL. IV. 7 98 grab's letters^ ney, immediately repaired hither to offer up his vows at the high altar, and went directly into the conclave; the doors of which we saw opened to him, and all the other im- mured cardinals came thither to receive him. Upon his entrance they were closed again directly. It is supposed they will not come to an agreement about a pope till after Easter, though the confinement is very disa- greable. 1 have hardly philosophy enough to see the infinity of fine things, that are here daily in the power of any body that has money, without regretting the want of it; but custom has the power of making things easy to one. I have not yet seen his majes- ty of Great Britain, &;c. though I have the two boys in the gardens of the Villa Bor- gese, where they go a-shooting almost every day; it was at a distance, indeed, for we did not choose to meet them, as you may ima- gine. This letter (like all those the Eng- lish send, or receive) will pass through the hands of that family, before it comes to those it was intended for. They do it more honour than it deserves; and all they will learn from thence will be, that 1 desire you to give my duty to my father, and wherever else it is due, and that I am, &c. gray's letters. 99 XXXVII. TO HIS MOTHER. Rome, April 15, 1740. Good-Fi'iday. To-day I am just come from pa^'ing my adoration at St. Peter's to three extraordi- nary relics which are exposed to public view only on these two days in the whole year, at which time all the confraternities in the city come in procession to see them. It was something extremely novel to see that vast church, and the most magnificent in the world, undoubtedly, illuminated (for it was night) by thousands of little crystal lamps, disposed in the figure of a huge cross at the high altar, and seeming to hang alone in the air. All the light proceeded from this, and had the most singular efi'ect imaginable as one entered the great door. Soon after came one after another, I believe, thirty processions, all dressed in linen frocks, and girt with a cord, their heads covered with a cowl all over, only two holes to see through left. Some of them were all black, others red, others white, others party- coloured; these were continually coming and going with their tapers and crucifixes be- 100 fore them; and to each company, as they ar- rived and knelt before the great altar, were shown from a balcony, at a great height, the three wonders, which are, you must know, the head of the spear that wounded Christ; St. Veronica's handkercliief, with the mira- culous impression of his face upon it: and a piece of the true cross, on the sight of which the people thump their breasts, and kiss the pavement with vast devotion. The tragical part of the ceremony is half a dozen wretched creatures, who, with their faces covered, but naked to the waist, are in a side-chapel disciplining themselves with scourges full of iron prickles; but really in earnest, as our eyes can testify, which saw their backs and arms so raw, we should have taken it for a red satin doublet torn, and showing the skin through, had we not been convinced of the contrary by the blood which was plentifully sprinkled about them. It is late; I give j/ou joy of Porto-Bello, and many other things, which I hope are all true. * * * gray's letters. 101 XXXVIII. TO MR. WEST. Tivoli, May 20, 1740. This day being in the palace of his high- ness the duke of Modena, he laid his most serene commands upon me to write to Mr. West, and said he thought it for his gVory, that I should draw up an inventory of all his most serene possessions for the said West's perusal. Imprimis, a house, being in circumference a quarter of a mile, two feet and an inch; the said house containing the following particulars, to wit, a great room. Item, another great room; item, a bigger room; item, another room; item, a vast room; item, a sixth of the same; a se- venth ditto; an eighth as before; a ninth as abovesaid; a tenth (See No. 1.); item, ten more such, besides twenty besides, which, not to be too particular, we shall pass over. The said rooms contain nine chairs, two tables, five stools, and a cricket. From whence we shall proceed to the garden, con- taining two millions of superfine laurel hedg- es, a clump of cypress trees, and half the river Teverone, that pisses into two thoU' 102 gray's letters. sand several chamberpots. Finis. Dame Nature desired me to put in a list of her lit- tle goods and chattels, and, as they were small, to be very minute about them. She has built here three or four little mountains, and laid them out in an irregular semicircle; from certain others behind, at a greater dis- tance, she has drawn a canal, into which she has put a little river of hers, called Anio; she has cut a huge cleft between the two inner- most of her four hills, and there she has left it to its own disposal; which she has no soon- er done, but, like a heedless chit, it tumbles headlong down a declivity fifty feet perpen- dicular, breaks itself all to shatters, and is converted into a shower of rain, where the sun forms many a bow, red, green, blue, and yellow. To get out of our metaphors with- out any further trouble, it is the most noble sight in the world. The weight of that quan- tity of waters, and the force they fall with, have worn the rocks they throw themselves among into a thousand irregular crags, and to a vast depth. In this channel it goes boiling along with a mighty noise till it comes to another steep, where you see it a second time come roaring down (but first you must walk two miles farther) a greater height than before, but not with that quantity of gray's letters. 103 waters; for by this time it has divided itself, being crossed and opposed by the rocks, into four several streams, each of which, in emu- lation of the great one, will tumble down too; and it does tumble down, but not from an equally elevated place; so that you have at one view all these cascades intermixed with gro\es of olive and little woods, the mountains rising behind them, and on the top of one (that which forms the extremity of one of the half-circle's horns) is seated the town itself. At the very extremity of that extremity, on the brink of the precipice, stands the Sybil's temple, the remains of a little rotunda, surrounded with its portico, above half of whose beautiful Corinthian pillars are still standing and entire; all this on one hand. On the other, the open Campagna of Rome, here and there a little castle on a hillock, and the city itself on the very brink of the horizon, indistinctly seen (being 18 miles off) except the dome of St. Peter's; which, if you look out of your window, wherever you are, I sup- pose, you can see. I did not tell you that a little below the first fall, on the side of the rock, and hanging over that torrent, are little ruins which they show you for Horace'« house, a curious situation to obgerve the 104 gray's letters. " Pi'aeceps Anio, et Tibumi lucus, et uda Mobil ibus pomaria rivis." Maecenas did not care for such a noise, it seems, and built him a house (which they also carry one to see) so situated that it sees nothing at all ofthe matter, and for any thing he knew there might be no such river in the world. Horace had another house on the other side of the Teyerone, opposite to Msecenas's; and they told us there was a bridge of communication, by which "andava il detto Signor per trastuUarsi coll istesso Orazio." In coming hither we crossed the Aquae Albulae, a vile little brook that stinks like a fury, and they say it has stunk so these thousand years. I forgot the Piscina of Quintilius Varus, where he used to keep certain little fishes. This is very entire, and there is a piece of the aqueduct that supplied it too; in the garden below is old Rome, built in little, just as it was, they say. There are seven temples in it, and no houses at all: They say there were none. May 21. We have had the pleasure of going twelve miles out of our way to Palestrina. It has rained all day as if heaven and us were com- ing together. See my honesty, 1 do not men- gray's letters. 105 tion a syllable of the temple of Fortune, be- cause I really did not see it; which, I think, is pretty well for an old traveller. So we returned along the Via Praenestina, saw the Lacus Gabinus and Regillus, wherej you know. Castor and Pollux appeared upon a certain occasion. And many a good old tomb we left on each hand, and many an aqueduct, Dumb are whose fountains, and their channels di-y. There are, indeed, two whole modern ones, works of popes, that run about thirty miles a-piece in length; one of them conveys still the fnmous Aqua Virgo to Rome, 9nd adds vast beauty to the prospect. So we came to Rome again, where waited for us a splendi- dis^imo regalo of letters: in one of which came You, with your huge characters and wide intervals, staring. 1 would have you to know, I exp(^ct you should take a hand- some crow-quill when you write to me, and not leave room for a pin's point in four sides of a sheet royal. Do you but find matter, I will find spectacles. I have more time than I thought, and I will employ it in telling you about a ball that we were at the other evening. Figure to 106 gray's letters. yourself a Roman villa; all its little apart- ments thrown open, and lighted up to the best advantage. At the upper epd of the gallery, a fine concert, in which La Diamantina, a famous virtuosa, played on the violin divine- ly, and sung angelically; Giovannino and Pasqualini (great names in musical story) also performed miraculously. On each side were ranged all the secular grand monde of Rome, the ambassadors, princesses, and all that. Among the rest II Serenissimo Pre- tendente (as the Mantova gazette calls him) displayed his rueful length of person, with his two young ones, and all his ministry around him. "Poi nacque un grazioso ballo,'- where the world danced, and 1 sat in a cor- ner regaling myself with iced fruits, and other pleasant rinfrescatives. XXXIX. TO MR. WEST, Rome, May, 1740. Mater rosarum, cui tenerse vigent Aurse Favoiii. cui Venus it comes Lasciva, Nynipharum choreis Et volucrur. celebrata cantu ! Die, non inertera fallei-e qua diem Araat sub nrabra, seu sinit auream gray's letters. 107 Doi'inire plectrum, seu retentat Pierio Zephyrinus* antro Furore duici plenus, et immemor Reptantis inter frigora Tusculi Umhrosa, vel colles Aaiici Palladia: superaiitis Albse. Dilecta Fauno, et capriptdum chori's Pineta, tester vos, Anio minax Qusecunque per clivos volutus Prsecipiti tremefecit amne, lUius altuin Tibur, et Msii\x Audisse silvas nomen amabiles, Illius et gratas Latinis Naiasin iugeminasse rupes : Nam me Latinte Naiades uvida Videre ripa, qua niveas levi Tam saepe lavit i-ore plumas, Duice canens Venusiims ales; Mirura ! caiienti conticuit nemuj, Sacrique fontes, et retineut adhuc (Sic Musa jussit) saxa molles Docta modos, veteresque iauri. Mirare nee tu me citharaj rudem Claudis laborantem numcris ; loca Amcena, jucunduraque ver in- compositum docuere carmen : Haei'ent sub omni nam folio nigi'i Phoebea luci (credite) somnia, Ai-gutiusqae et lympha et aurae Nescio quid solito loquuntur- • He entitled this cliarming ode, " Ad C. Favonium Zephyii- num," aud writ it immediately after his journey to Fi-escati and the cascades of Tivoli, which he describes in the preceding letter. 108 GRAY S LETTERS. I am to-day just returned from Alba, a good deal fatigued; for you know the Appian is somewhat tiresome.* We dined at Pom- pey's; he indeed was gone for a few days to his Tusculan, but, by the care of his villicus, we made an admirable meal. We had the dugs of a pregnant sow, a peacock, a dish of thrushes, a noble scarus, just fresh from the Tyrrhene, and some conchylia of the lake with garum sauce: for my part I never eat better at Lucullus's table. We drank half a dozen cyathi a-piece of ancient Alban to Pholoe's health; and, after bathing, and play- ing an hour at ball, we mounted our essedum again, and proceeded up the mount to the temple. The priests there entertained us with an account of a wonderful shower of birds' eggs, that had fallen two days before, which had no sooner touched the ground, but they were converted into gudgeons; as also that the night past a dreadful voice had been heard out of the adytum, which spoke * However whimsical this humour may appear to some readers, I chose to insert it, as it gives me an opportunity of remarking that Mr, Gray was extremely skilled in the customs of the ancien*^- Romans; and has catalogued, in his common-place book, thei various eatables, wines, perfumes, clothes, medicines, &c. with great pivcision, i*eferring under every article to passages in the poets wA historians where their names are meutioBed. gray's letters. 109 Greek during a full half hour, but nobody understood it. But quitting my Kornanities, to your great joy and mine, let me teil you, in plain English, that we come from Albano. The present town lies within the enclosure of Pompey's villa in ruins. The Appian way runs through it, by the side of which, a little farther, is a large old tomb, with tive pyramids upon it, which the learned suppose to be the burying-place of the family, be- cause they do not know whose it can be else. But the vulgar assure you it is the sepulchre of the Curiatii, and by that name (such is their power) it goes. One drives to Castel Gondolfo, a house of the pope's, situated on the top of one of the Colhnette, that forms a brim to the basin, commoiily called the Al- ban lake. It is seven miles round; and di- rectly opposite to you, on the other side, rises the Mons Albanus, much taller than the rest, along whose side are still discoverable (not to corhmon eyes) certain little ruins of the old Alba Longa. They had need be very little, as having been nothing but ruins ever since the days of Tullus Hostilius. On its top is a house of the constable Colonna's, where stood the temple of Jupiter Latialis. At the foot of the hill Gondolfo, are the fa- mous outlets of the lake, built with hewn 110 GRAY S LETTERS. stone, a mile and a half under ground. Livj, you know, amply informs us of the foolish oc- casion of this expense, and gives me this op- portunity of displaying all my erudition, that 1 may appear considerable in your eyes. This is the prospect from one window of the palace. From another you have the whole campagna, the city, Antium, and the Tyr- rhene sea (twelve miles distant) so distin- guishable, that you may see the vessels sail- ing upon it. All this is charming. Mr. Wnlpole says, our memory sees more than our eyes in this country, which is extremely true; smce, for realities, Windsor, or Rich- mond Hill, is infinitely preferable to Albano or Fresrati. i am now at home, and going to the window to tell you it is the most beau- tif'il of Italian nights, which, in truth, are but just began, (so backward has the spring been here, and every where else, they say). There is a moon ! there are stars for you ! Do not you hear the fountain ? Do not you smell tiie orange flowers ? That building yonder is the convent of St. Isidore; and that eminence, with the cypress trees and pines upon it, the top of M. Quirinal. — This is all true, and yet my prospect is not two hun- dred yards in length. We send you some Roman inscriptions to entertain you. Th^ GRAV'S LETTER^. Ill iirst two are modern, transcribed from the Vatican library by Mr. Walpole. Pontifices olim quem fundavere priores, Prsecipua Sixtus perficit arte tholum ;• Et Sixti tantum se gloria tollit in aituni, Quantum se Sixti uobile tollit opus : Magnus honos magni fundaraina pouere templi, Sed finera coeptis ponere major houos . Saxa agit Amphion, Thebana ut moenia condat : Sixtus et immensse pondera molis agit.f Saxa trahunt ambo loiige diversa : sed arte Htee trahit Amphion ; Sixtus et arte trabit. At tantum exsuperat Direaeum Amphiona Sixtus, Quantum hie exsuperat csetera saxa lapis. Mine is ancient, and I think not less curi- ous. It is exactly transcribed from a sepul- chral marble at the villa Giustiniani. I put stops to it, when I understand it. DIs Manibus Claudiae, Pistes *" Priiii s Conjugi ^ Optumse, Sanctae, Et Piae, Benemeritate« Non sequos, Parcae, statu istis stamina vitse, Tam bene compositos potuistis sede tenere. * Sixtus V. built the dome of St. Peter**, t He raised the obelisk in the great area. 112 GRAY^S LETTERS. Amissa est coujux cur ego et ipse moror ? Si • bella • esse mi iste ' mea vivere debuit * Tristia contigerunt qui amissa conjugc vivo. Nil est tain miserum, quam totam ptixlere vitam. Nee vita enasci dura peregistis crudelia peasa. sorores, Ruptaqne deficiunt in primo munere fiisi. O iiiiiiis injustae ter donos dare niur.us in annos, Deceptus • gi-autus ■ fatura ' sic • pressit egestas • Dum vitaiu tulero, Primus Pistes lugea conjugium. XL. TO HIS MOTHER, Naples, June 17, 1740. Our journey hither was through the most beautiful part of the finest country in the world; and every spot of it, on some account or other, famous for these three thousand years past.* The season has hitherto been just as warm as one would wish it; no un- wholesome airs, or violent heats, yet heard of: The people call it a backward year, and are in pain about their corn, wine, and oil; • Mr. Gray wrote a minute description of every thing he saw in this tour from Rome to Naples ; as also of the environs of Rome, Florence, &c But as these papers are appaix^ntly only memoran- dums for his own use, I do not tliink it iitcessai'y to print them, although they abound with many uncommon remarks, and peili» nent classical quotations. GRAY*!? LETTERS. ] 13 but ^ve, wlio are neither corn, wine, nor oil, liad it very agreeable. Our road was through V'ellGtri, Cisterna, Terracina, Capua, and Aversa, and so to Naples. The minute one I'^aves his holines^'s dominions, the face of things begins to change from wide unciiti- vated plains to olive groves and well tilled fields of corn, intermixed with ranks of elms, every one of which has its vine twining about it, and hanging in festoons between the rows from one tree to another. The great old fi::-trees, the oranges in full bloom, and myr- tles in every hedge, make one of the deli:^ht- fullest scenes you can conceive; besides that, the roads are wide, well-kept, and full of passengers, a sight I have not beheld this long time. My wonder still increased upon entering the city, which, I think, for number of people, outdoes both Paris and London. The streets are one continued market, and thronged with populace so much that a coach can hardly pass. The common sort are a jolly lively kind of animals, more industrious thaa Italians usually are ; they work till evening; then take their lute or guitar (for they all pla^;) and walk about the city, or upon the sea-shore with it, to enjoy the fresco. One sees their little brown children jumping about stark-naked, and the bigger VOL. IV. 8 114 gray's LETTERS. ones dancing with castanets, while others play on the cymbal to them, lour maps wiii show you the situation of Naples; it is on the most lovely bay in the worUl, and one of the calmest seas: It has many other beau- ties besides those of nature. We have spent two days in visiting the remarkable places in the country round it, such as the bay of Baiae, and its remains of antiquity; the lake Avernus, and the Solflitara, Charon's grotto, kc. We have beea in the Sibyl's cave and many other strange holes under-ground (I only name them, because you may consult Sandys's travels); but the strangest hole I ever was in, has been to-day, at a place call- ed Portici, where his Sicilian Majesty has a country-seat. About a year ago, as they were digging, they discovered some parts of ancient buildings above thirty feet deep in the ground: curiosity led them on, and they have been digging ever since; the passage they have made, with all its turnings and windings, is now more than a mile long. As you walk, you see parts of an amphitheatre, many houses adorned with marble columns, and incrusted with the same ; the front of a temple, several arched vaults of rooms paint- ed in fresco. Some pieces of painting hav€ been taken out from hence, finer than any gray's LETTERS. 115 thing of the kind before discovered, and with these the king has adorned his palace ; also a number of statues, medals, and gems ; and more are dug out every day. This is knoun to be a Roman town," that in the emperior Titus's time was overwhelmed by a furious eruption of Mount Vesuvius, which is hard by. — The wood and beams remain so perfect that you may see the grain ; but burnt to a coal, and dropping into dust upon the least touch. We were to-day at the f)ot of that mountain, which at present only smokes a little, where we saw the materials that fed the stream of tire, which about four years since ran down its side. We have but a few days longer to stay here ; too little in conscience for such a place. * * * XLI. TO HIS FATHER. Flarenoe, July 16, 1740. At my return to this cit}', the day before yesterday, I had the pleasure of finding yours dated June the 9th. The period ofour * It shoald seem, by the omission of its name, that it waj net •hen discovered to be Herculaoeum. 116 gray's letters. voyages, at least towards the South, is come, as you wish. We have been at Naples, spent nine or ten days there, and returned to Rome, where finding no likelihood of a pope yet these three months, and quite wearied with the formal assemblies, and lit- tle society of that great city, Mr. Walpole determined to return hither to spend the summer, where he imagines he shall pass his time more agreeably, than in the tedious expectation of what, when it happens, will only be a great show. For my own part, I give up the thoughts of all tnat with but little regret ; but the city itself I do not part with so easily, which alone has amusements for whole years. However, I have passed through all that most people do, both an- cient and modern ; what that is you may see. better than 1 can tell you, in a thousand books. The conclave we left in greater uncertainty than ever ; the more than or- dinary liberty they enjoy there, and the unusual coolness of the season, makes the confinement less disagreeable to them than common, and, consequentljs' maintains them in their irresolution. There have been very high words, one or two (it is said) have come even to blows ; two more are dead within this last month, Cenci and gray's LETTERS. 117 Portia ; the latter died distracted ; and we left another (Alfcieri) at the extremity : yet nobody dreams of an election till the latter end of September. All this gives great scandal to all good catholics, and every body talks very freely on the subject. The Pre- tender (whom you desire an account of) 1 have^ had frequent opportunities of seeing at church, at the corso, and other jdaces ; but more particularly, and that for a wliole night, at a great ball given by count Patrizii to the prince and princess Craon, (who were come to Rome at that time, that he might receive from the hands of the empe- ror's minister there the order of the golden fleece) at which he and his two sons were present. They are good, line boys, espe- cially the younger, who has the more spirit of the two, and both danced incessantly all night long. For him, he is a thin ill-made man, extremely tall and awkward, of a most unpromising countenance, a good deal re- sembling king James the second, and has ex- tremely the air and look of an idiot, particu- larly when he laughs or prays. The first he does not often, the latter continually. He lives private enough with his little court about him, consisting of Lord Dunbar, who Kianages every thing, and two or three of 118 gray'^s letters. the Preston Scotch lords, uho would be very glad to make their peace at home. We happened to be at Naples on Corpus Christi day, the greatest feast in the year, so had an opportunity of seeing their Sicilian majesties to advantage. The king walked in the grand procession, and the queen (being big with child) sat in a balcony. He followed the host to the church of St. Clara, where high mass was celebrated to a glori- ous concert of music. They are as ugly a little pair as one can see : she a pale girl, marked with the small pox ; and he a brown boy, with a thin face, a huge nose, and as ungain as possible. We are settled here with Mr. Mann, in a charming apartment ; the river Arno runs under our windows, which we can tish out of The sky is so serene, and the air so temperate, that one continues in the open air all night long in a slight night gown, without any danger ; and the marble bridge is the resort of every body, where ,they hear music, eat iced fruits, and sup by moonlight ; though as yet (the season being extremely backward every where) these amusements are not begun. Yon see we are now coming northward again, though in no great haste ; the Venetian and Milanese gray's letters. 119 territories, nnd either Germany or the south of France (according to the turn the war mny take,) are all that remain for us, that we have not yet seen ; as to Loretto, and that part of Italy, we have given over all thoughts of it. XLII. FROM MR. WEST. Bond-street, June 5, 1740. I LIVED at the Temple till i was sick of it : I have just left it, and tind myself as much a lawyer as 1 was when I was in it. It is cer- tain, at least, I mav study the law here as well as I could there. My being in cham- bers did not signify to me a pinch of snutf. They tell me my father was a lawyer, and, as you know, emir»ent in the profession ; and such a circumstance muGi be of advan- tage to me. M}' uncle too makes some fig- ure in Westminster-hail ; and there's anoth- er advantage : then my grandfather's name would get rae many friends Is it not strange that a young fellow, that might enter the world with so many advantages^ will not know hij o'vn interest ? kc. &:c. What shall 120 gray's letters. I say in answer to all this ? For money, I neither dote upon it nor despise it ; it is a necessary stuff enough. For ambition, I do not want that neither ; but it is not to sit upon a bench. In short, is it not a disa- greeable thing to force one's inclination, especially when one's young ? not to men- tion that one ought to have the strength of a Hercules to go through our common law ; which, I am afraid, I have not. Well ! but then, say they, if one profession does not suit you, you may choose another more to your inclination. Now I protest I do not 3'et know my own inclination, and I believe, if that was to be my direction, I should never fix at all. There is no going by a weather-cock. I could say much more upon this subject ; but there is no talkinu: tete-atete cross the Alps. Oh, the folly of young men, that never know their own in- terest ! they never grow wise till they are ruined ! and then nobody pities them, nor helps tbem. Dear Gray ! consider me in the condition of one that has lived these two years without any person that he can speak freely to. I know it is very seldom that people trouble themselves with the senti- ments of those they converse with ; so they can chat about trifles, thev never care GRAV'S LETTEF.S. 121 whether your henrt aches or no Are you one of these V.' I think not. But what right have I to ask you this question ? Have we known one another enough, that I should expect or demand sincerity frooi you ? Yes, Gray, I hope we liavo ; and I have not quite such a mean opinion of myself, as to think I do not deserve it But, signor, is it not time for me to ask something about your future intentions abroad ? Where do you ])ropose going next ? An in Apuliam ? nam illo si adveneris, tanquam Ulysses, cognos- ces tuorum neminem. Vale. So Cicero prophesies^ in the end of one of his letters — and there 1 end. Yours, kc. XLllI. TO MR, WEST. Florence, July 16, 1740. Yqu do yourself and me justice, in imagin- ing that you merit, and that I am capable of sincerity. I have not a thought, or even a weakness, I desire to conceal from you ; and consequently on my side deserve to be treated with the same openness of heart. 122 GRAY S LETTERS. My vanity perhaps might make me more reserved towards you, if you were one of the heroic race, superior to all human fail- ings ; but as mutual wants are the ties of general society, so are mutual weaknesses of private friendships, supposing them nriix- ed with some proportion of good qualities ; for where one may not sometimes biame, one does not much care ever to praise. All this has the air of an introduction design- ed to soften a very harsh reproof that is to follow ; but it is no such matter : I only meant to ask, Why did you change your lodjiing ? Was the air bad, or the situation melancholy ? If so, you are quite in the right. Only, is it not putting yourself a lit- tle out of the way of a people, with whom it seems necessary to keep up some sort of intercourse and conversation, though but lit- tle for your pleasure or entertainment (yet there are, I believe, such among them as might give you both,) as least for your in- formation in that study, which, when. 1 left you, you thought of applying to? for that there is a certain study necessary to be followed, if we mean to })e of any use in the world, 1 take for granted; disagreeable enough (as most necessities are,) but, I am afraid, unavoidable. Into how many bran- gray's letters. 123 ches the studies are diviJcd in England, every body know^; and between that which you and I had pitcJ^ied upon, and the other two, it was impossible to balance long. Ex- amples show one that it is not absolutely ne- cessary to be ablockjiead to succeed in this profession. The labour is long, and the elements dry and unentertaiuing; nor was ever any body (especially those that after- wards mnd3 a tjgure in it) amused, or even not disgusted in the bt^ginning; yet, upon a further acquaintance, there is surely matter for curiosity and reflection. It is strange if, among all that huge mass of words, there be not somewhat intermixed for thought. Laws have been the result of long delibera- tion, and that not of dull men, but the con- trary; and have so close a connexion with history, naj', with pailosoph}' itself, that they must partake a little of what they are re- lated to so nearly. Besides, tell me, have you ever made the attempt? Was not you frighted merely with the distant prospect? Had the Gotliic character and bnlkiness of those volumes (a teiith part of which per- haps it wi'll bf no firther necessary to con- sult, than as one does a dictionary) no ill eftect upon your eye? Are you sure, if Coke had been printed by Elzevir, and bound io 124 gjiay's letters. twenty neat pocket volumes, instead of one folio, Yon should never have taken him np for an hour, as you would a Tully, or drank your tea over him? I know how great an obstacle ill spirits are to resolution. Do you really think, if you rid ten miles every morning, in a week's time you should not entertain much stronger hopes of the chan- cellorship, and think it a much more proba- ble thing than you do at present? The advantages you mention are not nothing; our inclinations are more than we imagine in our own power; reason and resolution de- termine them, and support under many diffi- culties. To me there hardly appears to bf any medium between a public life and a private one; he who prefers the tirst, must put him- self in a way of being serviceable to the rest of mankind, if he has a mind to be of any con- sequence among them: nay, he must not refuse being in a certain degree even de- pendent upon some men who already are so. If he has the good fortune to light on such as will make no ill use of his humility, there is no shame in this: if not, bis ambi- tion ought to give place to a reasonable pride, and he should apply to the cultivation of his own mind those abilities which he has not been permitted to use for others' service. gray's letters. 125 Such a private hnppiness (supposing a small competence of fortune) is almost always in every one's power, and the proper enjoy- ment of age, as the other is the employment of youth. You are yet young, have some advantaijes and opportunities, and an un- doubted capacity, which you have never yet put to the trial. Set apart a few hours, see how the tiist year will agr«?e with you, at the end of it you are still the master; if you change your mind, you will only have got the knowledge of a little somewhat that can do no hurt, or ♦ive you cause of re- pentance. If your inclination he not fixed upon any thing else, it is a symptom that you are not absolutely determined against this, and warns you not to mistake mere indolence for inability. I am sensible there is nothing stronger against what I would persuade you to, than my own practice; which may make you imagine I think not as f speak. Alas! it is not so; but I do not act what ! think, and I had rather be the object of your pity than that you should be that of mine; and, be assured, the ad- vantage I may receive from it, does not dimi- nish my concern in hearing you want some- body to converse with freely, whose advice might be of more weight, and always at hand. 126 gray's letters. We have some time since come to (he southern period of our voyages; we spent about nine days at Naples. It is the largest and most populous city, as its environs are the most deliciously fertile country, of all Italy We sailed in the bay of Bais, sweated in the Solfatara, and died in the grotto del Cane, as all strangers do; saw the Corpus Christi procession, and the king and the queen, and the city underground (which is a wonder I reserve to tell you of another time) and so returned to Rome for another fortnight; left it (left Rome!) and came hither for the summer. You have seen an Epistle* to Mr. Ashton, that seems to me full of spirit and thought, and a good deal of poetic fire. I would know your opinion. Now I talk of verses, Mr. Walpole and 1 have frequently wondered you should never mention a certain imitation of Spenser, pub- lished last year by a namesake! of yours, with which we are all enraptured and en- mar vailed. * The reader will find this among Mr. Walpole's Fugitive Piecei. t '' On the abuse of Travelling,** by Gilbot West. gray's letters. 127 XLIV. TO KIS MOTHER. Florence, Aug. 21, N. S. 1740. It is some time since I hnve had the pleasure of writing to you, having been upon a little excursion cross the mountains to Bologna. We set out from hence at sunset, passed the Apennines by moonlight, travelling inces- santly till we came to Bologna at four in the afternoon next day. There we spent a week agreeably enough, and returned as we came. The day before yesterday arrived the news of a pope: and I have the mortifi- cation of being within four days' journey of Rome, and not seeing his coronation, the heats being violent, and the infectious air now at its height. We had an instance, the other day, that it is not only fancy. Two country fellows, strong men, and used to the country about Rome, having occasion to come from thence hither, and travelling on foot, as common with them, one died sud- denly on the road; the other got hither, but extremely weak, and in a manner stupid; he was carried to the hospital, but died in two days. So, between fear and laziness, we re- 128 gray's letters. main here, and must be satisfied with the ac- counts other people give us of the matter. The new pope is called Benedict XIV. being created cardinal by Benedict XIII the last pope but one. His name is Lambertini, a noble Bolognese, and archbishop of that city. When I was fir^^t there, I remember to have jseen him two or three times; he is a short, fat man, about sixty-five years of age, of a hearty, merry countenance, and likely to live some years. He bears a good character for generosity, affability, and olber virt'ies; and, they say, wants neither l^r.owledge nor capacity. The worst side of him is, that he has a nephew or two; besides a certain young favourite, called Melara, who is said to have had, for some time, the arbitrary (Jisposal of his purse and family. He is re- ported to have made a little speech to the cardinals in the conclave, while they were undetermined about an election, as follows: "Most eminent lords, here are three Bolog- nese of different characters, but all equally proper for the popedom. If it be your pleasures to pitch upon a saint, there is car- dinal Gotti; if upon a politician, there is Al- drovandi; if upon a booby, here am I." The Italian is much more expressive, and, indeed, not to be translated; wherefore, if gray's letters. 129 you meet with any body that understands it, you may show thera what he Sciid in the lan- guage he ppoke it. "Emin*^™^ ^'gt'*' Ci siame tre, diversi si, ma tutti idonei al Pa- pato. Se vi piace un Santo, c' e I'Gotti; se volete una testa scaltra, e Folitica, c' e TAl- drovande; se un CogUone, ecco mil" Car- dinal Coscia is restored to his liberty, and, it is said, will be to all his benetices. Corsini (the late pope's nephew) as he has had no hand in this election, it is hoped, will be called to account for all his villanous prac- tices. The Pretender, they say, has resign- ed all his pretensions to his eldest boy, and will accept of the grand chancellorship, which is thirty thousand crowns a-year; the pension he has at present is only twenty thousand. I do not affirm the truth of this li\st article; because, if he does, it is necessary he should take the ecclesiastical habit, and it will sound mighty odd to be called his ma- jesty the chancellor. — So ends my gazette. VOL. IV, 9 130 gray's letters. XLV. TO MR. WEST. Florence, Sept. 25, N. S. 1740. What I send you now, hs long as it is, is bat a piece of a poem. It has the advantage of all fragments, to need neither introdiiciion nor conclusion: besides, if you do not like it, it is but imagining that which went before, and came after, to be intinitely better. Look in Sandys's Travels for the History of Monte Barbaro, and Monte Nuovo.* * To save the reader trouble, I here insert the passage referred to: " West «jf Cicero's Villa staiiils the eminent Gaurus, a «toHy and desolate mountain, in which there are divers obscure caverns, choaked almost with earth, where many have consumed much fruitless industry in searching for treasure. The famous Lucrine lake extended formerly from Avernus to the aforesaid Gaurus > but is now no other than a little sedgy plash, choaked up by the hon-ible find astonishing eruption of the new mountain ; whereof, as oft as 1 think. I am easy to credit whatsoever is wonderful. For who here knows not, or who elsewhere will believe, that a mountain "hould arise (,» rtly out of a !?.ke and partly out of the sea,) •:.■■ ono day aiul a night, unto such a height as to contend in altitude with the high iiLOuntans adjoining ? In the year of our Lord 1538, on tbt 39lh of -'eptembcr, when for certain days fore- going the country hei-eabout was so vexed with perpetual earth- gray's letters. 131 Nee procul infelix se tollit in sethera Gaurus, Prospicieiis vitreum lugen;i vertice poiitum ; Tristior ille diu, et veteri desuetus oliva Gaums, pampineseque eheu jam nescius umbrae ; Horrendi tam saevi premit vicinla montis, Attoiiitumque urget latus, exuritque feventem. Nam fama est olira media dum lura silebant Nocte. De victa et niolli pevfus quiete, 'Infremuisse sequor ponti, auditamqiie per omnes Late tellurem siirdum imnuigire cavernas : Quo soiiitu neraora alta trenmnt ; tivmit excita tuto Parthenopaea sism, flaramantisque oia Vesevi. At suhito se aperire solum, vastosque reccssus Pandei-e stib pedihus, iiigi-aque voragiiie fauces ; Turn piceas cinerum gloiiierare sub Kthere nubes quakes, as no one house was left so entire as not to expect an im- mediate uin ; after that the sea had retired two hundred paces from the shore (Itavijig abundance of fish, and sjjrings of fresh Avater rising in the bottom,) this mountain visibly ascended about the second hour of the night, with an hideous roaring, hon-ibly vomiting stones and such store of ciaders as overwhelmed all tlie buildings thereabout, and the salubrious baths of Tripergula, for so many ages celebrated ; consumed the A-ines to ashes, killing birds and Ix-asts ; the fearful inhabitants of Puzzol flying througli the dark with their wives and children, naked defiled, crying out. and detesting their calamities. Manifold mischiefs have they suffered by the barbarous, yet none like this which Nature inflicted. This new mouiitaii), when newly raised, had a number of issues ; at some of them smoking and sometimes flaming ; at others disgorg- ing rivulets < f hot wattrs; keeping within a terrible rumbling ; and many miserably perished that ventured to descend into the hollowness a1)ove. But that hollow on the top is at present an orchai'd, and the mouniajn throughout is bereft of its teiTOis." Sanclys't Travels, book iv. page 275, 277, and 278, 132 GRAY'S LETTERS. Vorticibus rapidis, ardentique itnbre procellam* Praecipites fugere ferae, perqne avia longe Sil varum fugit pastor, juga per deseita, Ah, miser ! inci-epitans ssepe alta roce per uiiibram Neqiiidquam natos, creditqiie audire sequentes. Atque ille excelso rupis de vertice solus Rtspectaiis notrisque donios, et dulcia regna, Nil usquam videt infelix prater mave tiisti Lumine percussum, et pallentes sulphure campos, Fumumque, flammasque, rotataque turbine saxa. Qiiin ubi detomrit fmgor, et lux rtddita ccelo ; Moestos confluere agricolas, passuque vidtres Taiidcm iteruin tiniido deserta requirere tecta : Speraiites, si forte oculis, si forte darontur Uxoruiii cineres, miserorumve ossa parentum, (Tenuia, sed tauti saltim solatia lucuis) Una colJigere et jiista compoiiere iu uma. Uxorum nusquani cineres, iiusquam ossa parentum (Spem miseram !) assuetosve Lai'es, aut rura videbuut. Qia,)pe ubi plani'dcs campi diffusa jacebat ; Mons novus : ille supereiliuni. frontemque favilla Iiicanum ostentans, anibustis cautibus, aequor Subjectum, stragemque suam, nlo^sta arva, minaci Despicit imperio, solcque in littore regnat. Hinc iufame loci nomen, multosque per annos Imnienjor antiquse iaudis, nescire Ictbores ■Vomeris. et nuUo tellus reviirsceit cultu. Non aviUiB colles, non carmine matutino Pjtstorum resonare ; adeo undique dirus habebat lutornies late liou-or agi'os saltusque vacaiites. Saipius et loage tfitorquens navita proram, Mo. straliat oigito lictus, sfeva'que itvolvens Fmier.i narrft'jftt novtis, vtteremque ruiuam. M 'Mtis adin.c facies manet hirta atque aspera saxis ; Sed fuim- exstinvtus janidudum, et tlamtua quievit, GRAY 3 LETTERS. l.^O Quse nascent! aderat ; seu forte bituminis atri Defluxene oiim rivi, atque eiTceta lacuna Pabula sufficere ardori vivesque recusat ; Sive in visceribiis ineditaiis iuceudia jam nunc (Horrendum !) arcanis glomerat gemi esse futiirse Exitio. sparsos tacitusque recolligit ignes. Raro per cUtos baud secius ordine vidi Canescenteni oleain : longum post tempus aniicti Yite virent tiirauli ; patriamque revisere gaudens Baccbus in assuetis teneruni caput exserit ax-vis \ix. tandeiT), iiifidoque audet se credere coelo. There was a certain little ode* set out from Rome, in a letter of recommendation to yon, but possibly fell into the enemies' hands, for 1 never heard of its arrival. It is a little impertinent to inquire after its welfare: but you, that are a father, will ex- cuse a parent's foolish fondness. Last post I received a very diminutive letter: it made excuses for its unentertainingness, very lit- tle to the purpose; since it assured me, very strongly, of your esteem, which is to me the thing; all the rest appear but as the petits agremens, the garnishing of the dish. P. Bougeant, in his Langage des Betes, fancies that your birds, who continually re- peat the same note, say only in plain terms, " Je vous aime, raa chere; ma chere, je * The Alcaic ode inserted in Letter XXXtK. 134 gray's letters. vous aime; and that those of greater genius indeed, with various trills, run divisions up- on the subject; but that the fond, from whence it all proceeds, is "toujours je vous aime." Now _y'ou may, as you find yourself dull or in humour, either take me for a chaffinch or nightingale; sing your plain song, or show your skill in music, but in the bottom, let there be, toujours, toujours de Tamitie. As to what you call my serious letter; be assured, that your future state is to me en- tirely indifterent. Do not be angry, but hear me; I mean with respect to myself. For whether you be at the lop of fame, or entirely unknown to mmkind; at the coun- cil-table, or at Dick's coifee-house; sick and simple, or well and wise; whatever altera- tion mere accident works in you ('supposing it utterly impossible for it to make any change in your sincerity and honesty, since these are conditions sine qua non,) 1 do not see any likelihood of ray not being yours ever. 135 XLVI. TO HIS FATHER. Florence, Oct: 9. 1740. The beginning of next spring i.s tbe rnuc- de- termined for our return at furthest; possi- blj it may be before that time. How the interim will be employed, or wh;it route we shall take, is not so certain. If we remain friends with France, upon leaving this coun- try we shall cross over to Venice, and so return through the cities north of the Po to Genoa; from thence take a felucca to M-av- seilles, and come back through Paris. If the contrary fall out, which seems not un- likely, we must take the Milanese, and those parts of Italy, in^ our way to Venice; from vhence must pass through the Tyrol into Germany, and come home by the Low-Coun- tries. As for Florence, it has been gajer than ordinary for this last month, being one round of balls and entortai undents, occasion- cd by the arrival of a great Milanese lady; for the only thing the Italians shine in, is their reception of strangers. At such times every thing is niRgnifcence: the more re- markable, as in their ordinarv course of life 136 gray's letters. they are parsimonious, even to a degree of Hastiness. I saw in one of the vastest pa- laces in Rome, that of prince Pamfiiio, the apartment which he him-elf inhabited, a bed that most servants in England would disdain to lie in, and furniture much like that of a soph at Cambridge, for convenience and neatness. This man is worth SO, 000/. sterl- ing a year. As for eating, there are not two cardinals in Rome that allow more than six paoli, which is three shillings a day, for the expense of their table: and you may imagine they are still less extravagant here than there. But when they receive a visit from any friend, their houses and persons are set out to the greatest advantage, and appear in all their splendour; it is, indeed, from a motive of vanity, and with the hopes of hav- ing it repaid them with interest, whenever they have occasion to return the visit. I call visits going from one city of Italy to another; for it is not so among acquaintance of the same place on common occasions. The new pope has retrenched the charges of his own table to a sequin (ten '^hillings) a meal. The applause which all he says and does meet with, is enough to encourage him really to deserve fame. They say he is an uble and honest man; he is reckoned a wit gray's lktters. 137 too. The other day, when the senator of Rome came to wait upon him, at the first compliments he made him, the pope pulled off his cap. His master of the ceremonies, who stood by his side, touched him softly, as to warn him that such a condescension was too great in him, and out of all manner of rule. Upon which he turned to him, and said, "Oh! I cry you mercy, good master: it is true, I am but a novice of a pope; I have not 3^et so much as learned ill man- na ra '' ^ 'f' 5^ XLVII. TO HIS FATHER. Florence, Jau. 12, 1741. We still continue constant at Florence, at present one of the dullest cities in ttaly. Though it is the middle of the carnival, there are no public diversions; nor is masquerad- ing permitted as yet. The emperor's obse- quies are to be celebrated publicly the 16th of this month; and after that, it is imagined every thing will go on in its usual course. In the mean time, to employ the minds of the populace, the government has thought 138 gray's letters. fit to bring into the city in a solemn manner, and at a great expense, a famous statue of the Virgin, called the Madonna deirinipru- neta, from the place of her residence, which is upon a mountain seven miles off. It never has been practised, but at times of public calamity; and was done at present to avert the ill effects of a late great inunda- tion, which it was feared might cause some epidemical distemper. It was introduced a fo'^tnight ago in procession, attended by the council of regency, the senate, the nobility, and all the religious orders, on foot and bare- headed, and so carried to the great church, where it was frequented by an infinite con- course of people from all the country round. Among the rest, 1 paid my devotions almost ever} day, and saw numbers of people pos- sessed with the d'^vil, who were brought to be exorcised. It was indeed in the evening, and the churcL-doors were always shut be- fore the ceremonies were finished, so that I could not be eye witness of the event; but that they weie all cured is certain, for one never heard any more of them the next morn- ing. I am to night just returned from seemg ourlady make her exit vvith the same solemni- ties she entered. The show had a finer efi'ect than before; for it was dark, and every gray's letters. 139 body (even those of the mob that could afford it) bore a white-wax tlambeau. I beHeve there was at least live thousand of them, and the march was near three hours in passing before the window. The subject of all this devotion is supposed to be a large tile with a rude tigure in bas relief upon it. I say supi^osed, because since the time it was found (for it was found in the earth in ploughing) only two people have seen it; the one vvas, by good luck, a saint; the other was struck blind for his presumption. Ever since she has been covered with seven veils: never- theless, those who approach her tabernacle cast their eyes down, for fear they should spy her through all her veils. Such is the history, as I had it from the lady of the house where I stood to see her pass; with many other circumstances: all of which she firmly believes, and ten thousand besides. We shall go to Venice in about six weeks, or sooner. A number of German troops are upon their march into this state, in case the king of Naples thinks proper to attack it. It is certain that he asked the pope's leave for his troops to pass through his country. The Tuscans in general are much discon- tented, and foolish enough to wish for a Spanish government, or any rather than this. * * * J 40 gray's letters. XLVIII. TO MR, WEST. Florence, April 21, 1741. I KNOW not what degree ofsatisfacLioii it will give you to be told that we shall set out from hence the 24th of this month, and not stop above a fortnight at any place in our way. This I feel, that you are the principal jdea- sure I have to hope for in my own country. Try at least to make me imagine myself not indifferent to you; for I must own I have the vanity of desiring to be esteemed by some- body, and would choose that somebody should be one whom I esteem as much as I do you. As I am recommending myself to your love, methinks I ought to send you my picture (for I am no more what I was, some circumstances excepted, vvhich 1 hope I need not particularize to you); you must add then, to your former idea, two years of age, a rea- sonable quantity of dulness, a great deal of silence, and something that rather resembles, than is, thinking; a confused notion of many strange and fine things that have swum be- fore my eyes for some time, a want of love for general society, indeed an inability to it. On the good side you may add a sensibility gray's letters. 14j for what others feel, and indulgence for their faults or weaknesses, a love of truth, and de- testation of everv thing else. Then you are to deduct a little impertinence, a little laugh- ter, a great deal of pride, and some spirits. These are all the alterations I know of, you perhaps may find more. Think not that I have been obliged for this reformation of manners to reason or reflection, but to a severer school-mistress. Experience. One has little merit in learning her lessons, for one cannot well help it; but they are more usefril than others, and imprint themselves in the very heart. I tind I have been ha- ranj^uing in the style of the Sonof Sirach, so shall tinish here, and tell you that our route is settled as follows: First to Bologna for a few days, to hear the Viscontina sing; next to Reggio. where is a fair. Now, you must know, a fair here is not a place where one eats gingerbread or rides upon hobby- horses; here are no musical clocks, nor tall Leicestershire women; one has nothing but masquing, gaming, and singing. If you love operas, there will be the most splendid ia Italy, four tip-top voices, a new theatre, the duke and duchess in ail their pomps and van- ities. Does not this sound magnificent? Yet is the city of Reggio but ope step above Old 142 gray's letters. Brentford. Well ; next to Venice by the 1 1th of May, there to s^ie the old Doge wed the Adriatic whore. Tiien to VeroucJ, so to Milan, so to Marseilles, so to Lyons, so to Pari?, so to West, &.c. in SdBCula saeculorum. Amen. Eleven months, at different times, have I passed at Florence; und yet (God help me) know not either people or language. Yet the place and t!ie charming prospects demand a poetical farewell, and here it is, • * Oh Faesulae amoena Frigoribus juga, nee liimimn spiiaiitibus aiiris, Alma quibus Tusci Fallas Dcus ApeJiniiii Esse dcdit, glaucaque sua canesctre silva I Non ego vos posthac Ann de valle videbo Porticibus cireum, et candenti ciiicta corona Villarum longe n'.tido consuigere dorse, Antiquamve aedem, et veteres prsefen-e eupressus Mirabof, tectisque super pendeutia teeta. I will send yon, too, a pretty little sonnet of a Signor Abbate Buondelmonte, with my imitation of it. Spesso Amor sotto la forma D'amista ride, e s'aaconde : Poi si luischia, e si co.'fonde Con lo sdt gno, e col rancor. Iii Pielade ei si traii^^forina ; Par ti-astuUo, e par dispetto : gray's letters. . 143 >Ia nel suo diverso aspetto Sempi'egli, e I'iiUsso Amor. Lusit amicitiae intei"dura velatus amictu, Et bene composita vesie fefeliit Amor. Mox irse assumsit cultiis, laciemque mmantem, luque odium versus, versus et in lacry.nas : Ludeiitem fuge, nee lacrynianti, aut crede furenti ; Idem est dissimili semper in ore Deus. Here cornes a letter from you. — I must defer giving my opinion of *Pausanias till I can see the whole, and only have said what I did in obedience to your commands I have spoken with such freedom on this head, that it seems but jurst you should have your revenge; and therefore I send you the be- ginning not of an epic poem, but of ja mela- physic one. Poems and metaphysics (say you, with your spectacles on) are inconsist- ent things. A metaphysical poem is a con- tradiction in terms. It is true, but I will go ou. It is Latin too. to increase the absurdity. It will, 1 suppose, put you in mind of the man who wrote a treatise of canon law in hexameters. Pray help me to the descrip- • Some part of a tragedy under that title, which Mr. Wert bad begun, t The beginning of the first book of a didactic poem, ^ De Prin- cipiis C<^itaiidi."— 5ee Poenis. 144 GRAY S LETTERS. tion of a mixed mode, and a little episode about space. Mr. Walpole and Mr. Gray set out from Florence at the time specified in the foregoing letter. When Mr. Gray left Venice, vhich he did the middle of July following, he i-etumed home through Padua, Verona, Milan. Tinin, and Lyons ; from all which places he writ either to his father or mother with great punctuali- ty : hut merely to inform them of his health and safety ; ahout which (as might be expected) they were now vei-y anxious, as he travelled with only a " Laquais de Voyage." These letters do not even mention that he went out of his way to make a second visit to the Graiide Chartreuse, and there wrote in the Album of the Fathtrs the Alcaic Ode : Oh Tu, severi Religio loci, hc.—See Poems. He was at Turin the 15th of August, and Ijegan to cross the Alps the next day. On the 25th he reachtd Ljx)i s -, therefore it must have Ijeen between these two dates that he made this visit. XLIX. FROM MR. WEST. 1 WRITE to make you write, for I have not much to tell you. I have recovered no spirits as yet,* but, as I am iiot displeased * The distresses of Mr. West's mind had already too far affected a body, from the first wejkkaod delicate. His health declined daily, gray's letters. lib with my company, I sit purring by the fire- side in my arm-chair with no small satisfac- tion. I read too sometimes, and have begun Tacitus, but have not yet read enough to jud^e of him; only his Pannonian sedition, in the first book of his Annals which is just as far as 1 have got, seemed to me a hltle te- dious. 1 have no more to say, but to desire you will write letters of a handsome length, and always answer me within a reasonable spice of time, which 1 leave to your discre- tion. Popes, Match 28, 1742. P. S. The new Dunciad ! qu'en pensez vous ? TO MR. WEST.* I TRUST to the country, and that easy indo- and, therefore, he left town in Mai-ch, 1742, and, for the benefit of the air, went to David Mitchell's, Esq. at Popes, near Hatfield, Hertfoi-dshire ; at whose house he died the 1st of June following. * Mr Gra5' caruc to to'\u about the 1st of Septenilier, 1741. His father died the 6th of November foliuwiug, at the age of sLxty-five. The latter ena of the: subsequent year he went to Cambridge totake hi s bachelor's degree in civil law. VOL. IV. 10 146 GRAV S LETTERS. lence you say you enjoy there, to restore you your health and spirits; and doubt not but, when the sun grows warm enough to tempt you from your fireside, you will (like all other things) be the better for his influ- ence, lie is my old friend, and an excellent nurse, 1 assure you. Had it not been for him, life had been often to me intolerable. Pray do not imagine that Tacitus, of all au- thors in the world, can be tedious. An an- nalist, you know, is hy no means master of his subject; and I think one may venture to say, that if those Funnonian affairs are te- dious in his hands, in another's they would have been insupportable. However, fear not, they will soon be over, and he will make ample amends. A man, who could join the brilliant of wit and concise sententiousness peculiar to that age, with the truth and grav- ity of better times, and the deep reflection and good sense of the best moderns, cannot choose bat have something to strike you. Yet what I admire in him above all this, is his detestation of tyranny, and the high spirit of liberty that every now and then breaks out, as it were, whether he would or no I remember a sentence in his Agricola that (concise as it is) I always admired for saying much in a little compass. He speaks of Do- GRAVr's LETTERS. 147 mitlan, who upon seeing the last will of that general, where he had made him co- heir with his wife and daughter, "Satis con- stabat laitatum eum, velut honore, judicio- que: tarn Cceca et corrupta mens assiduis adulationibus erat, ut nesciret a bono patre non scribi hasredem, nisi malum principem." As to the Dunciad, it is greatly admired: The genii of Operas and Schools, with their attendants, the pleas of the Virtuosos and Florists, and the yawn of Dulness in the end, are as fine as an}' thing he has written. The Metaphysicians' part is to me the worst; and here and there a few ill-expressed lines, and some hardly intelligible. I take the liberty of sending you a long speech of Agrippina;* much too long, but I could be glad you would retrench it. Ace- ronia, you may remember, had heen giving quiet counsels. I fancy, if it ever be finish- ed, it vvill be in the nature of Nat. Lee's bed- lam tragedy, which had twenty-five acts and some odd scenes. ♦ See Poems. 148 LI. FROM MR. WEST. Popes, April 4, 1742. 1 OWN in i^eneral I think Agrippina's speech too long; but how to retrench it, I know not: but I have something else to say, and that is in relation to the style, which appears to me too antiquated. Racine was of ano- ther opinion: he no where gives you the phrases of Ronsard: His language is the lan- guage of the times, and that of the purest sort; so that his French is reckoned a standard. I will not decide what style is fit for our English stage: but I should rather choose one that bordered upon Cato, than upon Shakspeare. One may imitate (if one can) Shakspeare's manner, his surprising strokes of true nature, his expressive force in painting characters, and all his other beauties; preserving at the same time our own language. Were Shak- speare alive now, he would write in a dif- ferent style from what he did. These are my sentiments upon these matters: jperhaps I am wrong, for lam neither a Tarpa, nor am I quite an Aristarchus. You see I write gray's letters. 149 freel}' both of you and Shakspeare; but it is as good as writing not freely, where you know it is acceptable. I have been tormented within this week with a most violent cough; for when once it sets up its note, it will go on, cough after cough, shaking and tearing me for half an hour together, and then it leaves me in a great swea't, as much fatigued as if 1 had been labouring at the plough. All this de- scription of my cough in prose, is only to in- trqduce another description of it in verse, perhaps not worth your perusal; but it is very short, and besides has this remarkable in it, that it was the production of four o'clock in the morning, while I lay in my bed tossing and coughing, and all unable to sleep. Ante omnes moibos importuiiissima tussis, Qua durare datur, traxitque sub ilia vires t Dui-a etenira vei-sans inio sub pectore regai, Perpetuo exercet teneras luctamine costas, Oraque distorquet, vocemque iminutat anlielam ; Nee cessare locus : sed saevo concita motu, MoUe domat latus, et corpus labor omne fatigat : Unde raolesta dies, noctemque insomnia turbant. Nee Tua, si raecura Comes hie jucundus adesses, Verba .juvar* queant, aut hunc lenire do'orem Sufficiant tua vox dulcis. nee vultus ai«atu«. 150 gray's letters. Do not mistake me, I do not condemn Ta- citus: I was then inclined to find him tedious: the German sedition sufficiently made up for it; and the speech of Germanicus, by which he reclaims his soldiers, is quite mas- terly. Your New Dunciad I have no con- ception of. I shall be too late for our din- ner if I write any more. Yours. LII. TO MR. WEST. London, April, Thursday. You are the first who ever made a muse of a cough; to me it seems a much more easy task to versify in one's sleep, (that indeed you were of old famous for) than for want of it. Not the wakeful nightingale (vyhen she had a cough) ever sung so sweetly. 1 give you thanks for your warble, and wish you could sing yourself to rest. These wicked remains of your illness will sure give way to warm weather and gentle exercise; which I hope you will not omit as the season ad- vances. Whatever low spirits and indo- lence, the effect of them, may advise to the geay's letters. Ibl contrary, I pray you add five steps to your walk daily for my sake; by the help of which, in a month's time, I propose to set you on horseback. I talked of the Dunciad as concluding 3'ou had seen it; if you have not, do you choose I should get and send it to you? 1 have myself, upon your recommendation, been reading Joseph Andrews. The inci- dents are ill-laid and without invention; but the characters have a great deal of nature, which always pleases even in her lowest shapes. Parson Adams is perfectly well; so is Mrs. Shpslop, and the story of Wilson; and throughout he shows himself well read in stage-coaches, country 'squires, inns, and inns of court. His reflections upon high people and low people, and misses and masters, are very good. However the ex- altedness of some minds (or rather as 1 shrewdly suspect their insipidity and want of feeling or observation) may make them insensible to these light things, (I mean such as characterize and paint nature) yet surely Ihey are as weighty and much more useful than your grave discourses upon the mind, the passions, and what not. Now as the pa- radisaical pleasures of the ^lahomet^ns consist in playing upon the flute and lying with 152 gray's letters. Ilouris, be mine to read eternal new ro- mances of Marivaux and Crebillon. Yon are very good in givinn; yonrself the trouble to read and find fciult with my long- harangues. Your freedom (as you call it) has so little need of apologies, that I should scarce excuse your treating me any other- wise; which, whatever compliment it might be to my vanity, would be making a very ill one to my understanding. As to matter of style, I have this to say: the language of the age is never the language of poetry; except among tlie French, whose verse, where the thouglit or image does not support it, differs in nothing from prose. Our poetry, on the contrary, has a language peculiar to itself; to which almost every one, that has written, has added something by enriching it with foreign*idioms and derivatives: nay, some- times words of their ovvn composition or in- vention. Sbakspeare and Milton have been great creators this way; and no one more licentious than Pope or Dryden, who per- petually borrow expi-^ssions from the former. Let me give you some instances from Ory- den, whom every body reckons a great mas- ter of our poetical tongue. — Full of muscful mopdngs — unlike the trim of love — a plea- iant beverage — 2. roundelay of love — stood si- gray's letters. 153 lent in his mocd — with knots and knaves deformed—his ireful mood — in prond array \ih loon was granted and dh^array and shaiiietul ront — rv.'unvnrd h't wise — -furbished for tiie field — the foiled dvddrr'd oaks — dis- hrittd — siiwuhl n«^ 1[\Ame?—rctchless of laws- cronts old and tialy — the beldam at his side — the grandam-hap — villi nvd; his father's fnme. But they are infiiiite: and our language not being a settled thing (like the French) has an undoubted right to words of an hun- dred years old, provided antiquity have not rendered them uninteHigible. In truth, Shakspeare's language is one of his princi- pal beauties; and he has no less advantage over your Adiisons and Rowes in this, than in those other great excellences you mention. Every word in him is a picture. Pray put me the following lines into the tongue of our modern dramatics: But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks, Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass: I. that am rudely stamp'd. and vant love's majesty To strut before a wanton, ambling nymph : I, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion, Cheated of feature by dissembling nature, Deform'd, unfinisli'd, sent befon my time Into this breathins; world, scarce half made wp— J 54 gray's letters. And what follows. To me they appear un- translatable; and if this be the case, our language is greatly degenerated- However, the affectation of imitating Shakspeare may doubtless be carried too fir; and is no sort of excuse for sentiments ill-suited, or speech- es ill-timed, which 1 believe is a little the case with me. I guess the most faulty ex- pressions may be these — silken son of dalli- ance—- di07vsirr pretensions — wrinkled bel- dams — arched the hearer's brow and rivcttcd his eyes in fearful extasie. These are easily altered or omitted: and indeed if the thoughts be wrong or superfluous, there is nothing easier than to leave out the whole. The first ten or twelve lines are, I believe, the best;* and as for the rest, I was betrayed into a good deal of it by Tacitus; only what he has said in five words, I imagine I have said in fifty lines: such is the mis- fortune of imitating the inimitable. Now, if you are of my opinion, una litura may do the business, better than a dozen; and you need not fear unravelling my web. I am a sort of spider; and have little else to do but spin * The lines which he means hei-e are from '' thus ever grave and undisturh'd reflection." to " Rubellins lives." For the p.'utof the scene, whicli he sent in his former letter, began there. gray's letters. 155 it over again, or creep to some other place and spin there. Alas! for one who has nothing to do but amuse himself, I believe my amusements are as little amusing as most folks. But no matter; it mnke'- the *;n;.rs pass; and is better than iv ufAcc^iet xett uficva-ioe xatrec^imxi. Adieu. LIIl. FROM MR. WEST. To begin with the conclusion of your letter, which is Greek, I desire that you will quar- rel no more with your manner of passing your time. In my opinion it is irreproacha- ble, especially as it produces such excellent fruit; and if I, like a saucy bird, must be pecking at it, you ought to consider that it is because I like it. No una litura I beg you, no unravelling of your web, dear sir! only pursue it a little further, and then one shall be able to judge of it a little bet- ter. You know the crisis of a play is in the first act; its damnation or salvation whol- ly rests there. But till that first act is over, every body suspends his vote: so how do 166 gray's letters. you think I can form, as yet, any just idea of the speeches in regard to their length or shortness? Tlie connection and symmetry of such little parts with one another must natural]3' escape me, as not having the plan of the whole in my head; neither can I de- cide ahoul the thoughts, whether they are wrong or superfluous; they may have some future tendency which I perceive not. The style only was free to me, and there I find we are pretty much of the same sentiment: for you say the affectation of imitating Shak- speare may doubtless be carried too far: I say as much and no more. For old words we know are old gold, provided they are well chosen. Whatever Ennius was, I do not consider Shakspeare as a dunghill in the least: on the contrary, he is a mine of an- cient ore, where all our great modern po- ets have found their advantage. 1 do not know how it is; but his old expressions have more energy in them than ours, and are even more adapted to poetry; certainly, where they are judiciously and sparingly in- serted, they add a certain grace to the com- position; in the same manner as Poussin gave a beauty to his pictures by his know- ledge in the ancient proportions: but should he, or any other painter, carry the imita- GRAY S LETTERS. 157 tion too far, and ne^ijlect that best of models, Nature, I am afraid it vvo-ild prove a very flat performance. To tinish this long criti- cism: 1 have this further notion about old worcis revived, (is not this a pretty way of tinishing?) i think them of excellent use in tai'^s: they add a certain drollery to the comic, and a romantic ijravity to the serious, which are both charming in their kind; and this way of charming Dryden understood very well. One need only read Milton to acknowledge the dignity they give the epic. But now comes my opinion, that they ought to be used in tragedy more sparingly, than in most kinds of [»oetry. Tragedy is de- signed for public representation, and what is designed for that should be certainly most intelligible. I believe half the audience that come to Shakspeare's plays do not un- derstand the half of what they hear. — But finissons enfin. — Yet one word more. — You think the ten or twelve tirst lines the best, now I am for the fourteen last;* add, that they contain not one word of ancientry. • He means the conclusion «f the first scene. But here and tljToughout his criticism on old words, he is not so consistent as hii covrfspondeiii ; for he here i).siits that ail ancientry should be struck out, and in a former passage [he admits it may be used sparingly. 158 GRAY S LETTERS. I rejoice you found amusement in Joseph Andrews. But then I think your concep- tions of Paradise a little upon the Bergerac. Les Lettres du Seraphim R. a madame la Cherubinesse de Q,. What a piece of extra- vagance would there be! And now you must know that my bodj"- continues weak and enervate. And for my animal spirits they are in perpetual fluctua- tion: some whole days I have no relish, no attention for any thing; at other times I re- vive, and am capable of writing a long let- ter, as you see; and though 1 do not vvrite speeches, yet 1 translate them. When you understand what speech, you will own that it is a bold and. perhaps a dull attempt. la three words, it is prose, it is from Tacitus, it is of Germanicus. Peruse, perpend, pro- nounce.* LIV. TO MR. WEST. London, April, 1742. 1 SHOULD not have failed to answer your let- ter immediately, but I went out of town for * This speech I omit to print as I have generally avoided to publish mere translations either of Mr. Gray or his friend. gray's letters. 169 a little while, which hindered me. Its length, (besides the pleasure naturally ac- companying a long letter from you) atiords me a new one, when I think it is a symptom of the recovery of your health, and flatter myself that your bodily strength returns in proportion. Pray do not forget to mention the progress you make continually. As to Agrippina, I begin to be of your opinion; and find myself (as women are of their children) less enamoured of my productions the older they grow. She is laid up to sleep till next summer; so bid her good night. I think you have translated Tacitus very justly, that is, freely ; and accommodated his thoughts to the turn and genius of our language; which, though I commend your judgment, is no commendation of the En- glish tongue, which is too diffuse, and daily grows more and more enervate. One shall never be more sensible of this, than in turn- ing an author like Tacitus. I have been trying it in some parts of Thucydides, (who has a little resemblance of him in his con- ciseness) and endeavoured to do it closely, but found it produced mere nonsense. If you have any inclination to see what figure Tacitus makes in Italian, I have a Tuscan translation of Davanzati, much esteemed in 160 gray's letters. Italy; and will send you the same speech yoM sent mc; that is, if you care for it. In the mean time accept of Fropertius.* * * * LV. FROM MR. WEST. Popes, May 6, 1742. Without an)- preface 1 come to 3 our verses, which 1 read over and over with excessive pleasure, and which are at least as good as Propertius. 1 am only soriy you follow the blunders of Broukhusius, all whose inser- tions are nonsense. I have some objections to your antiquated words, and am also an enemy to Alexandrines; at least I do not like them in elegy. But, after all, I admire your translation so extremely, that I cannot help repeutiny; I long to show you some lit- tle errors you are fallen into by following BroukhHsius. ******** Were 1 with you now, and Propertius with your ver^^es lay upon the table between us, I could dis- cuss this point in a moment; but there is nothing so tiresome as spinning out a criti- * A translation of the first elegy of the second book in English riiyme ; omitted for the reason giren in the last note. gray's letters. 161 cism in a letter; doubts arise, and explana- tions follow, till there swells out at least a volume of undigested observations: and all because you are not with him whom you want to convince. Read only the letters be- tween Pope and Cromwell in proof of this; they dispute without end. Are you aware now that I have an interest all this while in banishing criticism from our correspondence? Indeed 1 have; for I am going to write down a little ode (if it deserves the name) for your perusal, which I am afraid will hardly stand that test. Nevertheless I leave you at your full liberty; so here it follows. ODE. Dear Gray, that always in my Iieavt Possesses far the better part, What mean these sudden blasts that rise And drive the zephyrs from the skies ? O join with mine thy tuneful lay, And iuvocate the tardy May. Come, fairest nymph, resume tliy reign ! Bring all the Graces in thy train ! With balmy breath, and floweiy tread, Ris' from thy soft ambrosial bed ; Where, in Elysian slumber bound, Embowering myrtles veil thee round. VOL. IV. 11 162 gray's letters. Awake, in all thy glories dress'd ; Recall die zephyi-s from tlie west : Restore tbt- sun, revive the skies : At mine and Nature's call, arise ! Great Nature's self upbraids tliy stay. And misses her accustom'd May. See ! all her works demand thy aid ; The labours of Pomona fade : A plaint is heard from every tree ; Each budding floweret calls for thee; The birds loi'get to love and sing ; With storms alone the forests nng. Come then, with Pleasure at thy sidc;, Diffuse thy vernal spirit wide ; Create, where'er thou turn'st thy eye, Peace, Plenty, Love, and Harmony ; Till every being share its part. And heaven and earth be glad at heart. LVI. TO MR. WEST. London, May 3, 1742. i REJOICE to see you putting up your prayers to the May: she cannot choose but come at such a call. It is as light and genteel as herself You bid me find fault; I am afraid 1 cannot; however, I will try. The first stanza (if what you say to me in it did not gray's letters. 163 make me think it the best) I should call the worst of the live (except ttie fourth line.) The two next are very piciuresque, Miltonic, and musical; her bed is so soft and so snug that 1 long to lie with her. But those two lines, " Great Nature," are my favourites. The exclamation of the Howers is a little step too far. The last stanza is full as good as the second and third; the last line bold, but 1 think not too bold. Now, as to myself and my translation, pray do not call names. 1 never saw Broukhusius in my life. It is Scaliger who attempted to range Propertius in order; who was, and still is, in sad condi- tion *******■*. You see, by what I sent you, that I converse as usual with none but the dead: they are my old friends, and al- most make me long to be with them. Vou will not wonder therefore, that I, who live only in times past, am able to tell you no news of the present. I have finished the Peloponnesian war much to my honour, and a tight conflict it was, I promise you. I have drank and sung with Anacreon for the last fortnight, and am now feeding siieep with Tlieocritus. Besides, to quit my hgure, (because it is foolish) I have run over Pliny's Epistles and Martial &c Trx^s^yov} not to men- tion Petrarch, who, by tne way, is some- 164 gray's letters, times very tender and natural. I must needs tell you three lines in Anacreon, where the expression seems to me inimita- ble. He is describing hair as he would -have it painted. 'a E\/««? cT' iKivQipou; juol Aipts m Bi\ova-i KiiQcti. Guess, too, where this is about a dimple. Sigilla in mento unpressa Amoris digitulo Vestigio demonstrant moUitudinem. LVII. FROM MR. WEST. Popes, May 11, 1742. i^ouR fragment is in Aulus Gellius; and both it and your Greek delicious. But why are yon thus melancholy? I am so sorry for it, that you see I cannot forbear writing again the very first opportunity; though I have little to say, except to expostulate with you about it. I find you converse much with the dead, and I do not blame you for that; J converse with them too, though not indeed gray's letters. 466 with the Greek. But I must condemn you for your longing to be with them. What, are there no joys among the living? I could almost cry out with Cutullus, "Alphene im- memor, atque unanimis false sodalibus!" But to turn an accusation thus upon another, is ungenerous; so I will take my leave of you for the present with a *'Vale, et vive paulisper cum vivis."" LVIII. TO MR. WEST. LondoD, ISIay 57, 1742. Mine, you are to know, is a vvhile melan- choly, or rather leucocholy for the most part ; which, though it seldom laughs or dances, nor ever amounts to what one calls joy or pleasure, yet is a good easy sort of a state, and (ja ne laisse que de s'amuser. The only fault of it is insipidity; which is apt now and then to give a sort of ennui, which makes one form certain little wishes that signify nothing. But there is another sort, black indeed, which I have now and then felt, that has somewhat in it like Tertullian's rule of iiiith, Credo quia impossibile est ; 166 gray's letters. for it believes, nay, is gure of every thing that is unlikely, so it be but frightful; and, on the other hand, excludes and shuts its eyes to the most possible hopes, and every thing that is pleasureable ; from this the Lord deliver us! for none but he and sun- shiny weather can do it. In hopes of enjoy- ing; thi.a kind of weather, I am going into the country for a few weeks, but shall be never the nearer any society; so, if you have any charity, you will continue to write. My life is like Harry the Fourth's supper of hens. — "Poulets a la broche,pouletsen ragout, pou- lets en hachis, poulets en fricasees." Read- ing here, reading there; nothing but books with different sauces. — Do not let me lose my dessert then; for though that be reading too, yet it has a very different flavour. The May seems to be come since your invitation; and I propose to bask in her beams and dress me in her roses. Et caput in Tema semper habere rosa: I sh^dl see Mr. * * and his wife, nay, and his child too, for he has got a boy Is it not odd to consider one's contempoi'aries in the grave light of husband and father ? There is my lords * * and ^ * *, they are statesmen; gray's letters. 167 do not you remember them dirty boys play- ing at cricket ? As for me, I am never a bit the older, nor the bigger, nor the wiser than I was then; no, not lor having been beyond sea. — Pray how are you ? I send you an inscription for a wood joining to a park of mine; (it is on the contiries of Mount Cithaeion, on the left hand as you go to Thebes): you know I am no friend to hunters, and hate to be disturbed by their noise. A^c^svoc TrowQ-.ip'Jv tKuCoKov uXro? AV*.ircrA?y , Soe Peems. 168 gray's letters. daughter, iA marriage to the young prince. But this marriage was not consummated on acconnt of Massinissa's being obliged to has- ten into Spain, there to command his ilither's troops, who were auxiliaries of the Cartha- ginians. Their affairs at this time began to be in a bad condition; and they thought it might be greatly for their interest, if they could bring over Syphax to themselves. This in time they actually effected; and, to strengthen their new alliance, commanded Asdrubal to give his daughter to Sj^phax. (It is probable their ingratitude to Massinis- i^a arose from the great change of affairs, which had happened among the Massylians during his absence; for his father and uncle were dead, and a distant relation of the royal fimily had usurped the throne.) Sophonisba was accordingly married to Syphax; and Massinissa, enraged at the affront, became a friend to the Romans. They drove the Carthaginians before them out of Spain, and carried the war into Africa, defeated Syphax, and took him prisoner; upon which Cirtha (his capital) opened her gates to Lselius and Massinissa. The Test of the affair, the mar- }'iage, and the sending of poison, every body knows. This is partly taken fromLivy, and partly from Appian. gray's letters. 169 Immediately a^ter writing the preceding letter, Mr Gray went upon a visit to his i-elatiuns at Stoke ; where he writ that beauti- ful little ofle which sta.ids first in his collection of poems. He sent it as soon as writen to his beloved friend : but he was dead before it reached Hertfordshire. He died only twentj-days after he had writlon the letter to Mr. Gray, which concluded with '' Vale, et vive paulisper cum vivis." LIX. TO DR. WHARTON.* Cambridge, Dec. 27, 1742. I OU5HT to have returned you my thanks a long time ago, for the pleasure, I should say prodigy, of your letter; for such a thing has not happened above twice within this last age to mortal man, and no one here can con- ceive what it may portend. You have heard, I suppose, how I have been employed a part of the time; how, by my own indetatigable application for these ten years past, and by the care and vigilance of that worthy magls- * Of Old-Park, near Durham, With this gentleman Mr. Gray contracted an acquaintance very early : and though they were not educated at Eton, yet afterwards at Cambr'dge, when the doctor was fellow of Pembroke- Hall, they Ijecanie intimate friends, and continued so to the time of Mr. Gray's death. 170 gray's letters. trate the ram ia bhie,* (who, I assure you, has not spared his labour, nor could have done more for his own son) i am got half way to the top ofjorisprudence,tand bid as fur as an- other bod^ to open a case of impotence with all decency and circumspection. You see my ambition, 1 do not doubt but some' thirty years hence I shall convince the world and you that I am a very pretty young fellow; and may come to shine in a profession, perhaps the noblest of all, except man-midwifery. As for yon, if your distemper and you can but agree about i^oina: to London, 1 may rea- sonably expect in a much shorter time to see you in yonr three-cornered villa, doing the honours (»f a 'tvell furnished table with as much dignity, as rich a mien, and as capa- cious a bi-dly, as Dr. Mead. Methinks I see Dr. * *, at the lower end of it, lost in admi- ration of your goodly person and parts, cramming down his envy (for it will rise) with the wing of a pheasant, and drowning it in neat Burgundy. But not to tempt your asth- ma too much with such a prospect, 1 should think you might be al'nost as happy and as * A servant of the vice-chancellor's for the time heing, usually known by the name of Blue Coat, whose business it is to attend acts for deg;r;-e-, &c. f i.e. Bachelor of civil law. GRAY S LETTERS. 171 great as this even in the country. But you know best, and 1 should be sorry to say any thing tiiat mi^ht stop you in the career of glory; far be it from me to hamper the wheels (if your gilded chariot. Go on, sir Thomas; and when you die, (for even phy- sicians must die) may the faculty in War- wick lane erect } our statue in the very niche of sir John Cutler's. I was going to tell you how sorry I am for your illness, but 1 hope it is too late now: I can only say that \ really was very sorry. May you live a hundred Christmasses, and Crit as mativ collars of brawn stuck with rose- mary. Adieu, &c. LX. TO DR. WHARTON. Peterhouse, April 26, 1744. You write so feelingly to Mi. Inovvn, and represent your abandoned condition in terms so touching, that what gratitude could not effect in several months, compassion has brought about in a few days; and broke that strong atti'Chnient, or rather allegiance, which I and all here owe to our sovereign 172 gray's letters. lady and mistress, the president of presidents and head of heads, (if I may be permitted to pronounce her name, that ineffable Octo- grammaton) the power of Laziness. You must know she had been pleased to appoint me (in preference to so many old servants of hers who had spent their whole lives in qualifying themselves -for the office) grand picker of straws and push-pin player to her supinity, (for that is her title). The first is much in the nature of lord president of the council; and the other like the groom-porter, only without the profit; but as they are both things of very great honour in this country, I consider with myself the load of envy at- tending such great charges; and besides (be- tween you and me) I found myself unable to support the fatigue of keeping up the ap- pearance that persons of such dignity must do; so 1 thought proper to decline it, and excused myself as well a*s I could. How^- ever, as you see such an affair. must take up a good deal of time, and it has always been the policy of this court to proceed slowly, like the Imperial and that of Spain, in the dispatch of business, you will on this account the easier forgive me, if 1 have not answer- ed you letter before. 17o You desire to know, it seems, what cha- racter the poem of vour young iViend bears here.* I wonder that you Ask the opinion of a nation, where tho>e, who pretend to judge, do not judge at all ; a-.d the rest (the wiser part) wait t) catch the j^idginent of the world immediately above them ; that is, Dick's and the rainbow Coffee-houses. Your readier way would be to ask the ladies that keep the bars in those two theatres of criticism. However, to show you that i am a judge, as well as my countrymen, I will tell you, though I have rather turned it over than read it (but no matter ; no more have they), that it seems to me above the mid- dling ; and now and then, for a little while, rises even to the best, particularly in de- scription. It is often obscure, and even un- intelligible ; and too much infected with the Hutchinson jargon. In short, its great fault is, that it was published at least nine years too early. And so methinks in a few words, " a la mode du Temple," 1 have very pert- * Pleasures of the Imagination :— From the posthumous publica- tion of Dr. Akeiiside's Poems, it should seem that the author had vei-y much the same opinion aftervards of his own work, which Mr. Gray here expresses : since he und:rtook a reforni of it, which must have given him, had he concluded it, as much trouble as if he had written it entirely new. 174 ly disptitched what perhaps may for several years have employed a very ingenious man worth fifty of myself- You are much in the right to have a taste for Socrates ; he was a divine man. I must tell )^ou, by way of news of the place, that the other day a certain new professor made an apology for him an hour long in the schools; and all the world brought in Socrates guilty, except the people of his own college. The muse is gone, and left me in far worse company ; if she returns, you will hear of her. As to her child* (since you are so good as to inquire after it) it is but a puling chit yet, not a bit grown to speak of; I believe, poor thing, it has got the worms, that will carry it off at last. Mr. TroUope and 1 are in a course of tar-water ; he for his present, and 1 for my future distempers. If you think it will kill me, send away a man and horse directly ; for I drink like a fish. LXI. TO MR. W^ALPOLE. Cambridge, Feb. 3, 1746. You are so good to inquire after my usual * His poem " De Principiis Cogitandi.** gray's letters. 175 time of coming to town : it is at a season when even you, the perpetual friend of London, will, I fear, hardly be in it — the middle of June : and I commonly return hither in September ; a month when 1 may more probably find you at home. Our defeat to be sure is a rueful affair, for the honour ot the troops ; but the duke is gone it seems with the rapidity of a can- non-bullet to undefeat us again. The com- mon people in town at ^east know how to be afraid : but we are such uncommon people here as to have no more sense of danger, than if the battle had been fought when and where the battle of Cannae was. The percep- tion of these calamities and^f their consequen- ces, that we are supposed to get from books, is so faintly impressed, that we talk of war, fanine, and pestilence, with no more appre- hension than of a broken head, or of a coach overturned between York and Edinburgh. I heard three people, sensible middle-aged men (when the Scotch were said to be at Stamford, and actually were at Derby), talk- ing of hiring a chaise to go to Caxton (a place in the high road, to see the Pretender and the highlanders as they passed. I can say no more for Mr. Pope (for what you keep in reserve may be worse than all 176 the rest). It is natural to wish the finest writer, one of them, we ever had, should be an honest man. It is for the interest even of that virtue, whose friend he professed him- self, and whose beauties he sung, that he should not be found a dirty animal. But, however, this is Mr. Warburton's business, not mine, who may scribble his pen to the stumps and all in vain, if these facts are so. It is not from what he told me about himself that I thought well of him, but from a hu- manity and goodness of heart, ay, and great- ness of mind, that runs through his private correspondence, not less apparent than are a thousand little vanities and weaknesses mix- ed with those good herself aiore known some tii«c after the date »r this Jv^ter. gray's letters. 18o since the beginning of the war. I remember to have read Mr. Spence's pretty book: though (as he then had not been at Rome for the last time) it must have increased greatly since that in bulk. If you ask me what I read, I protest 1 do not recollect one syllable; but only in general, that they were the best bred sort of men in the world, just the kind off rinds one would wish to meet in a fine summer's evening, if one wished to meet jyiy at all. The heads and tails of the dialogues, published separate in 16mo. would make the sweetest reading in natiur for young gentlemen of family and fortune, that are learning to dance.* I rejoice to hear there is such a crowd of dramatical perform- ances coming upon the stage. Agrippina can stay very well, she thanks you, and be damned at leisure: I hope in God you have not mentioned, or showed to any body that scene (for, trusting in its badness, I forgot to cau- tion you concerning it); but I heard the other day, that I was writing a play,,and was told the name of it, which nobody here could * This ridicule on the Platonic way of dialogue (as it was aim- ed to be, though nothing less restmbles it) is, in my opinion, ad " jniraljle. Lord Shaftsbury was the first who brought it into vogue, and Mr. Spence, (if we except a few Scotch writers) the Ya^x who practised it. 186 gray's letters. > know, I am sure. The employment you propose to me much better suits my inclina- tion; but I much fear our joint stock would hardly compose a small volume; what I have is less considerable than you would imagine, and of that little we should not be willing to publish all * * * * This is all I can any where find. You, I imagine, may have a good deal more. I should not care how unwise the ordinary run of readers might think my affection for him, provided those few, that ever loved any body, or judged of any thing rightly, might, from such little remains, be moved to con- sider what he vvould have been; and to wish that Heaven had granted him a longer life and a mind more at ease. I send you a few hne», though Latin, which you do not like, for the sake of the subject; it makes part of a large design, and i« the beginning of the fourth book, which • what is here omitted was a short catalogue of Mr. West's po- etry then in Mr. Gray's hands; the reader has seen as much of it as I am persuaded his frier.d would have published, had he prose- cuted the task which Mr. Walpole recommended to him, that of printing his own and Mr. West's poem* in the same volume : and ■which we alio pergeive from tliis letter he was not averse from doing. gray's letters. 187 was intended to treat of the passions. Ex- cuse^the three tirst verses; you know vanity, with the Romans, is a poetical licence. LXV. TO MR. WALPOLE. Cambridge, 1747. I HAVE abundance of thaniis to return you for the entertainment Mr. Spence's book has given me, which I have almost run over already; and I much fear (see what it is to make a figure!) the breadth of the margin, and the neatness of the prints, which are better done than one could expect, have prevailed upon me to like it far better than I did in manuscript, for^ I think it is not the very genteel deportment of Polymetis, nor the lively wit of Mysagetes, that have at all cor- rupted me. There is one fundamental fault, from whence most of the little faults throughout the whole arise. He professes to neglect the Greek writers, who could have given him more instruction on the very heads he professes to treat, than all the others put together. Who does not know, that upon 188 gray's letters. the Latin, the Sabine, and Hetniscan my- thology (which probably might themselves, at a remoter period of time, owe their ori- gin to Greece too) the Romans engrafted al- most the wliole religion of Greece to make what is called their own? It would be hard to find any one circumstance that is properly of their invention. In the ruder days of the republic, the picturesque part of their reli- gion (which is the province he has chose, and would be thought to confine himself to) was probably borrowed entirely from the Tuscans, who, as a wealthy and trading peo- ple, may be well supposed, and indeed arc known, to have had the arts flourishing in a considerable degree among them. What could inform him here, but Dio, Halicarnas- sus (who expressly treats of those times with great curiosity and industry) and the remains of the first Roman writers? The former he has neglected as a Greek; and the latter, he says, were but little acquainted with the arts, and consequently are but of small authority. In the better ages, when every temple ami public building in Rome was peopled with imported deities and heroes, and when all Jhe artists of reputation they made use of were Greeks, what wonder, if their eyes grew familiarized to Grecian forms and hab- oray's letters. 189 its (especially in a matter of this kind, where so much depends upon the imagination); and if those figures introduced with them a belief of such fables, as first gave them being, and dressed them ont in their various attributes, it was natural then, and (I should think) necessary, to go to the source itself, the Greek accounts of their own religion; but, to say the truth, I suspect he was little con- versant in those books and that language; for he rarely quotes any but Lucian, an au- thor that falls in every body's way, and who lived at the very extremity of that period hs has set to his inquiries, later than any of the poets he has meddled with, and for that reason ought to have been regarded as but an indifferent authority; especially being a Syrian too. His book (as he says himself) is, I think, rather a beginning than a perfect work; but a beginning at the wrong end: for if any body should finish it by inquiring into the Greek mythology, as he proposes, it will be necessary to read it backward. There are several little neglects, that one might have told him of, which I noted in reading it hastily; as page 311, a discourse about orange trees, occasioned by Virgil's "inter odoratum lanri nemus," where he fancies the Roman Laurus to be our Laurel; 190 gray's letters. though undoubtedly the bay-tree, which is odoratum, and, I believe, still called Lauro, or AUoro, at Rome; and that the "Malum. Medicujn" in the Georgic is the orange; though Theophrastus, whence Virgil bor- rowed it, or even Pliny, whom he himself quotes, might convince him it is the cedrato which lie has often tasted at Florence. Page 144 is an account of Domenichino's Cardinal Virtues, and a fling at the Jesuits, neither of which belong to them: the painting is in a church of the Barnabiti, dedicated to St. Carlo Borromeo, whose motto is Humilitas. Page 131 , in a note, he says, the old Romans did not regard Fortune as a deity; though Servius Tullius (whom she was said to be in love with; nay, there was actually an affair be- tween them) founded her temple in Foro Bo- ario. By the way, her worship was Greek, and this king was educated in the family of Tar- quinius Priscus, whose father was a Corin- thian; so it is easy to conceive how early the religion of Rome might be Eoixed with that of Greece, &;c. &c. Dr. Middleton has sent me to-day a book on the Roman Senate^ the substance of a dis- pute between lord Hervey and him, though it never interrupted their friendship, he says, and I dare say not. gray's letters. 191 LXVI. TO MR. WALPOLE. Cambridge, March 1, 1747. As one ought to be particularly careful to avoid blunders in a compliment of condo- lence, it would be a sensible satisfaction to me (before I testify my sorrow, and the sin- cere part I take in your misfortune) to know for certain, who it is I lament. I knew^ Zara and Selima, (Selima, was it, or Fatima?) or rather I knew them both together; for I cannot justly say which was which. — Then as to your handsome cat, the name you dis- tinguish her by, I am no less at a loss, as well knowing one's handsome cat is always the cat one hkes best; or, if one be ahve and the other dead, it is usually the latter that is the handsomest. Besides, if the point were never so clear, I hope you do not think me so ill-bred or so imprudent as to forfeit all my interest in the survivor: Oh no! 1 would jrather seem to mistake, and imagine to be sure it must be the tabby one that had met with this sad accident. Till this affair is a little better determined, you will excuse me if I do not begin to cry; 192 gray's letter?.- " Tempus inane peto, requiem, spatiumque doloris." Which interval is the more convenient, as it gives time to rejoice with you on your new- honours.* This is only a beginning ; I reckon next week we shall hear you are a free-mason, or a gormogon at least. — Heigh hoi I feel (as you to be sure have done long since) that I have very little to say, at least in prose. Somebody will be the better for it; I do not mean you, but your cat, feue made- moiselle Selime, whom I am about to immor- talize for one week or fortnight, as follows:! * * *— There's a poem for you; it is rather too long for an epitaph. LXVII. TO DR. WHARTON. Stoke, June 5,1748, Your friendship has interested itself in my • Mr. Walpole was about lliis time elected a Fellow of the Rcyal Society. t The reader need hardly be told,?that the 4th ode in the collec- tion of bis |)oems was inserted in the place of these asterisks. This letter (as some other slight ones have been) is piiiited chiefly to ra«rk the date of one cf his compositions. gray's letters. 193 aflairs so nfiturally, that I cannot help troub- ling you a little with a detail of them. vf*-**^***** ^^f\ now, my dear Whar- ton, why must I tell you a thing so contrary to my own wishes and yours? I believe it is impossible for me to see you in the north, or to enjoy any of those agreeable hours I had flattered myself with. This business will oblige me to be in town several times during the summer, particularly in August, when half the money is to be paid; besides the good people here would think me the most careless and ruinous of mortals, if I should take such a journey at this time. The only satisfaction I can pretend to, is that of hearing from you, and particularly at this time when I was bid to expect the good news of an increase of your family. Your opin- ion of Diodorus is doubtless right; but there are things in him very curious, got out of better authorities now lost. Do )'ou remem- ber the Egyptian history, and particularly the account of the gold mines ? My own readings have been cruelly interrupted : * The paragraph here omitted contained an account of Mi*. Gray's loss of a house by fire in Cornhill, and the ixpense he should be at ia rebuilding it. Though it wasf insured, he could at thi* time ill bear to lay out the additional suru necessary for the pur- pose. VOL. IV, 13 194 gray's letters. What I have been highly pleased with, is the new comedy from Paris by Gresset, called le Mechant; if you have it not, buy his works all together in two little volumes : they are collected by the Dutch booksellers, and consequently contain some trash; but then there are the Ververt, the epistle to P. Bougeant, the Chartreuse, that to his sis- ter, an ode on his country,- and another on mediocrity, and the Sidnei, another comedy, all which have great beauties. There is also a poem lately published by Thomson, called the Castle of Indolence, with some good stanzas in it. Mr. Mason is my ac- quaintance; I liked that ode* much, but have found no one else that did. He has • Ode to a Water Nymph, ijublished about this time in Dodsley's miscellany. On reading what follows, many readers, I suspect, will think me as simple as ever, in forbearing to expunge the para- graph: but as I publish Mr. Gray s sentiments of authors, as well living as dead, without reserve, I should do them injustice, if I was more scrupulous with respect to myself. My friends, I am sure, will be much amused with tliis and another passage hereafter of a like sort. My enemies, if they please, may sneer at it ; and .say (which they will very truly) that twenty-five yeais have made a ▼ery considei-able abatement in my general philanthropy. Meu of the world will not blame me for writing from so prudent a motive, as that of making my fortune by it ; and yet the truth, I believe, at the time was, that I was perfectly well satisfied, if my publications, rijmisbed me with a few guineas to see a play v an opera. gray's letters. 195 much fancy, little judgment, and a good deal of modest}'; J take him for a good and well- meaning creature; but then he is really in simplicity a child, and loves every body he meets with: he reads little or nothing; writes abundance, and that with a design to make his fortune by it. My best compliments to Mrs. Wharton and your family: does that name include any body I am not yet ac- quainted with ? ^ LXVIII, TO DR. WHARTON. Stoke, August 19, 1748: I AM glad you have had any pleasure in Gresset; he seems to me a truly elegant and charming writer; the Mechant is the best comedy I ever read; his Edward I could scarce get through; it is puerile; though there are good lines, such as this for exam- ple: " Le jour d'un Douveau regne est le jour des ingrats.'* But good lines will make any thing rather than a good play: however you are to con- 196 gray's letters. sider this as a collection made up by the Dutch booksellers; many things unfinished, or written in his youth, or designed not for the world, but to make his friends laugh, as the Liitrin vivant, &c. There are two noble lines, which, as they are in the middle of an ode to the king, may perhaps have escaped you: " Le cri d'un peuple heureux est la seule eloquence " Qui scait parler des Rois." Which is very true, and should have been a hint to himself not to write odes to the king at all. As I have nothing more to say at present, I fill my paper with the beginning of an es- say; what name to give it 1 know not; but the subject is the alliance of Education and Government:* 1 mean to show that they miist both concur to produce great and use- ful men. I desire your judgment upon it before I proceed any further. * See Poems. gray's letters. 197 LXIX. TO DR. WHARTON. Cambridge, March 9, 1748-9. You ask for some account of books. The principal I can tell you of is a work of the President Montesquieu, the labour of twenty years; it is called L'Esprit des Loix, 2 vols. 4to. printed at Geneva. He lays down the principles on which are founded the three sorts of government, despotism, the limited monarchy, and the republican; and shows how from these are deduced the laws and customs by which they are guided and main- tained; the education proper to each form; the influence of climate, situation, religion, &c. on the minds of particular nations and on their policy. The subject, you see, is as extensive as mankind; the thoughts per- fectly new, generally admirable as they are just, sometimes a little too refined. In short, there are faults, but such as an ordi- nary man could never have committed. The style very lively and concise (conse- quently sometimes obscure); it is the gravity of Tacitus, whom he admires, tempered with the gayety and fire of a Frenchman, The 198 gray's letters. time of night will not suffer me to go on: but I will write again in a week. LXX. TO DR. WHARTON. Cambridge, April 25, 1749. I PERCEIVE that second parts are as bad to write as they can be to read; for this, which you ought to have had a week after the tirst, has been a full month in coming forth. The spirit of laziness (the spirit of the place) begins to possess even me, who have so long declaimed against it; yet has it not so prevailed, but that 1 feel that discontent with myself, that ennui, that ever accompa- nies it in its beginnings Time will settle my conscience; time will reconcile me to this languid companion: We shall smoke, we shall tipple, we shall doze together: we shall have our little jokes like other people, and our old stories: brandy will finish what port began; and a month after the time you will see in some corner of a London even- ing post, " Yesterday dic^d the reverend Mr. .John Gray, senior fellow of Clare-Hall, a facetious companion, and well respected by GRAY*S LETTERS. 199 all that knew him. His death is supposed to have been occasioned by a tit of an apo- plexy, being found fallen out of bed with his head in the chamber-pot." In the meanwhile, to go on with my ac- count of new books Montesquieu's work, which I mentioned before, is now publish- ing anew in 2 vols, 8vo. Have you seen old Crebillion's Calalina, a tragedy, which has had a prodigious run at Paris? Histori- cal truth is too much perverted in it, which is ridiculous in a story so generally' known; but if you can get over this, the sentiiisents and versification are tine, and most of the characters (particularly the principal one) tainted with great Spirit. Mr. Birch, the indefatigable, has just put out a thick octavo of original papers of queen Elizabeth's time; there are many curious things in it, particularly letters from Sir Robert Cecil (Salisbury) about his ne- gociations with Henry IV. of France, the earl of Monmouth's odd account of queen Elizabeth's death, several peculiarities of •lames I. and prince IJenry, &c. and above all, an excellent account of the state of France, with characters of the king, his court, and ministry, by Sir George Carew, ambassador thero._ This. I think, is al! new 200 gray's letters. worth mentioning, that I have seen or heard of; except a Natural History of Peru, in Spanish, printed at London, by Don — — something, a man of learning, sent thither by that court on purpose. You ask after mj chronology. It was began, as I told you, almost two years ago, when I was in the midst of Diogenes Laer- tins and his philosophers, as a prooemium to their works. My intention in forming this table was not so much for public events, though these too have a column assigned them, but rather in a literary way to com- pare the time of all great men, their writings and their transactions. I have brought it from the 30th Olympiad, where it begins, to the 113th; that is, 332 years. ^- My only modern assistants were Marsham, Dodwell, and Bentley. 1 have since that read Pausanias and Athe- fia?.us all through, and .^schylus again. I im now in Pindar and Lysias; for I take verse and prose together, like bread and rlieese. * This lalx>vious work was formed much in the manner of the President Renault's " Histoire de France." Every page consisted of nine columns ; one for the Olympiad, the next for the Archons, the third for the public affairs of Greece, the three next for tlie philosophers, and the three last for poets, historians, and orator' T do not find it earned fuithcr than the date above mentioned. GRAY'S LETTERS. 201 LXXI. TO DR. WHARTON. Cambridge, Aug;ust 8, 1749. I PROMISED Dr. Keene long since to give you an account of our nriagnilicences here;* but the newspapers and he himself in per- son, have got the start of my indolence, so that by this time you are well acquainted with ail the events that adorned that week of wonders. Thus much I may venture to tell you, because it is probable nobody else has done it, that our friend *■ *"'s zeal and eloquence surpassed all power of descrip- tion. Vesuvio in an eruption was not more violent than his utterance, nor (since I am at my mountains) Pelion, with all its pine- trees in a storm of wind, more impetuous than his action; and yet the senate-house still stands, and (I thank God) we are all safe and well at your service. I was ready 10 sink for him, and scarce dared to look about me, when I was sure it was all over; but soon found I might have spared my con- • The Duke of Newcastle's Installation as CLancellov of tfct University. 202 gray's letters. fusion; all people joined to applaud him. Every thing was quite right; and I dare swear not three people here but think him a model of oratory; for all the duke's little court came with a resolution to be pleased; and when the tone was once given, the uni- versity, who ever vvait for the judgment of their betters, struck into it with an admira- ble harmony: for the rest of the perform- ances, they were just what they usually are. Every one, while it lasted, was very gay and very busy in the morning, and very owlish and very tipsy at night: I make no exceptions from the chancellor to blue-coat. Mason's ode was the only entertainment that had any tolerable elegance; and, for my own part, I think it (with some little abatements) uncommonly well on such an occasion. Pray let me know your senti- ments; for doubtless you have seen it. The author of it* grows apace into my good graces, as 1 know bim more; he is very in- genious, with great good-nature and simpli- city; a little vain, but in so harmless and so comical a way, that it does not offend one at all; a little ambitious, but withal so ignorant in the world and its ways, that this does not hurt him in one's opinion; so sin- cere and so undisguised, that no mind, with gray's letters. 203 a spark of generosity, vvould ever think of hurting hiai, he lies so open to injury; but so indolent, that if he cannot overcome this habit, all his good qualities will signify noth- ing at all. After all, I like him so well, I could wish you knew him. LXXII. TO HIS MOTHER. Cambridge, Nor. 7, 1749. The unhappy news I have just received from you equally surprises and afflicts me.* I have lost a person I loved very much, and have been used to from my infancy; but am much more concerned for your loss, the circumstances of which I forbear to dwell upon, as you must be too sensible of them yourself; and will, I fear, more and more need a consolation that no one can give, except He who has preserved her to you so many years, and at last, when it was his * The death of his aunt, Mrs Mary Antrobus, who died the 5th of Noverabtr, aiid was buried in a vault in Stoke church-yard, near the chancel door, io which also his mother and himself (ac- cording to the diitiction in bis will) were ftfterwards buried. 264 GRAY'S LETTERS. pleasure, has taken her from us to himself: and perhaps, if we reflect upon what she felt in this life, we may look upon this as an instance of his goodness both to her, and to those that loved her. She might have languished many years before our eyes in a continual increase of pain, and totally help- less; she might have long wished to end her misery without being able to attain it; or perhaps even lost all sense, and yet conti- nued to breathe; a sad spectacle to such as must have felt more for her than she could have done for herself. However you may deplore your own loss, yet think that she is at last easy and happy; and has now more occasion to pity us than we her. I hope, and beg, you will support yourself with that resignation we owe to Him, who gave us our being for our good, and who deprives us of it for the same reason. I would have come to you directly, but you do not say whether you desire I should or not; if you do, I beg 1 may know it, for there is nothing to hinder me, and I am in very good health. GRAY'S LETTERS. 205 LXXIII. TO MR. WALPOLE. Stoke, June 12, 1750. As 1 live in a place, where even the ordi- nary tattle of the town arrives not till it is stale, and which produces no events of its own, you will not desire any excuse from me for writing so seldom, especially as of all people living i know you are the least a friend to letters spun out of one's own brains, with all the toil and constraint that accom- panies sentimental productions. I have been here at Stoke a few days (where I shall conti- nue good part of the summer); and having put an end to a thing, whose beginning you have seen long ago, I immediately send it you..* You will, I hope, look upon it in the light of a thing with an end to it ; a merit that most of my writings have wanted, and are like to want, but which this epistle 1 am determin- ed shall not want, when it tells you that I am ever Youris. * This was the Elegr in the church yard.— B. 206 GRAv's LETTERS. Not that I have done yet; but who could avoid tlie temj)tation of finishing so roundly and so cleverly in the manner of good queen Anne's days? Now I have talked of writings; I have seen a book, which is by this time in the press, against Middieton (though without naming him), by Asheton. As far as I can judge from a very hasty reading, there are things in it new and ingenious, but rather too prolix, and the style here and there savour- ing too strongly of sermon. 1 imagine it will do him credit So much for other people, now to self again. You are desired to tell me your opinion, if you can take the pains, of these lines. I am once more Ever yours. LXXIV. TO DR. WHARTON. Stoke, August 9, 1750. Aristotle says (one may write "^nc t;k to you without scandal) that 0< rtnot tv huXv6vfft TJjy 0t>iietv UTrXugy uXXu, t»jv ivi^yitctv itnv ^i x^ovte^ 4} etToviTix ymviTXt Ktti rvti (ptXixs ocku X^dviv tfciuv^ gray's letters. 207 But Aristotle may say whatever he pleases, I do not find myself at all the worse for it. 1 could indeed wish to refresh mj'^ Eniyiix a little at Durham by the sight of you, but when is there a- probability of my being so happy? It concerned me greatly when I heard the other day that your asthma con • tinued at times to afflict you, and that you were often obliged to go into the country to breathe; you cannot oblige me more than by giving me an account both of the state of your bodj^ and mind: I hope the latter is able to keep you cheerful and easy in spite of the frailties of its companion. As to my own, it can neither do one nor the other; and I have the mortification to find my spi- ritual part the most infirm thing about me. You have doubtless heard of the loss I have had in Dr. Middleton, whose house was the only easy place one could find to converse m at Cambridge: for my part, I find a friend so uncommon a thing, that I cannot help re- gretting even an old acquaintance, which is an indifferent likeness of it; and though 1 do not approve of the spirit of his books, me- thinks 'tis pity the world should lose so rare a thing as a good writer.* * Mr. Gray used to say, that good writing not only required great parts, but the vei7 best of tliose parts. 208 gray's letters. My studies cannot furnish a recommendation of many new books to you. There is a de- fence "de I'Esprit des Loix," by Montes- quieu himself; it has some lively things in it, but is very short, and his adversary ap- pears to be so mean a bigot that he deserved no answer. There are 3 vols, in 4to. of "Histoire du Cabinet du Roi, by Messrs. Bufibn and d'Aubentonf ' the first is a man of character, but I am told has hurt it by this work. It is all a sort of introduction to na- tural history; the weak part of it is a love of system which runs through it; the most contrary thing in the world to a science en- tirely grounded upon experiments, and which has nothing to do with vivacit}' of imagina- tion. However, I cannot help commending the general view which he gives of the face of the earth, followed by a particular one of all the known nations, their peculiar figure and manners, which is the best epitome of geography I ever met with, and written with sense and elegance; in short, these books are well worth turning over. The memoirs of the Abbe de Mongon, in 5 vols, are highly commended, but i have not seen them. He was engaged in several embassies to Germn- ny, England, kc. during the course of the late war. The president HeaauU's "Abrtge GRAV'S LETTERS. 209 Chronologiqne de I'Histoire de France," I believe I "have mentioned to you as a very good book of its kind. LXXV. TO DR. V/HARTO&f. Dec. 17, 17*0, Of my house I cannot say much,* I vvish I could; but for my heart, it is no less yours than it has long been; and the last thing in the world that will throw it into tumults is a fine lady. The verses, you so kindly try to keep in countenance, were written merely to divert lady Cobham and her family, and succeeded accordingly; but being showed about in town, are not liked there at alK Mrs. *■ *, a very fashionable personage, told Mr. VValpole that she had seen a thing by a friend of his which she did not know what to make of, for it aimed at every thing, and meant nothing; to which he replied, that he had always taken her for a woman of sense, and was very sorry to be undeceived. On * The house he was rebuilding in Comhill. -y^ ir. 14 210 gray's letters. the other hand, the stanzas* which I now enclose to you have had the mislortune, by Mr. Walpole's fault, to be made still more public, for- which they certainly were never meant; but it is too late to complain They have been so applauded, it is quite a shame to repeat it: I mean not to be modest; but it is a shame for those who have said such superlative things about them, that i cannot repeat them. I should have been glad that you and two or three more people had liked them, which would have satisfied my ambi- tion on this head amply. 1 have been this month in town, not at Newcastle-House, but diverting myself among my gay acquaintance; and return to my cell with so much the more pleasure. I dare not speak of my fu- ture excursion to Durham for fear of a dis- appointment, but at present it is my full intention. LXXVI. TO MR. WALPOLE. Cambridge, Feb. II, 1751. As you have brought me into a little sort of * Elegy in a country church-yard. gray's LETTEjlS. 211 distress, you must assist me, I believe, to g:et out of it as well as I can. Yesterday I had the misfortune ofreceivinga letter from cer- tain gentlemen (as their bookseller expresses it^ who have taken the magazine of maga- zines into their hands: they tell me that an ingenious poem, called Reflections in a Coun- try Church-yard, has been communicated to them, which they are printing forthwith; that they are informed that the exccflent au- thor of it is I by name, and that they beg not only his indulgence^ but the honour of his correspondence, &c. As I am not at all dis- posed to be either so indulgent, or so corre- spondent, as they desire, I have but one bad way left to escape the honour they would inflict upon me; and therefore am obliged to desire you would make Dodsley print it im- mediately (which may be done in less than a week's time) from your copy, but without my name, in what form is most convenient for him, but on his best paper and character; he must correct the press himself, and print it without any interval between the stanzas, because the sense is in some places continued beyond them; and the title must be, — Elegy, written in a country church-yard. If he woild add a line or two to say it came into his hands by accident, I should like it better. 212 gray's letters. If you behold the magazine of magazines in the light that I do, you will not refuse to give yourself this trouble on my account, which you have taken of your own accord before now. If Dodsley do not do this immediat^y^ he may as well let it alone. LXXVII. TO MR. WALPOLE. Ash-Wednesday, Cambridge, 1751. You have indeed conducted with great de- cency my little misfortune : you have taken a paternal care of it, and expressed much more kindness than could have been expect- ed from so near a relation. But we are all frail; and I hope to do as much for you an- other time. Nurse Dodsley has given it a pinch or two in the cradle, that (I doubt) it will bear the marks of as long as it lives. But no matter: we have ourselves suffered un- der her hands before now; and besides, it will only look the more careless and by ac- cident as it were. I thank you for your ad- vertisement, which saves my honour, and in manner bien flatteuse pour moi, who should be put to it even to make myself a compli- ment in good English. gray's letters. 213 You will take me for a mere poet, and a fetcher and carrier of singsong, if I tell you that 1 intend to send you the beginning of a drama;* not mine, thank God, as you'll be- lieve, when you hear it is finished, but wrote by a person whom I have a very good opinion of. It is (unfortunately) in the man- ner of the ancient drama, with choruses, which I am, to my shame, the occasion of: for, as great part of it was at first written in that form, I would not suffer him to change it to a play fit for tiie stage, as he intended, because the lyric parts are the best of it, and they must have been lost. The stor}' is Saxon, and the language has a tang of Shakspeare, that suits an old fashioned fable very well. In short, I don't do it merely to amuse you, but for the sake of the author, who wants a judge, and so I would lend hira mine: yet not without your leave, lost you should have us up to dirty our stockings at the bar of your house for wasting the time and politics of the nation. Adieu, sir! * This was the Elfrida of Mr. Masgn.-B. £14 gray's letters. LXXVIII. TO MR. WALPOLE. Cambridge, March 3, 1751, Elfrida ^for that is the f^iir one's name) and her author are now in town together. He has promised me, that he will send a part of it to you some morning while he is there; and (if you shall think it worth while to descend to particulars) I should be glad you ivould tell me very freely your opinion about it; for he shall know nothing of the m;itter, that is not fit for the ears of a tender parent — though, by the way, he has ingenuity and merit enough (whatever his drama may have) to bear hearing his faults very patiently. 1 must only beg you not to show it, much less let it be copied; for it will be published, though not as yet. I do not expect any more editions,* as I have appeared in more magazines than one. The chief errita were sacrtd bower for secret ; hidd-n for kindred (in spite of dukes and classics); -awA frowning as in scorn for smiling. I humbly propose, for the benefit * Of the Elegy in the church-yard,~B. 215 of Mr. Dodsley and his matrons, that take awake for a verb, that they should read asleep, and all will be right.* Gil Bias is the Lying Valet in five acts. The tine lady has half-a-dozen good lines dispersed in it. Pompey is the hasty production of a Mr. Coventry (cousin to him you knew), a young clergyman: I found it out by three characters, which once mrtde part of a come- dy that he showed me of his own writing. Has that miracle of tendfrnrsx and sensihUity (as she calls it) lady V.ine given 3^ou any amusement? Peregrine, whom she uses as a vehicle, is very poor indeed, with a few exceptions. In the last volume is a charac- ter of Mr. Lyttelton, under the name of Gosling Scrag, and a parody of part of his monody, under the notion of a pastoral on the death of his grandmother. * The verse tq,wLich he alludes is this : " Ev'n from the tomb tlie voice of nature cries ; Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires." rhe last line of which he ha.l at first written thus : " Awake and faithful to her woMed fires.'"— 3. 216 gray's letters. LXXIX. TO MR. WALPOLE. Nov. Tuesday, Cambridge. It is a misfortune to me to be at a distance from both of you at present. A letter can give one so little idea of such matters ! * * * * 1 always believed well of his heart and temper, and would gladly do so still. If they are as they should be, I should have expected every thing from such an explana- tion; for it is a tenet with me (a simple one, you'll perhaps say), that if ever two people, who love one another, come to breaking, it is for want of a timel}' eclaircisseraent, a full and precise one, without witnesses or media- tors, and without reserving any one disa- greeable circumstance for the mind to brood upon in silence. 1 am not totally of your mind as to Mr. Lyttelton's elegy, though I love kids and fawns as little as you do. If it were all like the fourth stanza, I should be excessively pleased. Nature and sorrow, and tender- ne=53, are the true genius of such things; and something of these I find in several parts of it Tnot in the orange-tree): poetical orna- gray's letters. 217 ments are foreign to the purpose, for they only show a man is not sorry; — and devotion worse; for it teaches him, that he ought not to be sorry, which is all the pleasure of the thing. 1 beg leave to turn your weather- cock the contrary way. Your epistle* I have not seen a great while, and doctor M. is not in the way to give me a siffht of it: but I remember enough to be sure all the world will be pleased with it, even with all its faults upon Hs head, if you don't care to mend them. I would try to do it mjself (however hazardous), rather than it should remain unpublished. As to my Eton ode, Mr. Dodsley is padrone.] The secondj you had, I suppose you do ngt think worth gjving him: otherwise, to me it seems not worse than the former. He might have Selima§ too, unless she be of too little im- portance for his patriot collection; or per- haps the connexions you had with her may interfere. Che so io ? Adieu ! * From Florence to Thomas Asheion.— B. t To publish in his collection of poems.— B. t The ode to Spring.— B. ^ The ode on Mr. Walpole's cat drowned in the tub of goU-fisli. -B. 218 LXXX. TO MR. WALFOLE. Cambridge, Dec Moodaj. This comes du fond de ma cellule (o tialute Mr. H- W. not so much him that visits und votes, and goes to White's and to court; as the H, W. in his rural capacity, snug ii- his tub on Windsor-hill, aiid brooding over folios of his own creation: him that can slip away, like a pregnant beauty (but a little oftener,) into the country, be brought to bed perhaps of twins, and whisk to town again the week after with a fixce as if nothing had happened. Among all the little folks, my godsons and daughters, I cannot choose but inquire more particularly after the health of one; I mean (without a tigure) the Memoirs:* Do they grow? Do they unite, and hold up their beads, and dress themselves? Do they be- gin to think of making their appearance in the world, that is to. say, tifty years hence, to make po&lerity stare, and all good people cross themselves? Has Asheton (who will be then lord bishop of Killaloe, and is to • Memoirs of his o\^-n time, which ]Mi-. Walpole was then writ- ing.— B. gray's letters. 219 pnblish them) thought of an aviso al lettore to !;rf'iix to them yet, importing, that if the words ch'irch, king, religion, ministry, &.C. be found often repeated in this book, they are not to be taken Hterally, but poetical- ly, and as may be most strictly reconcileable to the fiith then established; — that he knevr the author well when he was a young man; and can testify upon the honour of his func- tion, that he said his prayers regularly and devoutly, had a profound reverence for the clersjy, and firmly believed every thing that was the fashion in those days? When you have done impeaching my lord Lovat, I hope to hear de vos nouvelles, and moreover, whether you have got colonel Conway yet? Whether sir C. Williams is to go to Berlin? What sort of a prince Mi- tridate may be? — and whatever other tidings you choose to refresh an anchoret with. Fniilanto I send you a scene in a tragedy:* if it don't make you cry, it will make you laugh; and so it moves some passion, that I take to be enough. Adieu, dear sirl I am, Lc. * The first scene in Mr, Gray's unfinished tragedy cf Agrippi- na, published in Mr. Mason's tditiou of his wtrks.— B. 220 GRA¥'S LETTERS. LXXXI. TO MR, WALPOLE. Cambridge, October 8, 1751. I SEND you this* (as you desire) merely to make up half-a-dozen; though it will hardly answer your end in furnishing out either a head or tail-piece. But your own fablej may much better supply the place. You have altered it to its advantage; but there is still something a little embarrassed here and there in the expression. I rejoice to find you apply (pardon the use of so odious a word) to the history of your own times. Speak, and spare not. Be as impartial as you can; and after all, the world will not be- lieve you are so, though you should make as many protestations as bishop Burnet. They will feel in their own breast, and find it very po-sible to hate fourscore persons, yea, ninety and nine: so you must rest satisfied with the testimony of your own conscience. Somebody has laughed at Mr. Dodsley, or at me, when they talked of the bat : I have * The hymn to adversity.— B. t The entail.— B. gray's letters. 221 nothing moi^e, either nocturnal or diurnal, to deck his miscellany with. We have a man here that writes a good hand; but lie has lit- tle r'aihngs that hinder my recommending hina to you,* He is lousy, and he is mad: he sets out this week for Bedlam; but if you insist upon it, I don't doubt he will pay his re>^pects to you. i have seen two of Dr. Middleton's unpublished woriis. One is abo it 44 pages in 4to. against Dr. Water- land, who wrote a very orthodox book on the importance of the doctrine of the Trini- ty, and insi'^ted, that Christians ought to have no commtinion with such as differ from them in fundamentals. Middleton enters no fir- ther into the doctrine itself than to show that a mere speculative point can never be called a fundamental; and that the earlier fathers, on whose concurrent tradition Waterland would build, are so far, when they speak of the three persons, from agree- ing with the present notion of our church, that they declare for the inferiority of the son, and seem to have no clear and distinct idea of the Holy Ghost at all. The rest is employed in exposing the folly and cruelty of stiffness and zealotism in religion, and in * As an amanuensis. B. 222 GRAY*S LETTERS, showing tbnt the primitive ages of the church, in which tradition had its rise, were (even by confession of the best scholars and most orthodox writers) the ccra cf vcmcnse and ab.stirdity. It is finished, and very well wrote; but has been mostly incorporated in- to his other works particularly the Inquiry: and for this reason I suppose he has writ upon it. This whotly lend abide. The second is in Latin, on miracles; to show, that of the two methods of defending Christianity, one frcm its intrinsic evidence, the holiness and purity of its doctrines, the other from its ex- ter-^al, the ntiracles said to be wrout^ht to confirm it; the first has been little attended to by reason of its difficulty; the second much insisted upon, because it appeared an easier task; but that it can in rejdity prove nothing at all. "Nobilis iha quidem defen- sio (the first) quam si obtinere potuissent, rem simul omnem expediisse, causamque pe- nitus vicisse viderentur. At causae hujiis defv ndendgB labor cum tanta argumentnndi cavillandique molestia conjunctus ad alterism, quam dixi, defensioni^^ viam, ut commodiort ra longe et faciliorem, plerosque adegit tgo vero istiusmodi defensione religitnem los- tram non modo non conhimari, sed dubiam potius suspectamque reddi existimo/' He GRAY S LETTERS. 2To then proceeds to consider miracles in gene- ral, and afterwards those of the Pagans, com- pared with those of Christ. I only tell you the plan, for I have not read it out (thongh it is short); but you will not doubt to what conclusion it tends There is another U ing, I know not what, 1 am to see. As to liie treatise on prayer; they say it is burnt in- deed. Adieu! LXXXII. TO MR. WALPOLE. Your pen was too rapid to mind the common form of a direction, and so, by omitting the words near Windsor, your letter has been diverting itself at another Stoke near Ayles- bury, and came not to my hands till to-day. The true original chairs were all sold, when the Huntingdans broke; there are nothing now but Halsey-chairs, not adapted to the scpnreness of a Gothic dowager's rump. And by the way, I do not see how the unea- siness and uncomfortableness of a corona- tion chair can be any objection with you: every chair that is easy is modern, and un- known to our ancestors. As I remember. 224 gray's letters. there were certain low chairs, that look- ed like ebony, at Esher, and were old and pretty. Why should not Mr. Bentley im- prove upon them? I do not wonder at Dodsley. You have talked to him of six odts^ for so you are pleased to call every thing I write, though it be but a recei;>t to make apple-dnmplings. He has reason to gulp when he finds one of them onl}' a long story. I don't know but I may send him very soon (by your hands) an ode to his own tooth, a high Pindaric upon stilts, which one must be a better scholar than he is to understand a line of, and the very best scho- lars will understand but a little matter here and there. It wants but seventeen lines of having an end, I don't say of being finished. As it is so unfortunate to come too late for Mr. Bentley, it may appear in the fourth volume of the Miscellanies, provided you don't think it execrable, and suppress it. Pray, when the fine book is to be printed,* let me revise the press, for you know you can't; and there are a few trifles I could wish altered. I know not what you mean by hours of love and cherries, and pine-apples. I nei- * The edition of his odes piinted at Strawberry-Lill. B. gray's letters. 225 ther see nor hear any thing here, and am of opinion that is the best nay. My compli- ments to Mr. Bentley,if he be with you. 1 desire you would not show that epigram I re{)evUed to you,* as mine. 1 have heard of it twice already as coming tVom you. LXXXIII, TO MR. WALPOLE. \ AM obliged to you for Mr. Dodsley's book,t and, having pretty well looked it over, will (as you desire) tell }'0u my opinion of it. He might, methinks, have spared the Graces in his frontispiece, if he chose to be eco- nomical, and dressed his authors in a little more decent raiment — not in vvhited-brown paper, and distorted characters, like an old ballad. I am ashamed to see myself; but the company keeps me in countenance: so to begin with Mr. Tickell. This is not only a state-poem (my ancient aversion) but a state- poem on the peace of Utrecht. If Mr. Pope *■ The editor much wishes he could repeat it to the public, but has not been abU to discover the epig;i'aiu alluded to. B. f His collectloa of poems. B. VOL. IV. 15 226 - gray's letters. had wrote a panegyric on it, one could hardly have read him with patience: but this is only a poor short-winded imitator of Addison, who had himself not above three or four notes in poetry, sweet enough indeed, like those of a German flute, but such as soon tire and satiate the ear with their frequent return. Tickell has added to this a great poverty of sense, and a string of transitions that hardly become a school- boy. However, I forgive him for the sake of his ballad,* which I always thought the prettiest in the world. All there is of M. Green here has been printed before: there is a profusion of wit every where; reading would have formed bis judgment, and harmonized his verse, for even his wood- notes often break out into strains of real poetry and music. The School-mistress is excellent in its kind, and masterly; and (I am sorry to differ from you, but) London is to me one of those few imitations, that have all the ease and all the spirit of an original. The same man'sj verses at the opening of Garrick's theatre are far from bad. Mr. * Colin and Lucy ; beginning " Of Leinster fiaraed for maidens fair." 1- Dr. Samuel Johnson. B. gray's letters. 227 Dyer (here you will despise me highly) has more of poetry in his imagination, than al- most any of our number; but rough and in- judicious. I should range Mr. Bramston only a step or two above Dr. King, who is as low in my estimation as in yours. Dr. Evans is a furious madman; and Pre-exist- ence is nonsense in all her altitudes. Mr. Lyttelton is a gentle elegiac person: Mr. Nugent* sure did not write his own ode.j I like Mr. Whitehead's little poems, I mean the Ode on a Tent, the Verses to Gar- rick, and particularly those to Charles Town- shend, better than any thing I had seen before of him. I gladly pass over H. Brown, and the rest, to come at you. You know I was of the publishing side, and thought your reasons against it none; for though, as Mr. Chute said extremely well, the still small voice of poetry was not made to be heard in a crowd; yf>t satire will be heard, for all the audience are by nature her friends; especially when she appears in the spirit of Dryden, with his strength, and often with his versification; such as you have caught in those lines on the royal unction, * Afterwards earl Nugent. B. t That addressed to Mr. Pulteney. B. 228' on the papal dominion, and convents of both sexes, on Henry VIII. and Charles II. for these are to me the shining parts of your epistle.* There are many lines I could wish corrected, and some blotted out, but beauties enough to atone for a thousand worse faults than these. The opinion of such as can at all judge, who saw it before in Dr. Middleton's hands, concurs nearly with mine. As to what any one says, since it came out; our people (you must know) are slow of judgment: they wait till some bold body saves them the trouble, and then follow his opinion; or stay till they hear what is said in town, that is, at some bishop's table, or some coffee-house about the Temple. When they are determined, I will tell you faithfully their verdict. As for the Beauties,! I am their most humble servant. What shall I say to Mr. Lowth, Mr. Ridley, Mr. RoUe, the reverend Mr. Brown, Seward, &;c.? If I say, Messieurs! tiiis is not the thing; write prose, write sermons, write nothing at all; they will dis- dain me, and my advice. What then would • Epistle from Florence to Thomas Asheton, tutor to the earl of Plymoutk. B. t The epistle to Mr. Eccardt the Painter. B. gkay's letters. 229 the sickly peer* have done, that spends so much time in admiring every thing that has four legs, and fretting at his own misforturie in having but two; and cursing his own politic head and feeble constitution,, that won't let him be such a beast as he would wish? Mr. S. Jcnyns now and then cao write a good line or two — such as these — Snatch us from all our little soiTow s here, Calm everj' grief, and dry each childish tcai", &c. I like Mr. Ashton Hervey's fable; aiid an ode (the last of all) by Mr. Mason, a new acquaintance of mine, whose Musasus too seems to carry with it the promise at least «f something good to come, I was glad to see you distinguished who poor West was, before his charming ode,t and called it any thing rather than a Pindaiic. The town is an owl, if it don't like lady Mary. I and 1 am surprised at it: we here are owls enough to think her eclogues very bad; but that 1 did not wonder at. Our present taste is sir T, Fitz-Osborne's Letters. 1 send you a bit of * Lord Hervey. B. + Monody on the death cf queen Caroline, B. t Lady M»i7 W. Moutajue's Potras. JB. 230 gray's letters. a thing for two reasons: first, because it is of one of your favourites, Mr. M. Green; and next, because I would do justice. The thought on which my second ode* turns is manifestly ^tole from hence: not that I knew it at the time, but, having seen this many years before, to be sure it imprinted itself on my memory, and, forgetting the author, I took it for my own. The subject was the (Queen's Hermitage. ***** Though yet no palace grace the shore To lodge the pair yout should adore ; Nor abbeys great in ruins rise, Royal equivalents for vice : Behold a grot in Delphic grove The Graces and the Muses love, A temple from vain-glory free ; Whose goddess is Philosophy ; Whose sides such licensed^ idols crown, As Superstition would pull down t The only pilgrimage I know, That men of sense would choose to go. Which sweet aliode, htr wisest choice, Urania cheers with heavenly voice : While all the Virtues gathir round To see her consecrate the ground. If thou, the god with winged feet. In coujicll talk of thii retieat ; * The Ode to Spring. B. t Speaking to the Thntr^s, t The four beast^. uray's letters. ^31 And jealous gods resentment show At altars raised lo men below : Tell those proud lords of heaven, 'tis fit Their house our heroes should admit. While each exisis (as poets sing) A lazy, lewd, inunortal thing ; They must, or grow in disrepute. With earth's first commoners recruit. Needless it is in terms unskill'd To praise whatever Boyle shall build. Keedless it is the busts to name Of men, monopolists of fame- Four chiefs adorn the moiest stone, For virtue, as for learning, known. The thinking seulptui-e helps to raise Deep thoughts, the genii of the place : To the mind's ear, and inward sight, Their silence speaks, and shade gives light ; While insects from the threshold preach, And minds disposed to musing teach ; Proud of sirong limbs and painted hues, They peiish by the slightest bruise, Or maladies begun within Destroy more slow life's frail machine : From maggot-youth through change of state They feel like us the turns of fate ; Some bom to creep have liveil to fly, And changed earth's cells for dwellings high ; And some, that did their six wings keep, Before they died, been forced to ci-eep. They politics, like ours, profess : The greater prey upon the less. Some strain on foot huge loads to bring, Some toil incessant on the wing : Xor from their ^gorous schemes desist Till death ; andMhen are never miss'd. »nd|die 232 gray's letters. Some frolick, marry, toil, increase, Are sick and well, have war, and peace. And, broke with ag« in half a day. Yield to successors, and away. * * # # * LXXXIV. TO DR. WHARTON. Dec. 19, 1752. Have: you read madame de Maintenon's let- ters? They are undoubtedly genuine ;^ they begin very early in her lite, before she mar- ried Scarron, and continue after the king's death to within a little while of her own: ihey bear all the marks of a noble spirit (in lier adversity particularly) of virtue and un- affected devotion; insomuch, that I am almost persuaded she was actually married to Louis XIV. and never his mistress: and this not out of any policy or ambition, but conscience: for she was what we should call a bigot, yet with great good sense. In short, she was loo good for a court. Misfortunes in the be- ginning of her life hud formed her mind (naturally lively art*] impatient) to reflection and a habit of piety. She was always mise- ■1' qray's letters. 233 rable while she had the care of madame de Montespnn's children; timid and very cau- tious of making use of that unlimited power she rose to afterwards, for fear oftrespassing on the king's friendship for her; and after hig death not at all afraid of meeting her own. I do not know what to say to you with re- gard to Racine; it sounds to me as if -any l3ody should fall upon Shakspeare, who in- deed lies intinitely more open to criticism of all kinds; but I should not care to be the person that undertook it. If you do not like Athaliah or Britannicus, there is no more to be said. I have done. Bishop Hall's satires, called Virgidemia?, are lately re-published. They are full of spirit and poetry; as much of the first as Dr. Donne, and far more of the latter: they were written at the university when he was about twenty-three years old, and in queen Eliza- beth's time. You do not say whether you have read the Crito.* I only recommend the dramatic part of the Phasdo to you, not the argumen- tative. The subject of the Erastae is good: it treats of that peculiar character and turn of mind which belongs to a true philosopher^ ♦ Of Plato. 234 gray's letters. but it is shorter than one would wish. The Eathyphro I would not read at all. LXXXV. TO MR. WALPOLE. Stoke, Jan. 175*. I AM at present at Stoke, to which place I came at half an hour's warning upon the news I received of my mother's illness, and did not expect to hav'e found her alive; but when 1 arrived she was much better, and continues so. I shall therefore be very glad to make you a visit at Strawberry -Hill, whenever you give me notice of a convenient time. I am surprised at the print,* which far sur- * A proof print of the Cul de Larnpe, vhich Mr. Ecr.tley de- signwf for the elegy in a country cliurcL-} ai-d. and which represtrils a village funeral : tin? occasioned tlie j)leasant mistake of his two aunts The remainder of the letter relates entirely to the project- ed publication of Mi. Bentky's designs, which were piinted after by Dodsley tlie same year. 'I'he latter part of it, where he so vehemently declaims against having his head prefixed to ihat work, ■will appeal' highly (.•'laractf-ristical to those readers, who were iki- sonally acquainted with Mr Gisy. The print, which was taken fixHT! an original picture, painted by Eccardt, in Mr. Walpole's possession, was actually more than half engi-aved; but afterwards oa this account supjiressed. gray's letters. 235 passes my idea of London graving. The drawing itself was so finished, that I suppose it did not require all the art 1 had imagined to copy it tolerably. My aunts seeing me open your letter, took it to be a burying- ticket, and asked whether any body had left me a ring; and so they still conceive it to be^ even with all their spectacles on. Heaven forbid they should suspect it to belong to any verses of mine, they would burn me for a poet. On my own part, I am satisfied, if this design of yours succeed so well as you intend it; and yet I know it will be accom- panied with something not at all agreeable to me. — While I write this, I receive your second letter. — Sure, you are not out of your wits ! This I know, if you suffer my head to be printed, you will infallibl\ put me out of mine. I conjure you immediately to put a stop to any such design. Who is at the ex- pense of engraving it, I know not; but if it be Dodslev, I will make up the loss to him. The thing as it was, I know, will malie me iidiculous enough; but to appear in proper jyer'jon, at the head of my works, consisting of half a dozen ballads in thirty pages, would be worse than the pillory. I do assure you, if I had received such a book, with such a frontispiece, without any warning, I believe 236 gray's letters. it would have given me a palsy: therefore I rejoice to have received this notice, and shall not be easy till you tell me all thoughts of it are laid aside. I am extremely in earnest, and cannot bear even the idea. I had written to Dodsley if I had not re- ceived yours, to tell him how little 1 liked the title which he meant to pretix; but your letter has put all that out of my head. If you think it necessary to print these expla- nations* for the use of people that have no eyes, I should be glad they were a little altered. I am, to my shame, in your dfbt for a long letter; but I cannot think of any thing else till you have set me at ease on this matter. LXXXVI. TO MR. MASON. t Durham, Dee. 26, 1753. A LITTLE while before I received your me- * See the ah<,ve-mentioncd designs, where the explanations here alluded to are inserted. t It was not till about the year 1747 that I had the happiness of being introduced to the acquaintance of Mr. Graj'. Some very ju- venile imitations of Milton's juvenile poems, wliich I liad written a year or two before, and of which the monody on Mv. Pope's death was the principal, he then, at the request of OKe of my fri'wids, was so obliging as t» revise. gray's letters. 237 Irincholy letter, I had been informed by Mr. Charles Avison of one of the sad events you mention.* I know what it is to lose persons that one's eyes and heart have long been used to; and I never desire to part with the remembrance of that loss, nor would wish you should. — it is something that you had a little time to acquaint yourself with the idea beforehand; and that your fither suffered but little pain, the only thing that makes death terrible. After 1 have said this, I cannot help expressing my surprise at the disposition he has made of his affairs. I must (if you will suffer me to say so) call it great weakness; and yet perhaps your afflic- tion for him is heightened by that very weakness; for I know it is possible to feel an additional sorrow for the faults of those we have loved, even where that fault has been greatl)' injurious to ourselves. Let me desire you not to expose yourself to any further danger in the midst of that scene of sickness and death; but withdraw as soon as possible to some place at a little distance in the country; for I do not, in the least, like the situation you are in. I do not attempt * Tbo death of iny father, and of Dr. Marraaduke Pricket, a yoiing physician of my own age, with whom I was brought up tro II infancy, vrlio died of the raine infectious fever. €38 gray's letters. to console you on the situation your fortune is left in; if it were far worse, the good opinion I have of you, tells me, you will never the sooner do any thing mean or unworthy of yourself; and consequently I cannot pity you on this account: but I sin- cerely do on the new loss you have had of a good and friendly man, whose memory 1 ho- nour. I have seen the scene you describe, and know how dreadful it is: 1 know too I am the better for it. We are all idle and thoughtless things, and have no sense, no use in the world any longer than that sad im- pression lasts; the deeper it is engraved the better. NDEX. .Vo. Tagc I. From Mr. West —Complains of his friend's si- lence .-.--.-.5 II. To Mr. West .-Answer to the formev.-A trans- lation of some lines from Statins - - 7 III. From Mr. West. — Approbation of the version. — Ridicule on the Cambridge Collection of \>rses on the Marriap^^ of the Prince of Wales 9 IV. To Mr. W. St.— On the little encouragement which he finds given to classical learning at Cambridge — His aversion to metaphysical and mathematical studies - - - II V. From Mr West.— Answer to the former, advi- ses his correspondent not to give up poetiy when he applies himself to the law - - 14 VI. To Mr Walpole.— Excuse for not writing to him, &c. - - - - - 16 VII. From Mr- West. — A poetical epistle addressetl to his Cambridge friend, laken in part from Tibullu"!, and a prose letter of Mr. Pope - 18 VIII. To Mr. West.— Thanks him for Lis poetical epistle. — Complains of low spirits. — Lady Walpole's death, and his concern for Mr H Walpole - - - - - 22 IX. To Mr. Walpole-How he spends his own time in the countrj' — Meets with Mr. Southern, the dramatic poet - - - - 24 X. To Mr, Waljiole.— Supposed manner in which Mr. Walpole spends his time in the country 26 XI. From Mr. West.— Sends him a translation into Latin of a Greek epigram - - - 28 XII. To Mr. Wert.— A Latin epistle in answer to the foregoing - - - - - 30 XIIL From Mr. West —On leaving the University, and removing to the Temple - - 3 2 XIV. To Mr West.— A Sippbic Ode, occasioned by the pi-eeeding letter, with a Latin postscript, concluding with an Alcaic fragment - 33 ;40 Ix\DEX. - 36 - 37 XIX. XX. XXIX. 39 40 - 46 - 51 No. Page XV. From Mr. West.— Thanks for liis Ode, &cc.-His idea of Sir Roliert Walpole XVI. To Mr. Wal[)ole— Coigratulatts him on his new place — Whimsical descripticfn of the quadiaL.gle of Peter-House XVII. To Mr. West —On his own leaving the Univer- sity ...... XVai From Mr Wes*. —Sends him a Latin El eg^' in answer to Mr. G ay's Sapphic Ode - To liis Mother.— His voyage from Dover.— De- scription of Calais. — .\blxrville.— Amiens — Face of the country, and di-ess of the people 42 To Mr. West — Mtmuments of the kir.gs of Fiarce at St. Denis, &c,— French ojjera and music, &c —Actors. &c. XXI. To Mr West — Pulace of Versailles.— Its gar- dens and waier-works,- Installation of the Kniglits du S. Espnl XXII. To his Mother —Rheinis.— Its Cathedral.— Dis- position and amusements of its inliabitants XXIII. To his Father.— Face of the country between Rheims and D.jor. -Description of the latter. — Monastery of the Carthusians and CisteJ* ciaus - - - - . XXIV.' To y-Y. West,— Lyons. — Beauty of its environs. — Ron an antiquities - - - - XXV. From Mr. West.— His wishes to accompany his friend.— His retiretl life in Loiidoi..— Ad- dix'ss to his Lyre, in Lai in Sapphics, on the pi-ospect of Mr- Gray's return XXVI. To his Mother.— I. yovs — E.xcursion to the Grande Chartreuse Solemn arid njmantic approach to it — His ritejiticn there and com- mendation of the moni.sler\ XXVII. To his Father.- G.-neva —Advantage of a free government exhibited in the verj look of the people. — Beauty ef the lake, and plenty of its fish - . - . . XXVIII. To his Motlier .—Journey over the Alps to Turin. —Singular accident in passing thtm — Me- tliod of travelling over Mount Cenis To Mr- West —Turin. — Its Carnival,— Moiie of the views and sceniry «»n thi road to the Grande Ch-ntieuse — Wild and savage pios- ptcts amongst the Alps agreeable to Livy's de- scription - - - 55 •59 61 - 64 66 69 72 - 76 INDEX. 241 No. XXX. Page To Mr. West.— Genoa.— Music— The Doge.— Churches and the Palazzo Doiia - - 80 XXXI. To his Mother.- Paintings at Modena.— Bolog- na — Beauty and richness of Lonibardy - 83 XXXII. To his Mother —The Apennines. — Florence and its galleiy - - - - 86 XXXIII. To Mr West. — Journey from Genoa to Flo- rence.— Elegiac verses occasioned by the sight of the plains whei-e the battle of Trebia was fought - - - - - 90 XXXrV. From Mr. West.— Latin Elegy, expressing his wishes to see Italy and Greece - - 91 XXXV. To his Mother.— Death of the pope.— Intended departure for Rome. — First and pleasing appearanceof an Italian spring - - 92 XXXVI. To his Mother.— Cathedral of Sienn«.— yiterbo. —Distant sight of Rome.— The Tiber.— En- trance into the city. — St Peter's — Introduc- tion of the Cardinal d'Auvergne into the conclave - - - - - 94 XXXVII. To his Mother.— Illumination of St. Peter's on Good Friday, &c - - - - 99 XXXVIII. To Mr. West.— Comic account of the palace of the duke of Modena at Tivoli. — The Anio.— Its cascade —Situation of the town.— Villas of Horace and Mascenas, and other remains of antiquity. — Modem aqueducts. A grand Roman ball - - - - - 101 To Mr West.— An Alcaic ode.— Ludicrous al- lusion to ancient customs.— Albano and its lake.— Castel Gondolfo —Prospect from the palace; an obstrvation of Mr. Walpole's on the vifws in that part of Italy. — Latin in- scriptions, ancient and modem - - io§ To his Mother— Road to Naples.— Beautiful situation of that city.— Its bjot being public. — A procession to avert the ill effects of a late inundation— Intention of going to Venice.- An invasion from the Nea- politans appi-ehended. The inhabitants of Tuscany dissatisfied with the government 137 XLVIII. To Mr. Wt-st.— The time of his departure from Florence determined. — Alteration in his temper and spirits.— Difference between an Italian fair and an English one.— A farewell to Florence and its prospects in Latin hexame- ters—Imitation, in the same language, of an Italian sonnet - - - _ 140 XLIX. From Mr. West. — His spirits not as yet im- proved by country air.— Has begim to read Tacitus, but not to relish him - -144 L. To Mr. West —Earnest hopes for his friend's better health, as the warm weather comes on. —Defence of Tacitus and his character.— Of the new Dunciad. — Sends him a speech from the first scene of his Agrippina - 145 LI. From Mr. West.— Criticisms on his friend's tra- gic style.— Latin hexameters on his own cough 148 LII. To Mr. West: — Thanks for his verses. — On Joseph Andrews.— Defence of old words in tragedy - - - - - 150 LIII. From M^^ West.— Answer to the former, on the subject of antiquated expressions - 155 LIV To Mr. West.— Has laid aside his ti-agedy.— Difficulty of translating Tacitus - - 158 LV, From Mr. West.— With an English ode ou the approach of May - - - - iflO INDEX. 243 JVo. Page LVI. To Mr. West— Criticises his ode.— Of his owli classical studies - - - - 162 LVII- From Mr. West.— Answer to the foregoing - 164 LVIII. To Mr West. — Of his own peculiar species of melancholy. — Inscription for a wood in Greek hexametei's.-Arguinent and exordium of a Latin heroic epistle from Sophonisba to Massinissa ----- 155 LIX. To Dr. Wharton, on taking his degree of Ba- chelor of Civil Law - . - 159 LX. To Dr. Wharton. — Ridicule on university laziness. — Of Dr. Akenside's Poem on the pleasures of Imagination - - 171 LXI, To Mr. Walpole.— Ludicrous description of the Scottish army s approach to the capital. —Animadversions on Pope - - 174 LXII. To Dr. Wharton.— His amusements in to^vn.— Reflections on riches.— Character of Aristotle 176 LXIII. To Mr. Walpole.— Observations on his tragedy of Agrippiiia.— Admirable picture of true philosophy ... LXrV. To Mr. Walpole.— Ridicule on Gibber's Ob- servations on Cicero. — On the modern Platonic dialogue. — Account of his own and Mr. West's poetical compositions LXV. To Mr. Walpole — Criticisms ou Mr. Speuce's Polymetis - . - LXVL To Ml'. Walpole.— Ludicrous compliment of condolence on the death of his favourite cat, enclosing an ode on that subject LXVII. To Dr. Wharton.— Loss by fire of a house m Comhill.— On Diodorus Siculus. — M Gres- set s Poems.-Thomson's Castle of Indolence. —Ode to a Water Nymph, with a character of its author LXVIII. To Dr. Wharton.— More on M. Gresset.— Ac- count of his own projected poem on the al- liance between governnient and education 195 LXIX. To Dr Whaiton. — Character of M. de Mon- tesquieu's L'Esprit des Loix . , jjy LXX. To Dr. Wharton .-Account of books continued. — Crebillon's Catalina.-Birch's State Papers. —Of his own studies, and a table of Gi-eek chronolog)-, which he was then forming . jgg LXXI. To Dr. Wharton.— Ludicrous account of the Duke of Newcastle's installation at Cam- bridge—On the ode then performed, and more concerning the auUiw w it - -201 - 180 - 183 - 187 191 - 192 244 INDEX. No. Page LXXII. To his Mother.— Consolatory on the death of her sister - - - - - 05 LXXIII. To Mt. Walpole.— Encloses his Elegy in a Country Church-yard ... 205 LXXIV. To Dr Wharton.— Wishes te be able to pay him a visit at Durham.— On Dr. Middleton's death.— Some account of the first volumes of Burfbn's Histoire Naturelle - - - 286 LXXV. ToDr Wharton.-On theill reception which his Long Story met with in town when handed about in manuscript, and how much his Elegy in a Country Church-yard was applauded 209 LXXVI. To Mr. Walpole,— Desires him to give his Ele- gy to Mr. Dodsley to be printed immediately, in order to prevent its publication in a ma- gazine ----- 210 I.XXVIL To Mr. Walpole ^A letter of thanks for Mr. Walpole's care of liis literary productions - 212 LXXVIII. To Mr. Walpole.— Desires his opinion of the Elfrida of Mr Mason.— Proposes some alte- rations in his Elegy - - - - 214 LXXIX. To Mr. Walpole,— Remarks on the Elegy of Mr Lyttelton, and likewise on some of his own productions - - - . 216 LXXX. To Mr. Walpole — Humorous inquiry into the state of .r. Walpole's forthcoming publica- tions, &c. ----- 218 LXXXI. To Mr. Walpole —With his Hymn to Adver- sity.— Remarks on Dr. C. Middleton's Essay on Miracles ----- 220 LXXXII. To Mr. Walpole.— With a promise of shortly sending his Pindaric Ode - - - 24'3 LXXXIII. To Mr Walpole.— Remarks on Dodsley's Col- lectioii of Poems, and on several literary characters of the time, together with an ex- tract from a poem - - - - 225 LXXXIV. To Dr. Wharton.— Of Madame Maintenon's character and letters.— His high opinion of M. Racine.— Of bishop Hall's Satires, and of a few of Plato's Dialogues - - - 232 LXXXV. To Mr. Walpole.— Concerning the intention of publishing Mr. Bentley's designs for his po- ems.— Refuses to have his own portrait pre- fixed to that work - . - - 234 LXXXVIi ToMr. Mason.— On the death of his father -236 EKD OF vol. I. THE LETTERS OF CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRAi«GED S FROM THE WALPOLE AND MASON COLLECTIONS. VOL. II. TWDCCCXX. LETTERS THOMAS GRAY. LXXXVII. TO DR. WHARTON. Stoke, Sept. 18, 1754. I AM glad you enter into the spirit of StraW- berry-Castle; it has a purity and propriety of Gothicism in it (with very few excep- tion-) that I have not seen elsewhere. My lord Radnor's vagiaries I see did not keep you from doing justice to his situation, which far surpasses every thino; near it; and 1 do pot know a more laughing scene than that about Twickenham and Richmond. Dr. Akenside, I perceive, is no conjurer in architecture, especially when he talks of the ruins of Persepolis, which are no more 4 GRAY S LETTERS. Gothic than they are Chinese. The Egyp- tian style (see Dr. Pococke, not his dis- courses, but his prints) was apparently the mother of the Greek; and there is such a siraihtude between the Egyptian and those Persian ruins, as gave Diodorus room to affirm, that the old buildings of Persia were certainly performed by Egyptian artists. As to the other part of your friend's opinion, that the Gothic manner is the Saracen or Moorish, hd has a great authority to sup- port him, that of sir Christopher Wren; and yet I cannot help thinking it undoubtedly wrong. The palaces in Spain I never saw but in description, which gives us little or no idea of things; but the doge's palace at Venice I have seen, Vvhich is in the Ara- besque manner: and the houses of Barbary 3^ou may see in Dr. Shaw's book, not to mention abundance of other eastern build- ings in Turkey, Persia, &c. that we have views of; and they seem plainly to be cor- ruptions of the Greek architecture, broke into little parts indeed, and covered with lit- tle ornaments, but in a taste very distin- guishable from that which we call Gothic. There is one thing that runs throi;gh the Moorish buildings, that an imitator would certainly have been first struck with, and GRAY 3 LETTERS. 5 would Imve tried to copy; and that is the cupolas which cover every thing, baths, apartments, and even kitchens; yet who ever saw a Gothic cupohi? It is a thing plaini}' of Greek original. I do not see any thing but the slender spires that serve for steeples, which may perhaps be borrow- ed from the Saracen minarets on their mosques. I take it ill you should say any thing against the Mole, it is a reiiectit)n I see cast at the Thames. Do you think that rivers, which have lived in London and its neigh- bourhood all their days, will run roaring and tumbhng about like your tramontane tor- rents in the north? No, they only glide and whisper. LXXXVIII. TO DR. WHARTON. Cambridge, March 9, 1755. I DO not pretend to humble any one's pride; I love my own too well to attempt it. As to mortifying their vanity, it is too easy and too mean a task for me to delight in, You are very good in showing so much sensibi- 6 gray's letters. Irty on my account; but be assured my taste for praise is not like that of children for fruit; if there were nothing but medlars and blackberries in the world, I could be very well content to go without any at all. I dare say that xMasnn, though some years younger than I, was as little elevated with the approbation of lord * * and lord * *, as I am mortitied by their silence. With regard to publishing, 1 am not so much against the thing itself, as of publish- ing this ode alone.* I have two or three ideas more in my head; what is to come of them? Mu?t they too come out in the shape of little sixpenny flams, dropping one after another till Mr. Dodslev thinks fit to collect them with Mr. This's Song, and Mr. 'I'oth- er's epigram into a pretty volume? I am sure Mason must be sensible of this, and therefore cannot mean what be says; neither am I quite of your opinion with regard to strophe and antistrophe;! setting aside the * His Ode on the Progress of Poftry. + He often mad- the same remark to me in conversation, which leA vne to form the last ode of Caiactucus in short r si3 ;zu>: hut we must not imagine that he thought tiie regular Pi rii;/ic ■• i-tiiod without its use; though as be iiistly says, when tbrnttir, long stanzas, it d(<-s ..ot fully succeed in uoj^it of effect on the eav : for J here was nothings which he more disliked than that chain of irre- oray's letters. 7 difficnlty of execution, niethiriks it has little or no etfect on the ear, which scarce per- ceives the regular return of metres at so great a distance from one another: to make it succeed, I am persuaded the stanzas njust not consist of above nine lines earii at the most. — Pindar has several such odes. LXXXIX. TO MR. STONHEW^ER.'^ August 21, 1755. I THANK you for your intellic^enoe .«I>uut Herculaneum, which was the hist neus I received of it. I have smce turned over gular stauaas which Cowley introduced, and falstly calk-d Pin- dainc ; and which, from the extreme facility of execiitici;, pro- duced a number of iniserabL' imitaiors Had the ivgulai return of strope,antistrophe and epode no other merit thar that oi extreme difficulty, it o igMt on this very account, to be valued ; kcause we well tinow thiit "' easy writing is i.o easy reading.'' It is also to be remarked, that Mr Congreve, who (though witJiout any luical powers) iirst introduced the regular Pindaric form into th. E-.igiish lajig'iagc, made use of the short stanzas which Mr Gray here recommends See his ode to the queen. * Aftti-warfs aud tor of excise. His friendship with ]Nfr. Gray wmunenced at college, and continued till the death of the latter. 8 GRAY S LETTERS, monsignor Baiardi's book,* where I have learned how many grains of modern wheat the Roman congius. in the capitol, holds, and how many thousandth parts of an inch the Greek foot consisted of more. (or less, for I forgot which) than our own. He proves also by many affecting examples, that an antiquary may be mistaken: that, for any thing any body knows, this place under ground might be some other place, and not Hefcuhiaeum; but nevertheless, that he can show for certain, that it was this place and no other place; that it is hard to say which of the several Hercules's was the founder; therefore (in the third volume) he promises to give us thp memoirs of them all; and after that, if we do not know what to think of the matter, he will tell us. There is a great deal of wit too, and satire, and verses, in the book, which is intended chiefly for the information of the French king, who will be greatly edilied without doubt. * I believe the book here ridiculed was published by the authority of the king of Naples But afterwards, oh finding- how ill qualified the autlior was to execute the task, the business of describing the antiquities foimd at Heiculaneum was put into other lianas ; who have certainlj', as far as they have ^one, pev« formed it much better. GRAY S LETTERS. 9 I am much obliged to you also for Vol- taire's performance; it is very unequal, as he is apt to be in all but his dramas, and looks like the work of a man that will admire his retreat and his Leman-Lake no longer than till he finds an opportunity to leave it:* however, though there be many parts which I do not like, yet it is in several places ex- cellent, and every where above mediocrity. As you have the politeness to pretend impa- tience, and desire I would communicate, and all that, I annex a piece of the prophecy;! which must be true at least, as it was wrote so many hundred years after the events. XC. TO DR. WHARTON. Pembroke-Hall, INIarch 25, 1756. Though I had no reasonable excuse for my- self before I received your last letter, yet <\nce that time 1 have had a pretty good one; having been taken up in quarrelling with * I do not recollect the title of this poem, but it was a small one which M. de Voltaire wrote when he first settled at Femey. t The second antistrophe and epode, with a few lines of the tl^inl strophe of his ode, entitled the Bard, were here inserted. 10 gray's letters. Peter-house,* and in removing myself from thence to Pembroke. This may be looked upon as a sort of aira in a life so barren of events as mine; yet 1 shall treat it in Vol- taire's manner, and only tell you that 1 left my lodiiings because the rooms were noisy, and the people of the house uncivil. This is all I would choose to have said about it; but if you in private should be curious enough to enter into a particular detail of facts and minute circu^mstances, the bearer, who was witness to them, will probably satisfy you. All I shall say more is. that I am for the present extremely well lodged here, and as quiet as in the Grande Char- treuse; and that every body (even Dr Long himself) are as civil as they could be to Maryt of Valens in person. • The reason of Mr. Gray's changing his college which is here only glasiced at, was iis few words this : two or thne youiig men of fortire, v. ho li»M! r th( same staircast, had > or dm time intentionally disturlied him with the^r rots and earned tluir ill bf'havioKr so far as htqncDtly to awaken liirn at niidiight After having borne »vith thf:r nstilts longtr tba- rtiijiht ressonahlj have been ex|»fccted even front a ntan of less wamitb of temptr, Mr. Gra complained f^' thf jiovtr.ing c>art of the society; and not thinking that his remoustrance was sufficiently attei'xied to, quitted tht coll -ge. The slight manner in which he nientior>6 ihi.s altair, whw. writing to one of his most intimate friendsi certainly does honour to the placabilitj' of his disposit-on t Foundress of th« College. GRAY*S LETTERS. 11 With rea:arH to any advice I can give you about your beins; physician to the hospital, I frankly own it ought to give way to a much better judge, especially so disinterest- ed a one as Dr. Heberden. I love refusals no more than you do. But as to your fears of ^^ifluvia, I maintain that one sick rich patient has more of pestilence and putrefac- tion about him than a whole ward of sick poor. The similitude between the Italian re- publics and those of ancient Greece has often struck me, as it does you. I do not wonder that Sully's Memoirs 'have hi-rhly entertained you; but cannot agree with you in tiiinking him or his master two of the best men in the world. The king was indeed one of the best-nntured men that ever lived; but it is owing only to chance that bis in- tended marriage with madame d'Estrees, or with the marquis de Vernenil, did not in- volve him and the kingdom in the most in- extricable confision; and his design upon the princess of Conde (in his old age) was worse still. As to the minister, liis base ay>plication to Concini, after the murder of Henry, has quite ruined him in mv esteem, and destroyed all the merit of that honest surly pride for which 1 honoured him be- i-i GRAY S LETTERS. fore; yet I own that, as kings and ministers go, they were both extraordinary men. Pray look at the end of Birch's state papers of sir J. Edmonds, for the character of the French court at that time; it is written by sir George Carew. You should have received Mason's pre- sent* last Saturday. I desire you to tell me your critical opinion of the new odes, and also whether you have found out two lines which he has inserted in his third to a friend, which are superlative.! We ao not expect the world, which is just going to be invaded, will bestow much attention on them; if you hear any thing, you will tell us. * The four odes which I had just published separately. ■f I should leare the reader to guess (if he thought it worth Ins Trhile) what this couplet was, which is here comuiended so much beyond its merit, did not the ode conclude with a compliment to Mr Gray, in which part he might probably look for it, as those lines were written with the greater care. To secure, therefore, my friend from any imputation of vanity, whatever becomes ol myself, I shall here insert the passage. While through the west, where sinks the crimson day. Meek twilight slowly sails, and waves her banners grey. oray's letters. 13 XCI. TO DR. WHARTON. June^ 14, 1756* Though I allow abundance for your kind- aess and partiality to me, I am yet much pleased with the good opinion you seem to Lave of the Bard: I have not, however, done a word more than the little you have seen, having been in a very listless, unplea- sant, and inutile state of mind for this long time, for which I shall beg you to prescribe me somewhat strengthening and agglutinant, lest it turn to a conlirmed phthisis. I recommend two little French books to you, one called Memoirs de M. de la Porte; it has all the air of simplicity and truth, and contains some few very extraordinary facts relating to Anne of Austria and cardinal Ma- zarine. The other is in two small volumes, " Memoires de Madame Staal." The facts are no great matter, but the manner and vivacity make them interesting. She was a sort of confidante to the late duchess of Maine, and imprisoned a long time on her account during the regency. 14 gray's letters. I ought before now to have thanked you for your kinil ofler, vviiich I nif an soon to accept, for a reason which to be sure can be none to you and Mrs. Wharton; and there- fore 1 think it my duty to give you notice of it. I have told you already of my mental ailments; and it is a very possible thing also that I may be bodily ill again in town, which I would not choose to be in a dirty incon\ e- nient lodging, where, perhaps, my nurse might stitie me with a pillow; and therefore it is no wonder if I prefer your house: but I tell you of this in time, that if either of you are frightened at the thoughts of a sick body, you may make a handsome ex- cuse, and save yourselves this trouble. You are not however to iu.agine that my illness is in esse; no, it is only m posse; otherwise I should be scrupulous of bringing it home to you. I think I shall be with you in about a fortnight. XCII. TO MR. MASON. Stoke, July 25, 1756. 1 FEEL a contrition for my long silenc , and yet perhaps it is the last thing you trouble gray's letters. 15 your head about. Nevertheless, I will be as sorry as if you took it ill. I am sorry too to see you so punctilious as to stand upon answers, and never to come near me till I have regularly left my name at your door, like a mercer's wife, that imitates peoj>le who go a visiting. I would forgive you this, if you could possibly suspect 1 were doing any thing that I liked better; for then your formality might look like being piqued at my negligence, which has somewhat in it like kindness: but you know 1 am at Stoke, hearing, seeing, doing absolutely nothing. Not such a nothing as you do at Tunbridge, chequered and diversified with a succession of fleeting colours; but heavy, lifeless, with- out form and void; sometimes almost as black as the moral of Voltaire's Lisbon,* which angers you so. I have had no more muscular inflations, and am only troubled with this depression of mind You would not expect therefore I should give you any account of my vcrve^ which is at best (you know) of so delicate a constitution, and has such weak nerves, as not to stir out of its chamber above three days in a year. But I shall inquire after yours, and why it is off * His poem " Bur la Destruction de Lisbon," published about that time. 16 gray's letters. again ? It has certainly worse nerves than mine, if your reviewers have frighted it. Sure I (not to mention a score of your other critics) am something a better judge than all the man mid wives and Presbyterian parsons* that ever were born. Pray give me leave to ask yon, do you find yourself tickled with the commendations of such people ? (for you have your share of these too) I dare say not; your vanity has certainly a better taste. And can then the censure of such critics move you ? I own it is an impertinence in these gentry to talk of one at all either in good or in bad; but this we must all swal- low: I mean not only we that write, but all the rve\'i that ever did any thing to be talked of. While I am writing I receive yours, and rejoice to find that the genial influences of this fine season, which produce nothing in me, have hatched high and unimaginable fan- tasies in you.t I see, methinks, as l sit on Snowdon, some glimpse of Mona and her haunted shades, and hope we shall be very good neighbours. Any Druidical anecdotes * Tlie Reviewers, at tbe timp, were supposed to be of Uiese pro- fessions. 1 1 had sent him my first idea of Caractacus, drawu out in a short argument. gray's letters. 17 that I can meet with, I will be sure to send you wiien I return to Cambridge; but I can- not pretend "to be learned without books, or toktjow the Druids fi om modern bishops at this distance. I can only tell you not to go and take Mona for tiie Isle of Man: it is Anglesey, a tract of plain country, very fer- tile, but picturesque only from the view it has of Caernarvonshire, from which it is separated by the Menai, a narrow arm of ihe sea. Forgive me for supposing in you such a want of erudition. I congratulate you on our glorious suc- cesses in the Mediterranean. Shall we go in time, and hire a house together in Swit- zerland? It is a fine poetical country to look at, and nobody there will understand a word we say or write. XCIII. TO MR. MASON. Cambridge, May, 1757. You are so forgetful of me that I should not forgive it, but that I suppose Caractacus may be the better for it. Yet I hear nothing from him neither, in spite of his promises: roL. IV. 38 18 gray's letters. there is no faith in man, no not in a Welsh- man; and yet Mr. Parry* has been here, and scratched out such ravishing bhnd har- mony, such tunes of a thousand years old, with names enough to choak you, as have bet all this learned body a dancing, and in- spired them with due reverence for my old Bard his countryman, when he shall appear. Mr. Parry, you must know, has put my ode in motion again, and has brought it at last to a conclusion. 'Tis to him, therefore, that you owe the treat which I send you en- closed ; namely, the breast and merry- thought, and rump too of the chicken which 1 have been chewing so long, that I would give the world for neck-beef or cow-heel. You will observe, in the beginning of this thing, some alterations of a few words, partly for improvement, and partly to avoid repeti- tions of like words and rhymes; yet I have not got rid of them all; the six last lines of the fifth stanza are new ; tell me whether they will do. I am well aware of many weakly things towards the conclusion, but I hope the end itself will do; give me your full and true opinion, and that not upon de- * A capital performer on the Welsh harp, and who was cither bom blind, or bad been se froia his infeoej. gray's letters. 19 liberation, but forthwith. Mr. Hurd himself aUows that Lyon port is not too bold for queen Elizabeth. I have got the old Scotch ballad on which Douj^las* was founded; it is divine, and as long as from hence to Aston. Have you never seen it? Aristotle's best rules are ob- served in it, in a manner that shows the author had never read Aristotle. It begins in the iifth act of the play: you may read it two thirds through without guessing what it is about; and yet, when you come to the end, it is impossible not to understand the whole story. I send you the two first stanzas. ****** * He had a high opinion of this first drama of Mr, Home. In a letter to another friend, dated August lO, this year, he says, " I am greatly struck with the tragedy of Douglas, though it has infinite faults. The author seenis to me to have retrieved the true lan- guage of the stage, wliich had been lost for these hundred years ; and there is one scene (betvi^een Matilda and the old peasant) so masterly that it strikes me blind to all the defects in the world." The ballad, which he here applauds, is to bt; found in Dr. Percy's Reliques of Ancient Piietry, a work published after the date of tfik letter. 20 XCIV. TO MR. WALPOLE. Stoke, July 11, 175*c 1 WILL not give you the trouble of sending your chaise for me. I intend to be with you on Wednesday in the evening. If the press stands still all this time for me, to be sure it is dead in child-bed. I do not love notes, though you see I had resolved to put two or three.* They are signs of weakness and obscurity. If a thing cannot be underst )od without them, it had better be not understood at all. If you will be vulgar, and pronounce li Limnun, instead of London,! I can't help it. Caradoc I have private reasons against; and besides it is in reality Cara Joe, and will not stand in the verse. I rejoice you can fill all your vuides : the Maintenon could not, and that was her great misfortune. Seriously though, 1 congratu- late you on your happiness, and seem to un- derstand it. The receipt is obvious : it is * To the Bai-d. B. t " Ye towers of Julia, London's lasting shame." B. v. 87. B» grab's letters. 21 only, Have something to do; but how few can apply iti Adieu! xcv. TO MR. WALPOLE. I AM SO charmed with the two specimens of Erse poetry, that I cannot help giving you the trouble to inquire a little farther about them, and should wish to see a few lines of the original, that I may form some slight idea of the language, the measures, and the rhythm. Is there any thing known of the author or authors, and of what antiquity are they sup- posed to be ? Is there any more to be had of equal beauty, or at all approaching to ii ? I have often been told that tlie poem call- ed Hardicnute (which I always admired, and still admire) was the work of somebody that lived a few years ago.* This 1 do not at all • It has been supposed the work of a lady cf tlie came of Wavd- law, who died in Scotland not man> yi ars aat) but upon no better evitte^ce, that I could ever learn, than chat a copy of the poem with some erasures was found anjong h-r papers -after hev death. Jifo proof surely of its original coiuposition, as few but ptrsons ©f 22 gray's letters. believe, thoiip;h it hns evidently been re- touched in places by some modern hand: but. however, I am authorized hy this re- port to ask, whether the two poems in ques- tion are certainly antique and p:enuine. I make this inquiry in quality of an antiquary, and am not otherwise concerned about it: for, if- I were sure that any one now living in Scotland had written them to divert him- self and laugh at the credulity of the world, I would undertake a journey into the High- lands only for the pleasure of seeing him. XCVI. TO MR. WALPOLE. 1 HAVE been very ill this week with a great cold and a fever, and, though now in a way to be well, am like to be contined some days longer: whatever j^ou will send me that is new or old, and /o»r, will he received as a charity Rousseau's people do not inter- est me; there is but one character and one style in them all; I do not know their faces business, which women seldom are, take the precaution of dock- etting. or writing " Copy" upon every thing they may tran- scribe. B. gray's letters. 23 asuntler. I have no esteem for their per- sons or contlnct, am not touched with tiieir passions; and as to their story, 1 do not be- lieve a word of it — not because it is impro- bable, but because it is absurd. If 1 had an_y little propensity, it was to Julie; but now she has gone and (so hand over bend) married that monsieur de Wolmar, 1 take her for a vrair Sui.sscssc, and do not d(;ubt but she had taken a cup too much, like her lover,* All this does not imply that I will not read it out, when you can spare the rest of it. XCVII. TO MR. nURD, Stoke, August 25, 1757. I DO not know why you should thank me for what you had a right and title to;t but • Were not the public already in possession of Mr. Gray's opinion of the Nouvelle Heloise, in his letters published by Mr. Mason— how would such a criticism, from such a critic, astonish all those more happily constituted readers, who, capable of appreciating varied excellence, have perhaps read with equa^ delight the exquisite odes of the one author, and the extraordinary and (with all its faults) inimitable romance of the other- B, t A present of his two Pindaric odes just then puhlishetl. 24 gray's letters. attribute it to the excess of your politeness; and the more so, because almost no one else has made me the same compliment. As your acquaintance in the university (you say) do me the honour to admire^ it would be ungenerous in me not to give them notice, that they are doing a very unfashionable thing; for all people of condition are agreed not to admire, nor even to understand. One very great man, writing to an acquaintance of his and mine, says that he had read thf>m seven or eight times; ar^d that now, when he next sees him, he shall not have above thirty questions to ask. Another (a peer) believes that the last stanza of the second ode relates to kingCharles the first and Oliver Cromwell. Even my friends tell me they do not svcce(d^ and write me moving topics of consolation on that head. In short, I have heard of nobody but an actor and a doctor of divinity that profess their esteem for them.* Oh yes, a lady of quality (a * This was written August 25, 1757. An extract from a letter of Mr Gray to Dr. Whaiton, dated October 7, 1757, mentions •another admirer whom he knew how to value- " Dr. Warburton is come to town, and I am told likes them extremely ; he says the world never passed so j ust an opinion upon any thing as upon them : for that in other things they have affected to like or dislike : .vhf ro«s kcre they own they do not understand, which he looks upon gray's letters. 25 friend of Mason's) who is a great reader. She kne«v there was a compliment to Dry- den, but never suspected there was any- thing said about Shakspeare or Milton, till it was explained to her; and wishes that there had been titles prefixed to tell what they were about. From this mention of Mason's tiame, you may think, perhaps, we are great corres- pondents. No such thing; I have not heard from him these two months. I will be sure to scold in my own name, as well as in yours. I rejoice to hear you are so ripe for the press, and so voluminous; not for my own sake only, whom you flatter with the hopes of seeing your labours both public and pri- vate, but for yours too; for to be employed is to be happy. This principle of mine (and J am convinced of its truth) has, as usual, no influence on my practice. I am alone, and ennuye to the last degree, yet do nothing. Indeed I have one excuse; my health (which t« be very true; but yet thinks they understand them as well as Milton or Shakspeare, whom they are obliged, by fashion, to admire. Mr. Garrick's complimentary verses to me you have seen 5 I am told they were printed in the ChiX)niele of last Saturday. The Ciitical Review ii in raptures ; bxit mistakes the .(Eolian Lyre for the Harp of iEoIus, and on this pleasant etror founds both a compliment and a criticism. This is all I heard that signifies any thing." GRAY S LETTERS. yon have so kindly inquired after) is not ex- tro« rdinary, ever since I came hitheik' It is no great malady, but several little ones, that seem brewing no good to me. It will be a particular pleasure to me to hear whether content dwells in Leicestershire, and how she entertains herself there. Only do not be too happy, nor forget entirely the quiet ugliness of Cambridge. XCVIII. TO MR. MASON. Stoke, Sept. 28, 1757. I HAVE (as I desired Mr. Stonhewer to tell you) read over Caractacus twice, not with pleasure only, but with emotion. You may say what you will; but the contrivance, the manners, the interests, the passions, and the expression, go beyond the dramatic part* of your £Jfrida, * In the raanuseript now before him, Mr. Gray bad only the first «de, the others were not then written ; and although the dramatic part was brought to a conclusion, yet it was afterwards in many places altered. He was mistaken with regard to the opinion the world would have about it. That world, which usually kves to be led ;n such matters, rather than form an opinion to itself was taugh t a different sea^ment ; and one of its leaders went so far as gray's letters. 27 many many leagues. I even say (though you will think me a bad judge of this) that the world will like it better. I am struck with the chorus who are not there merely to sing and dance, but bear throughout a principal pfirtin the action; and have (beside the costume, which is excellent) as much a character of their own, as any other person. I am charmed with their priestly pride and obstinacy, when, after all is lost, they re- solve to confront the Roman general, and spit in hi^i face. But now 1 am going to tell you what touches me most from the bej^inning. The tirst opening is greatly improved: the cuiiosity of Didius is now a very natural reason for dvvelling on each particular of the scene before him; nor is the description at all too long. I am gl^^d to find the two young men are Cartismandua's sons They interest me far more. I love people of ron- dition. They were men before that nobody to declare, that he nerer knew a second work fall so much below a first irora the same hand To oppose Mr. Gray's judgment to hisj I must own givf s me some satisfaction; ai;d to enjoy it, I am willing to risk that imputation of vanity, which may probably fall to my share for having published this letter I must add, howtvar, that some of my friends advised it for the sake of the more generai criticisms which they thought t«o Taluable tQ be suppressed 28 GRAY S LETTERS. knew: one could not make them a bow if one had met them at a public place. I always admired that interruption of the Druids to Evelina, Peace, virgin, peace, &c. and chietly the abstract idea personified (to use the words of a critic) at the end of it. That of Caractacus, Would save my queen^ &.c. and still more that, / know it, reverend fa- thers, His Heaven\s high will, kc. to Fve done, begin the rites ! This latter is exemplary for the expression (always the great point with me); I do not mean by expression the mere choice of words, but the whole dress, fashion, and arrangement of a thought. Here, in particular, it is the brokennes«, the uAgrammatical position, the total subver- sion of the period that charms me. All that ushers in the incantation from Try we yet, what holiness can do, I am delighted with in quite another w.iy; for this is pure poetry, as it ought to be, forming the proper transi- tion, and leading on the mind to that still purer poetr}^ that follows it. In the beginning of the succeeding act, I admire the chorus again. Is it not now the hour, the holy hour, &c. and their evasion of a lie, Say'^st thou, proud boy, &c. and skep with the unsunn''d silver, which is an example ef a dramatic simile. The sudden appear- «ray's letters. 29 ance of Caractacus, the pretended respect and admiration of Vellinus,and the probability of his story, the distrust of the Druids, and their reasoning with Caractacus, and par- ticularly that 'Tis m€(t thou shouldst^ tiiou art a king, &lc. and Mark inc, p,ince, the time will come, when destiny, k,c. are well, and happily imagined. Apropos, of the last stiiking passage 1 have mentioned, I am going to make a digression. When we treat a subject, where the man- ners are almost lost in antiquit}^^, our stock of ideas must needs be sm;dl; atid nothing be- trays our poverty more, than the returning to, and harping frequently on, one image. It was therefore I thought 30U should omit some lines before, though good in them- selves, about the scifthcd car, that the pas- sage now before us might appear with greater lustre when it came; and in this I see you have complied with me. But there are other ideas here and there still, that occur too often, particularly about the oaks, some of which 1 would discard to make way for the rest. But the subjects I speak of to compen- sate (and more than con:»pen3ate) that un- avoidable poverty, have one great advan- tage, when they fail into good hands. They 30 gray's letters. leave an unbounded liberty to pure imagi- nation and liction (our favourite provinces), where no critic can molest, or antiquary gainsay us; and yet (to please me) tiiese tictions must have some affinity, some seem- ing connexion, with that little we really know of the character and customs of the people. For example, I never heard in my days that midnight and the moon were sisters; that th^ y carried rods of ebony and gold, or met to whisper on the top of a mountain: but now 1 could lay my life it is all true; and do not doubt it will be found so in some pantheon of the Druids, •that is to be discovered in the library at Herculaneum. The Car of Destiny and Death, is a very noble invention of the same class, and, as far as that goes, is so fine, that it makes me more delicate, than perhaps I should be, about the close of it. Andraste sailing on the wings of Fame, that snatches the wreaths from oblivion to hang them on her loftiest Amaranth, though a clear and beautiful piece of unknown my- thology, has too Greek an air to give me perfect satisfaction. Now I proceed. The preparation to the chorus, though po much akin to that in the former act, is excellent. The remarks of gray's letters. 31 Evelina and her suspicions of the brothers, mixed with a secret inclination tothejoun- ger of them (though, I think, her part throughout wants re-touching) yet please me much, and the contrivance of the following scene much more. Masters of Wisdo.n. no, &c. I id ways admired; as I do the rocking stone, and the distress of Elidurus Eveli- na's examination of him is a vvell invented scene, and will be, with a little pains, a very touching oiie; but the introduction of Arviragus is superlative. I am not sure whether those few lines of his short narra- tive, Mi/ strength repaired At boots not, that I teit^ &.C. do not please me as much as any thing in the whole drama. The sullen bra- very of Elidurus, the menaces of the cho- rus, that Think not, religion, &c. the trum- pet of the Druids, ihixiVll follow himAhoiigh in my chains, &lc. Hast thou a brother, no, &,c. the placability of the chorus, when they see the motives of Elidurus'- obstinacy, give me great contentment: so do the reflections of the Druid on the necessity of lustration, and the reasons for V^ellinus's easy escape; but I would not have hi n seise on a spear, nor issue hasty through the cavern\s mouth. Why should he not steal away, unasked and vinmissed, till the hurry of passions in those, 32 gray's letters. that should have guarded him, was a little abated? But I chiefly admire the two speeches of Elidurus; Ah, Veilinus., is this then, &c. and Ye do gaze on mc, tuthir.s, &c. the man- ner in which the chorus reply to him is very fine; but the image at the end wants a little mending. The next scene is highly moving! it is so very good, that I must have it made yet belter. Now for the hist act. I do not know what you would have, but to me the design and contrivance of it is at least equal to any part of the whole. The short- lived triumph of the Britons, the address of Caractacus to the Roman victims, Evelina's discovery of the ambush, the mistake of the Roman fires for the rising sun, the death of Arviragus, the interview between Didius and Caracta- cus, his mourning over his dead son, his parting speech (in which you have made all tne use of Tacitus that your plan would ad- mit), every thing, in short, but that little dis- pute between Didius and him; '7'iA well; and thfrefore to incnafic that reverence, &c. down to Give me a moment (which must be omitted, or put in the mouth of the Druids), I ap- prove in the highest degree. If I should find any fliult with the last act, it could only be with trifles and little expressions. If GRAY S LETTERS. you make any alterations, I fear it will never improve it; I mean as to the plan. I send you back the two last sheets, because you bid me. I reserve my nibblings and minutiae for another day. XCIX. to MR. MASON. Cambridge, Dee. 19, 1757. \ LIFE Spent out of the world has its Lours ■ if despondence, its inconveniences, its suf- ferings, as numerous and as real, though not quite of the same sort, as a life spent in the midst of it. The power we have, when we will exert it over our own minds, joined to a little strength and consolation, nay, a little pride we catch from those that seem to love us, is our only support in either of these conditions. I am sensible I cannot return you more of this assistance than 1 have re- ceived from you; and can only toil you, that one who has far more reason than you, I hope, ever will have to look on life with something worse than indifference, is yet no enemy to it; but can look backward on many bitter moments, partly with .satisfi'c- VOL. IF. 19 34 GRAV'S LETTERS. tion, and partly with patience; and forward too, on a scene not very promising, with some hope, and some expectations of a bet- ter day. The cause, however, which oc- casioned your reflection (though I can judge but very imperfectly of it) does not seem, at present, to be weighty enough to make you take any such resolution as you meditate. Use it in its season, as a relief from what is tiresome to you, but not as if it was in con- sequence of any thing you take ill; on the contrary, if such a thing had happened at the time of your transmigration, I would defer it merely to avoid that appearance. As to myself, 1 cannot boast, at present, cither of my spirits, my situation, my em- ployments, or fertility. The days and the nights pass, and I am never the nearer to any thing, but that one to which we are all tending; yet I love people that lenve some traces of their journey behind them, and have strength enough to advise you to do so while you can. I expect to see Caracta- cus completed, and therefore I send yov. the books you wanted. I do n-^t know whether they will furnish you with Huy new matter; but they are well enough written, and easily read. I told you before that (in a time of dearth) I would borrow from the Edda, gray's letters. 35 without entering too minutely on particulars: but, if I did so, I would make each image so clear, that it mi2;ht be fully understood by itself; for in this obscure mythology we must not hint at things, as we do with the Greek fables, that every body is supposed to know at school. However, on second thoughts, I think it would be still better to graft any wild picturesque fable, absolutely of one's own invention, on the Druid-stock; 1 mean on those half dozen of old fancies that are known to be a part of their system. This will give you more freedom and lati- tude, and will leave no hold for the critics to fasten on. I send you back the elegy"^ as you desired me to do. My advices are always at your service to take or refuse, therefore you should not call them severe. You know I do not love, much less pique myself on cri- ticism; and think even a bad verse as good a thing or better than the best observation that ever was made upon it. — I like greatly the spirit and sentiment of it (much of which you perhaps owe to your present train o£ thinking); the disposition of the whole too is natural and elegiac; as to the expression, * Elegy in the garden of a friend. 36 gray's letters. I would venture to say (did not you forbid me) that it is sometimes too easy. The last line 1 protest against (this, you will say, is worse than blotting out rhymes); the descrip- tive part is excellent. Pray, when did 1 pretend to finish, or even insert passages into other people's works, as if it were equally easy to pick holes and to mend them? All I can say is, (hat your elegy must not end with the worst line in it.* It is flat; it is prose: whereas that, above all, ought to sparkle, or at least to shine. If the sentiment must stand, twirl it a little into an apothegm; stick a flower in it; gild it with a costly expression; let it strike the fancy, the ear, or the heart, and I am satisfied. The other particular expressions which I object to, I mark on the manuscript. Novv, I desire you would neither think me severe, nor at all regard what 1 say further than as it coincides with your own judgment, for the child deserves your ])artiality; it is a healthy well-made boy, with an ingenuous countenance, and promises to live long. I * All attempt was accordingly made to improve it; Jiow it stood when this cviticisra upon it was written, I cannot now iv- coHect. GRAY S LETTERS. 3v would only wash its face, dress it a little, make it walk upright and strong, and keep it Iroin learning pa/v words. I hope you couched my refusal* to lord John Cavendish in as respectful terms as possible, and with all due acknowledgment to the duke. If you hear who it is to be given to, pray let nie know; for I interest myself a little in the history of it, and rather wish somebody may accept it that will re- trieve the credit of the thing, if it be re- trievable, or ever had any credit. — Rowe was, I think, the last man of character that had it; Eusden was a person of great ho})es in his youth, though at last he turned out a drunken parson; Dryden was as disgraceful to the office, from his character, as the poor- est scribbler could have been from his verses. C. TO DR. WHARTOIV. February 21, 1758. Would you know what 1 am doing? I doubt * of bein? poet laureate on the death of Cibber, which place the late duke of Devonshire (then loitl chamberlain) desired his brother to ofFer to Mr. Gray : aiid his lordship had commissioned me Cthen in town) to write to him concerning it. 38 gray's letters. yon have been told already, and hold my employments cheap enough; but every one must judge of his own capability, and cut his amusements according to his disposition. The drift of my present studies is to know, wherever I am, what lies within reach that may be worth seeing, whether it be build- ing, ruin, park, garden, prospect, picture, or monument; to whom it does or has be- longed, and what has been the characteristic and taste of different ages. You will say this is the object of all antiquaries; but pray what antiquary ever saw these objects in the same light, or desired to know them for a like reason? In short, say what you please, I am persuaded whenever my list* is finish- ed you will approve it, Rnd think it of no small use. My spirits are very near the freezing point; and for some hours of the day this exercise, by its warmth and gentle motion, serves to raise them a few degrees higher. I hope the misfortune that has befallen Mrs. Gibber's canary bird will not be the ruin of Agis: it is probable you will have curiosity enough to see it, as it is by the author of Douglas. * He wrote it, undef its seTeral diyisions, on the blank pages of a pocket atlas. gray's letters. 39 CI. TO DR. WHARTON. Cambridge, Marck 8, 175S. It is indeed ibr want of spirits, as you sus- pect, that my studies lie aoiong the cathe- drals, and the tombs, and the ruins. To think, though to little purpose, has been the chief amusement of my days; and when 1 would not, or cannot think, I dream. At present I feel myself able to write a catalogue, or to read the peerage book, or Miller's garden- ing dictionary and am thankful that there are such employments and such authors in tlie world. Some people, who hold me cheap for this, are doing perhaps what is not half so well worth while. As to posterity, I may ask, (with somebody whom I have forgot) what has it ever done to oblige nie ? To make a transition from myself to as poor a subject, the tragedy of Agis; 1 cry to think that it should be by the author of Douglas: why, it is all modern Greek; the story is an antique statue painted white and red, frizzed, and dressed in a negligee made by a Yorkshire mantua-maker. Then here is the miscellany (Mr. Dodsley has sent me 40 GRAY S LETTERS. the vvhole set gilt and lettered, I thank him). Why, the two last volumes are worse than the tour iirst; particularly Dr. Akenside is in a uoplorahle way.* What signifies learn- ing and the ancients?, (Mtison will say trium- phantly) why should people read Greek to lose their imagination, their ear, and their mother tongue ? But then there is Mr. Shenstooe, who trusts to nature and simple sentiment, why does he do no hetter? he goes hopping along his own gravel-walks, and never deviates from the beaten paths for fear of being lost. I have read Dr. Swift, and am disappoint- ed.! There is nothing of the negociations that I have not seen better in M. de Torcy * I hare been told that this writer, unquestionatly a man of great learning and genius, entertained, some years liefore his death, a no- tion tliat Poetrif was only true eloquence in metre; ar.d, according to this idea, wrote his ode to the country gentlemen of Ei;gl:\nd, and afterwards made considerable alterations in that collection of odes which he had published in the earlier part of his life. We have seen in the letter LX,, that Mt. Gray thought highly of his descriptive talents at that time. We are not therefore to impute what he here says to any prejudice in the critic, but to that change of taste in the poet, which (if the above arecdete lie true) would unavoidably flatten his descriptions, and divest them of all pic- turesque imagery ; nay, would sometimes convert bis verse into mere prose ; or, what is still worse, hard inflated prose. t His history of the four last years of queen Anne. gray's letters. 41 before. The manner is careless, and has little to distinguish it from common writers. I meet with nothing to please me but the spiteful characters of the opposite party and its leaders. I expected much more secret history. CII. TO MR. STONHEWER. Cambridge, August 18, 1758. 1 AM as sorry as you seem to be, that our ac quaintance harped so much on the subject of materiahsm, when I saw him with you in town, because it was plain to which side of the long-debated question he inclined. That we are indeed mechanical and dependent beings, I need no other procf than my own feelings; and from the same feelings I learn, with equal conviction, that we are not merely such: that there is a power within that strug- gles against the force and bias of that me- chanism, commands its motion, and, by fre- quent practice, reduces it to that ready obe- dience, which we call habit ; and all this in conformity to a preconceived opinion (no matter whether right or wrong) to that least 42 material of all agents, a thonght. I have known many in his case who, while they thoiiixht thej were conquering an old pre- judice, did not perceive thej' were under the influence of or-e far more dangerous; one that furnishes us with a ready apology for all our worst actions, and opens to us a full licence for doing whatever we please; and yet these very people were not at all the more indulgent to other men (as they na- turally should have been); their indignation to such as offended them, their desire of re- venge on any body that hurt them was nothing mitigated : in short, the truth is, they wished to he persuaded of that opinion for the sake of its convenience, but were not so in their heart; and they would have been glad (as they ought in common prudence) that nobody else should think the same, for fear of the mischief that might ensue to themselves. His French author I never saw, but have read fifty in the same strain, and shall read no more. I can be wretched enough without them. They put me in mind of the Greek sophist that got immortal hon- our by discoursing so feelingly on the mise- ries of our condition, that fifty of his audience went home and hanged themselves ; yet he lived himself (I suppose) many years after in very good plight. gray's letters. 43 You say you cannot conceive how lord ShnflesbuP}' came to be a philosopher in vo;^iie; I will tell you: tirst, he was a lord; 2{11y, he wis as vain as any of his readers; 3(]iy men are very prone to believe what they do not understand; 4thly, they will be- lieve any thing at all, provided they are un- der no obligation to believe it; 5thly, they love to tike a new road, even when that road leads no where; 6thly, he was reckon- ed a fine writer, and seemed always to m^aa more than he said. Would you have any more reasons? An interv;d of above forty years has pretty well destroyed the charm. A ilead lord ranks but with commoners : variity is no longer interested in the matter, for the new road is become an old one. The mode of free-tliinking is like that of ruffs and farthingale?, and has given place to the mode of not thinking at all; once it was reckoned graceful, half to discover and half conceal the mind, but now we have been long accustomed to see it quite naked: prim- ness and affectation of style, like the good breeding of queen Anne'« rv)i rt, has turned to hoydeninj; and rude familiarity. 44 gray's letters. STRICTURES ON THE WRITINGS OF LORD BOLINGBROKE. "I will allow lord Bolingbroke, that the moral, as well as physical, attributes of God must be known to us only a posteriori, and that this is the ordy real knowledge we can have either of the one or the other; I will allow too, that perhaps it may be an idle dis- tinction which we make between them: his Hior.il attributes being as much in his nature and essence as those we call his physical; but the occasion of our making some distinc- tion is plainly this : his eternity, infinity, omniscience, and almighty power, are not what coimect him, if 1 may so speak, with us his creatures We adore him, not be- cause he always did., in every place, and al- ways will, exist; but because he gave and still preserves to us our own existence by an exertion of his goodness. We adore him, not because he knows and can do all things, but because he made us capable of knowing and of doing what may conduct us to happi' ness: it is therefore his benevolence which we adore, not his greatness or power; and if we are made only to bear our part in a system, without any regard to our own par- gray's letters. 4o ticular happiness, we can no longer worship him as our all-bounteous parent: there is no meaning in the term. The idea of his male violence (an impiety I tremble to write) must succeed. We have nothing left but our fears, and those too, vain; for whither can they lead but to despair and the sad desire of annihilation? "If then, justice and good- ness be not the same in God as in our ide.is, we mean nothing when we say that God is necessai'ily just and good; and for the same reason, it may as well be said that we know not what we mean when, according to Dr. Clarke, (Evid. 26th) we affirm that he is necessarily a vvise and intelligent Being." What then can lord Bolingbroke mean, when he says every thing shows the wisdom of God ; and yet adds, every thing does not show in like manner the goodness of God conformably to our ideas of this attribute in either ? — By wisdom he must only mean, that God knows and employs the fittest means to a certain end, no matter what that end may be: this indeed is a proof of know- ledge and intelligence; but these alone do not constitute wisdom; the word implies the application of these fittest means to the best and kindest end; or who will call it true wisdom? Even amongst ourselves, it is not 46 gray's letters. held as such. All the attributes, then, that he seems to think apparent in the constitution of things, are his unity, infinity, eternity, avMi intelligence; from no one of which, 1 boldly atiirrn, can result any duty of gratitude or adoration incumbent on mankind, more than if He and all things round him were produced, as some have dared to think, by the necessary working of eternal matter in an intinite vacuum; for what does it avail to add intelligence to those other physical at- tributes, unless that intelligence be directed, not only to the good of the whole, but also to the good of every individual of which that whole is composed. It is therefore no impiety, but the direct contrary, to say that human justice, and the other virtues, which are indeed only various applications of human benevolence, boar some resemblance to the moral attributes of the supreme Being: it is only by means of that resemblance, we conceive them in him, or their effects in his works: it is by the same means only, that we comprehend those physical attributes which his lordship allows to be demonstrable: how can we form any notion of his unity, hut from that unity of which we ourselves are conscious ? How of his existence, but from our own conscious- GRAY S LETTERS. 47 uess of existing ? How of his power, but of that power wnich we experience in our- selves ? yet neither lord Boiingbroke nor any other man, that thought on these sub- jects, ever believed that these our ideaa were real and full representations of these attributes in the divinity. They say, He knows; they do not mean that he compares ideas which he acquired from sensation, and draws conclusioas from them. They say, He acts; they do not mean by impulse, nor as the soul acts on an organized body. They say, He is omnipotent and eternal; yet on what are their ideas founded, but on our own narrow conceptions of space and dura- tion, prolonged beyond the bounds of place and time ? Either therefore there is a re- semblance and analogy (however imperfect and distant) between the attributes of the divinity and our conceptions of them, or we cannot have any conceptions of them at all. He allows we ought to reason from earth, that we do know, to heaven, which we da not know: how can we do so, but by that affinity, which appears between one and the other ? In vain then does my lord attempt to ridi- cule the warm but melancholy imagination of Mr. Wollaston, in that tine sohloquy: '*Must 48 gray's letters. 1 then bid my last farevvel] to these walks when 1 close these lids, and yonder blue re- gions, and all tliis scene (!aiken upon me and go out ? Must 1 then only serve to furnish dust to be mingled with the ash.es of these herds and ph-uits, or with this dirt under my feet ? Have 1 been set so f«r above them in life, only to be levelled with them in death ?"''^ No thinkmg head, no heart, that has the least sensibility, but must have made the same reflection; or at least must feel, not the beauty alone, but the truth of it, when he hoars it from the mouth of another. Non' vv'hat reply will lord Boliugbroke make to these questions which are put to him, not only by Wollaston, but by all mankind ? He will {<-ll you, that we, that is, the animals, \ eg- etables, siones, and other clcds of earth ^ are all connected in one immense design, that we are all drariiatis personas, in different characters, and that we were not made for ourselves, but for the action: that it is foolish, pre- simrptuous, impious, and profane to murmur against the Almighty Anther of this dran}a, when we feel ourselves una.voidably unhap- py. On the contrary, we ought io rest our head on the soft pillow of resignation, on the * Religion of Nature delineated, sect. ix. p. 209, quarto. gray's letters. 49 iiiiinoveable rock of trnnquillity; secure, that if our pturis and afflictioiis grow violent in- deed, an immediate end will be put to our miserable being, and we slia'.i be mingled with the dirt under our feet, a thing com- mon to all the animal kind; and -of which he who complains does not seem to have been set by his reason so far above them in life, as to deserve not to be mingled with them in death. Such is the consolation his philo- sophy gives us, and such the hope on which his tranquillity was founded."^ cm. TO DR. WHARTON. Sunday, April 9, 1758. I AM equally sensible of your affliction,! and of your kindness, that made you think of me at such a moment; would to God 1 could lessen the one, or requite the other with • The reader, who would choose to see the argument, as lord Bolir.glnoke puts it, will find it in the 4th volume of his philoso- phical works, sect x. 4\ His rlc'icule on Wollastoii is in the aOth seciion of the same volume. + Occasioned by the death of his eldest (and at the time his only) son. VOL. IV. 20 5G gray's letters. that consolation which I have often received from you when I most wanted it ! but your grief is too just, and the cause of it too fresh, to admit of any such endeavour. What, in- deed, is all human consolation ? Can it efface every little amiable word or action of an ob- ject we loved, from our memory ? Can it convince us, that all the hopes we had en- tertained, the plans of future satisiiiction we had formed, were ill-grounded and vain, only because we have lost them ? The only comfort (I am afraid) that belongs to our condition, is to reflect (when time has given us leisure for reflection) that others have suffered worse; or that we ourselves might have suffered the same misfortune, at times and in circumstances that would probably have aggravated our sorrow. You might have seen this poor child arrived at an age to fuliil all your hopes, to attach you more strongly to him by long habit, by esteem, as well as natural affection, and that towards the decline of your life, when we most stand in need of support, and when he might chance to have been your onfy support; and then by some unforeseen and deplorable ac- cident, or some painful lingering distemper, you might have lost him. Such has been he fate of many an unhappy father ! I know gray's letters. 51 there is a sort of tenderness which infancy and innocence alone produce; but I think you must own the other to be a stronger and a more overwhelming sorrow. Let me then beseech you to try, by everj method of avo- cation and amusement, whether yon cannot, by degrees, get the better of that dejection of spirits, which inclines you to see every thing in the worst light possible, and throws a sort of voluntary gloom, not only over your present, but future days; as if evea your situation now were not preferable to that of thousands round you; and as if your prospect hereafter might not open as much of happiness to you as to any person you know: the condition of our life per- petually instructs us to be rather slow to hope, as well as to despair; and (I know you will forgive me, if I tell you) you are often a little too hasty in both, perhaps from con- stitution: it is sure we have great power over our own minds, when we choose to exert it; and though it be difficult to resist the me- chanic impulse and bias of our own temper, it is yet possible, and still m.ore so to delay those resolutions it inclines us to take, which we almost always have cause to repent. You tell me nothing of Mrs. Wharton's or your own state of health; I will not talk to 52 gray's letters. you more upon this subject till I hear you are both well; for that is the grand point, and without it we may as well not think at all. You flatter me in thinking that any thing I can do* could at all alleviate the just concern your loss has given you; but 1 can- not flatter myself so iar, and know how little qualified lam at present to give any satisfac- tion to myself on this head, and in this way, much less to you. I by no means pretend to inspiration; but yet 1 aflirm, that the fa- culty in question is by no means voluntary; it is the result (I suppose) of a certain dis- position of mind, which does not depend on one's self, and which I have not felt this long time. You that are a witness how sel- dom this spirit has moved me in my life, may easily give credit to what I say. CIV. TO MR. PALGRAVE.t Stdce, Sept. 6, 1758. 1 DO not know how to make you amends, * His fiiaid had requested him to write an epitaph on the child, t Rector of Palgrave and Thrandtston in Suffolk. He was mak" ing a tour in Scotland when this letter was wvitten to hini. eRAY's LETTERS. 63 having neither rock, ruin, nor precipice near me to send you: they do not grow in the south: but only say the word, if you would have a compact neat box of red brick with sash windows, or a grotto made of flints and shell-work, or a walnut-tree with three mole-hills under it, stuck with honey-suckles round a basin of gold-lishes, and you shall be satisfied; they shall come by the Edin- burgh coach. In the mean time I congratulate you on your new acquaintance with the savage, the rude, and the tremendous. Pray, lell me, is it any thing like what you had read in your book, or seen in two-shilling prints? Do not you think a rnan may be tiie wiser (I had almost said the better) for going a hundred or two of miles; and that the mind has more room in it than most people seem to think, if you will but furnish the apartments? I almost envy your last month, being in a very insipid situation m3'sclf ; and desire you would not fail to send me some furniture for my Gothic apartment, which i> very cold at present. It will be the easier task, as you have nothing to do but transcribe your little red books, if they are not rubbed out; for I conclude you have not trusted every thing to memory, which is ten times worse than a 54 lead-pencil: half a word fixed upon or near the spot, is worth a cart-load of recollection. When we trust to the picture that objects draw of themselves on our mind, we deceive ourselves; without accurate and particular observation, it is but ill-drawn at first, the outlines are soon blurred, the. colours every day grow fainter; and at last, when we could produce it to any body, we are forced to supply its defects with a few strokes of our own imagination.* God forgive me, 1 sup- pose I have done so myself before now, and misled many a good body that put their trust in me. Pray, tell me, (but with permission, and without any breach of hospitality') is it so much warmer on the other side of the Swale (as some people of honour sa>) than it is here ? Has the singing of birds, the bleating of sheep, the lowing of herds, dea- fened you at Rainton ? Did the vast old oaks and thick groves in Northumberland keev^ off the sun too much from you ? i am too civil to extend my inquiries beyond Bf r^ wick. Every thing, doubtless, must improve upon you as you advanced northward. You * Had this letter notlune- else to recommend it, the advice here given to the curious travtlltr of making all his memoranda on the spot, and the reasons for it, are so wtll expressed^ aiid withal sn important, that they certasily deserve our notice. GRAY'S LETTERS. 65 must tell me, though, about Melross, Roslin Chiipel, and Arbroath. In short, your port- feuille must be so full, that I only desire a loose chapter or two, and will wait for the rest till it comes out. CV. TO MR, MASON. Stoke, Nov. 9, 1758. I SHOULD have told you that Craf thought that soinetiir.es iiiiagiit&tion rright not be out of its place in a sermon. But let him speaU for himself in an extract fi*oni one of bis letters to me in the following year: "Your quotation from Jeremy Taylor is a fine on. . I have long thought of reading him ; for I am persuaded thut chopping logic in the pulpit, «s our divines have done ever since (he revolution, is n.t the tl ing; but that iniagiifttionap.d v\:nn.th of expression, are in their place there, as much as on tbt siagt ; moderated, however, and chastised a little by the purity and severity of religion." gray's letters. 6o imagination and a sensible heart ; but you see him often tottering on the vero;e of laughter, and ready to throw his periwig in the face of the auiiience. CVIII. TO MR. STONHIlWER. London, June 29, 1760. Though you have had but a melancholy employment, it is worthy of envy, and I hope will have all the success it deserves.* It was the best and most natural method of cure, and such as could not have been ad- ministered by any but your gentle hand. I thank you for communicating to me what must give you so much satisfaction- I too was reading M. D'Alembert,! and (like you) am totally disappointed in his elements. I could only taste a little of the first course : it was dry as a stick, hard as a stone, and cold as a cucumber. But then * Mr. Stonhewer was now at Houghton-le-Spring, in the bishop- rick of Durham, attending on his sick father, rector of that parish. t Two subsequent volumes of his " Melanges de Literatiu'e et Philosophic." 64 GRAY S LETTERS^ the letter to Ronsseau is like himself; and the discourses on elocution, and on tlie liberty of mnsic, are divine. He has add- ed to his translations fr»m Tacitus ; and (what is remarkable) thonch that author's manner niore nearly resembles the best French writers of the present age, than any thins^, be totally fails in the attempt. Is it his fault, or that of the language ? I have received another Scotch packet,* with a third specimen, inferior in kind, (be- * Of the fragments of Erse poe'ry, iwany of which Mr Gray saw in snanuscript before they were published. In a letter to Dr. Wharton, written in the following month, li ' thus expn sies him- self on the same snbje>lved to believe tliem gtauine, spite of the devil and the kirk : it is impossible to conceive that ihey were written Iiy the sam(.: man that writes me these letters ; on the othir liand, it is almost as hard to suppose (if they are original) that lie should be able to translate tiiem so admirably. In shoit, this man is the v»-ry gray's letters. 65 cause It IS merely description) but yet full of nature and noble wild imagination. Five bards pass the night at the castle of a chief Hiiraself a principal bard) ; each goes out in his turn to observe the face of things, and returns with an extern porie picture of the changes he has seen (it is an October night, the harvest-month of the Highlands). This is the whole plan ; yet there is a con- trivance, and a preparation of ideas, that you would not expect. The oddest thing is, that every one of tliem sees ghosts (more or less). The idea, that struck and surprised me most, is the following. One of them describing a storm of wind and rain) says. Ghosts ride on the tempest to-night : Sweet is their voice between the gusts of wind : Their songs are of otfier -worlds! Did you never observe {while rocking win^l^ are piping^ loud) that pause, as the gust is recollecting itself, and rising upon the ear in a shrill and plaintive note, like the swell of an yEolian harp ? I do assure you there daemon of poetry, or he has lighted on a treasure hid for ages. The Welsh poets are also comirg to light ; I hav« seen a discourse in Hiannscript about them, by one Mr. Evans, a clergyman with specimens of th.-ir wiiting : this is in Latin, and though it doci not approach the other, there are fine scraps among it.'' VOL. IV. 21 66 gray's letters. is nothing in the world so like the voice of a spirit. Thonison had an ear sometimes : he was not deaf ta this ; and has described it gloriously, but given it another different turn, and of more horror. I cannot repeat the lines : it is in his Winter. There is another very fine picture in one of them. It describes the breaking of the clouds after the storm, before it is settled into a calm, and when the moon is seen by short inter- vals. The waves arc tumbling on the lake, And lash the rocky sidts. The boat is biim-full in the cove, The oars on the rocking tide. Sad sits a maid beneath a cliff, And eyes the rolluig stream ; Her lover promised to come, She saw his boat [when it was evening] on the lake ; Are these his groans in the gole ? Is this his broken boat on the shore ? CIX. TO DR. CLARKE.* Pembroke Hall, Augtist 12, 1760. Not knowing whether you are jet returned * Physician at Epsom. With this gentleman Mr. Gray com- menced an early acquaintance at ^college. gray's letters. 67 from your sea- water, I write at random to you. For me, I am come to my resting- place, and find it very necessary, after living for a month in a house with three women that laughed from morning to night, and would allow nothing to the sulkiness of my disposition. Company and cards at home, parties by land and water abroad, and (what they call) doing something, that is, racketting about from morning to night, are occupa- tions, 1 find, that wear out my spirits, es- pecially in a situation where one might sit still, and be alone with pleasure; for the ])lace was a hill* like Ciiefden, opening to a very extensive and diversified landscape, with the Thames, which is navigable, run- ning at its foot. I would wish to continue here (in a very different scene, it must be confessed) till Michaelmas ; but I fear 1 must come to town much sooner. Cambridge is a delight of a place, now there is no body in it. I do believe you would like it, il you knew what it was without inhabitants. It is they, I assure you, that get it an ill name and spoil all. Our friend Dr. * * * (one of its nuisances) is not expected here again in a * Near Henley. 68 GRAk's LETTERS, hurry. He is gone to his grave with five fine mackarel (large and full of roe) in his belly. He eat them all at one dinner ; but his fate was a turbot on Trinity Sunday, of which he left little for the company besides bones. He had not been hearty ail the week; but after this sixth tish he never held up his head more, and a violent loose- ness carried him off. — They say he made a very good end. Have you seen the Erse fragments since they were printed ? I am more puzzled than ever about their antiquity, though I still incline (against every body's opinion) to believe them old. Those you have al- ready seen are the best ; though there are some others that are excellent too. ex. TO MR. MASON. Cambridge, August 20, 1760. I HAVE sent Musasus* back tis you desired me, scratched here and there. And with * I bad desired Mv. Gray to revise my Monody on Mr. Pope's death. gray's letters. Q9 it also a bloody Satire,* written against no less persons than 2/om and I by name. I concluded at first it was Mr.*^*, because he is your friend and my humble servant; but then I thought he knew the world too well to call us the favourite minions of Taste and of Fashion, especially as to odes; for to them his ridicule is continod: so it is not he, but Mr. Colman, nephew to lady Bath, author of the Connoisseur, a member of one of the inns of court, and a particular acquaintance of Mr. Garrick. What have you done to him ? for I never heard his name before; he makes very tolerable fun with me whei-e I understand him (which is not every where); but seems more angry with you. Lest people should not under- stand the humour of the thino- (which in- deed to do they must have our lyricisms at their linger ends) letters come out in Lloyd's Evening-Post to tell them who and what it was that he meant, and ■^•ay it is like to pro- duce a great combustion in tlie literary world. So if you have any mind to comhus- tle about it," well and good .; for me, I am * The Parodies in question, er.tiile=)iness, indulges, while wa!tin|^ gray's letters. 89 passages; five of which, at leiist, are so direct and close as to leave no shadow of a for him, the pleasure of contemplating the beauties of nature, and the rising of that luminarj- that was to bring the object of her ten- derness." She expresses herself thus : " Ah-eady the sun gilds the top of those antique oaks, and the waves of those falling torrents that roar among the rocks shine with his beams ; already I perceive the summit of those shaggy mountains whence arises the vaults which, half concealed in the air, offer a formidable retreat to the solitary who there retires (1). Night folds up her veil Ye wanton fires, that mislead the wan- dering (traveller, retire (3) to the quagmire* and marshy fens ; and thou sun, lord •f the heavens, who fillest the aii" with reviving heat, who sowest with dewy pearls the flowers of these meadows, and givest colours to the varied beauties ef nature, receive ray first homage (3), and hasten thy course. Thy appearance proclaims Cl) How nobly does this venerable wood, Gilt with the glories of the orient sun, Embosom yon fair mansion .' On the shaggy mound, Wkere tumbling torrents roar around ; AVhere pendent mountains o'er your head Stretch a formidable shade — Where luU'd in pious peace the hermit lies. C2) Away, ye goblins all, Wont the hew ilder'd traveller to daunt— 13) Hail to thy living light Ambrosial Mom— That bids each dewy-spangled floweret rise. And dart around its vermeil dies- Unfolds the scene of glory to our eye, , Where, throned in artless majesty, The cherub Beauty sits on Nature's rustie shriBfe.— 00 gray's letters. doubt, and therefore confirm all the rest. It is a phaenomenon that you will be in the that of my lover. Freed from the pieus cares that detain him still at the foot of the altars, love wiH soon bring him to nnm (4). Let all around me partake of my joy. Let all bless the rising luminary by which we are enlightened. Ye flowers, that enclose in your bosoins the odours that cool night condenses theiv, open your buds, and exhale in the air your balmy vapours. I know not whether the delightful intoxication that possesses my soul, does not embellish whatever I behold ; but the rivulet, that in pleading meanders winds along this valley, enchants me with his mui-murs. Zephyrus caresses me with his breath ; the fragrant plants, pressed under my feet, waft to my senses their perfume. Oh ! if Felicity sometimes condescends to Aisit the abodes of mortals, to these placts, doubtless, she retires (5). But with what secret trouble am 1 agitated ? Already in-patience mingles its poison with the sweet- ness of my expectation. This valley has already lost all its beau- ties. Is Joy then so fleeting ? It is as easy to snatch it from us, as for the light down of these plants to be blown away by the breath of the Zephyrs (6). In vain have I recourse to flattering (4) 'Twill not be long, ere his unbending mind Shall lose in sweet oblivion evaT^ care Among the embowering shades that veil Elfrida. (5) The soft air Salutes me with most cool and temperate breath, And, as I tread, the flower-besprinkled lawn Sends up a gale of fragrance. I should guess, If e'er content deign'd visit mortil clime, This was her place of dearest residence. (6) For safety now sits wavering on your love. Like the light down upon the thistle's beard, Which every breeze may part. gray's letters. 91 right to inform yourself about, and which I long to understand. Another phainomenon hope. Each moment increases my disturbance. He will come no more. "Who keeps him at a distance from me ? What duty more lacred than that of 'aiming the Inquietudes of love ? But what do I sav? Fly, jealous suspicions, injurious to his fidelity, (7) and formed to extinguish my tenderness. If jealousy grows by the side of love, it will stifle 't if not puUed up by the roots ; it is the ivy which, by a verdant chf>in. embraces, but dries up the trunk which serves for its support (8). I know my lover too well to doubt of his tenderness. He, lUiC me, has, far from the pomps of courts, sought the tranquil asylum of the fields. Touched by the simplicitj of my heart, and by my beauty, my sensual rivals call him in vain to their arms. Shall he be seduced by the advances of coquetry, which, on the cheek of the young maid, tarnishes the snow of innocence and the carnation of modesty, and daubs it with the whiteness of art and the paint of effrontery ? (9) What do I say ? his contempt for her is perhaps only a snare for me. Can I be ignorant of the partiality of men, and the arts they employ to seduce us ? Nourished in a contempt for our sex, it is not us, it is (7) Ayaunt ! ye vain delusive feasr. (8) See Elfrida. Ah see ! how round yon branching elm the ivy. Clasps its green chain, and poisons what supports it. Not less injurious to the shoots of love !• sickly jealousy. (9)— To guard Your beauties from the Hast of courtly gales. The ci-imson blush of virgin modesty, The delicate soft tints of innocence. There all fly ofl^ and leave no boast behi^d But well-rangtd, faded features. S2 gray's letters. is, that I read it without finding it out: all I remember is, that 1 thought it not at all tkeir pleasures that they love. Cruel as they are, they hare placeil in the rank of the virtues the barbarous fury of revenge, and the mad love of their country ; but never have they reckoned fidelity among the virtues. Without remorse they abuse innocence, and often their vanity contemplates our griefs with delight. But no ; fly far from me, ye odious thoughts, my lover will come ! A thou, sand times have I experienced it : As soon as I perceive him/ ray agitated mind is calm, and I often forget the too just cause I hare for complaint ; for near him I can only know happiness (10). Yet if he is treacherous to me ; if, in the very moment when my love excuses him, he consummates the crime of infidelity in another ijosom, may all nature take up arms in revenge ! may he perish ! What do I say ? Ye elements, be deaf to my cries ! Thou earth, open not thy profoimd abyss .' let the monster walk the time pre- scribed him on thy splendid surface, let him still commit new «rimes, and still cause the tears of the too credulous maids to flow : and if heaven avenges them and punishes him. may it at least be at the prayer of some other unfortunate woman (11)." Here ends this odd instance of plagiarism. When M. Helve- tiu8 was in England, a year or two after I had made the disco- (1.0)— My truant heart Forgets each lesson that Resentment taught, And in thy sight knows only to be happy. In the French it is more literal, "Pres de lui je ne seals qu'etre heureuse." (11) Till then, ye elements, rest ; and thou, firm earth, Ope not thy yav/ning jaws ; but let this monster Stalk his due time on thine affrighted surface : • Yes, let him still go on, still execute His savage purposes and daily make More widoM's weep, as I do. gray's letters. 23 English, and did not nauch like it; and the reason is plain, for the lyric flights and cho- ral flowers suited not in the least with the circumstances or character of the speaker, as he had contrived it. CXVII. TO MH. BROWN.* February 17, 1763. You will make my best acknowledgments to Mr. How; who, not content to rank me in the number of his friends, is so polite as to make excuses for having done me that hon- our. very of it, I took my measures (as Mr. Gray advised me) to learn bow he cauie by it ; ai»d accordingly requested two noblemen, tc whom he was introduced, to ask him some questions concerning it ; but I could gain no satisfactory answer. I d»iiot, however, by any means, suppose that the x>€rson who cooked up the dis- jointed parts of my di-ama into this strange fricasse, was M Hel- vetius himself; I rather imagine (as I did fr«m the first) that he Was imposed upon by someyoiuig English traveller who contrived this expedient in order to pass with him for a poet. The great philosopher, it is true, has in this note been proved to be the receiver of stden goods; but out of respect to bis numerous fashionable disciples, botli abroad and at home, whose credit might suffer with that of their master, I acquit bin) of what would only be held criminal at the Old Bailey, that he veceiTed these goods knowing t/iem to be stolen- * Since of Pembroke-Hall. 94 aRAV's LETTERS. I was not born so far from the sun, as to be ignorant of count Algarotti's name and reputation; nor am I so far advanced in 3'ears, or in philosophy, as not to feel the warsnth of his approbation. The odes in question, as their motto shows, were meant to be vocal to the intelligent alone. How ie.w they were in my own country, Mr. How can testify; and yet my ambition was terminated by that small circle. I have good reason to be proud, if my voire has reached the ear and apprehension of a stranger, distinguish- ed as one of the best judges in Europe. I am equally pleased with the just ap- plause he bestows on Mr. Mason; and parti- cularly on his Caractacus, which is the work of a man: whereas Elfrida is only that of a boy, a promising boy indeed, and of no com- mon genius: yet this is the popular perfor- mance, and the other little known in compa- rison. Neither count Algarotti nor Mr. How (I believe) have heard of Ossian, the son of Fingal. If Mr. How were not upon the wing, and on his way homewards, I would send it to him in Italy. He would there see that imagination dwelt many hundred years ago, in all her pomp, on the cold and barren mountains of Scotland. The truth (1 be fray's letters. 95 lieve) is, that, without any respect of cli- mates, she reigns in all nascent societies of men, where the necessities of life force eve- ry one to think and act much for himself.* CXVIII. COUNT ALGAROTTI TO MR. GRAY. Pisa,24 Aprile, 1763. SoNO stato lungo tempo in dubbio se un dilettante quale io sono, dovea mandare alcune sue coserelle a un professore quale e V. S. Illus^, a un arbitro di ogni poetica eleganza Ne ci voiea meno che Tautorita del valorissimo Sigr. How per persuadermi a cio fare. V. S. 111^ accolga queste mie coserelle con quella medesima bonta con cui ha voluto accogliere quella lettera che • Cue is led to think from this parag:raph that the scepticism, which Mr. Gray had expressed before, concerning these works of Ossian, was now entirly removed. I know no way of accounting for this (as he had certaiidy received no stronger evidence of their authenticity) but from the turn of his studies at the time. He had of late much busied himself in antiquities, and consequently had imbibed too much of the spirit of a professed antiquarian; now we know, from a thousand instances, that no set of men are more willingly duped than these, especially by any thing that comes to them under the fascinating form of a new discovery. 96 gray's letters. dice pur poco delle tante cose, che fanno sentire alle anirne armoniche di ammirabili suoi versi. lo saro per quanto io porro, Preeco laudum ttiarmn^ e quella mia leltera si stampera in un nuovo Giornale, che si fa m Venezia, intitolato la Minerva, perche tappia la Italia che la Inghilterra, ricca di un Omero* di uno Archimede,! di un De- mostene,! non manca del suo Pindaro. Al Sig'* How le non saprei dire quanti ob- blighi io abbia, ma si maggiore e certarnente quello di avermi presentato alia sua Musa e di avermi procurato la occasione di po- terla assicurare della perfetta ed altissima stima, con cui io ho I'honore di sottescri- vermi, De V. S. Illusm^ Devotis. &LC. Algarottt. CXIX. TO DR. WHARTON. Pembix)ke-HaU, August 5, 1763, You may well wonder at my long taciturnity. I wonder too, and know not what cause to * Milton. t Newton. 4. IVIi-. Pitt. gray's letters. 57 assign ; for it is certain I think of you daily. I believe it is owing to the nothingness of my history ; for except six weeks that I passed in town to-^ards the end of the spring, and a little jaunt to Epsom and Box-hill, I have been here time out of mind, in a place where no events grow, though we preserve those of former days, by way of Hortiis siccus, in our libraries. I doubt you have not yet read Rousseau's Emile. Every body that has children should read it more than once : tor though it abounds with his usual glorious absurdity, though his general scheme of education be an impracticable chimera, yet there are a, thousand lights struck out, a thousand im- portant truths better expressed than ever they were before, that may be of service to the wisest men. Particularly, I think he has observed children with more attention, and knows their meaning and the working of their little passions better than any other writer. * As to his religious discussions, which have alarmed the world, and engaged their thoughts more than any other part of his book, I set them all at naught, and wish they had been omitted.-^ * That I may put together the rest of Mr. Gray's sentiments ooncerning this singular writer, I insert here an extract from a VOL. IV. ■ 23 9% gray's letters. CXX. TO MR. HOW. Cambridge, Sept. 10, 1763. 1 OUGHT long since to have made you my acknowledgments for the obliging testimo- nies of your esteem that you have conferred upon me ; but count Algarotti's books* did not come to my hands till the end of July, and since that time I have been prevented by letter of a later date, wvitten to myself. " I have not read the Phi. losophic Dictionary. I can now stay with gi-eat patience for any thing that comes from Voltaire. They tell me it is fripperj-, and blas- pheniy, and wit. I could have forgiven mjsell if 1 had not read Rousseau's leen most proper to treat it. As I doiil)t not but this paper will be an acceptable present to the Reynoldses and Wests of the age, 1 shall here insert it. " An Altar-Piece— Guido. The top, a Heaven ; in the middle at a distance, the Padre Eterno indistinctly seen, and lost, as it were, in g:lory. On either hand. Angels of all degrees in attitudes of adoration and wonder. A little lower, and next the eye. supported on the wii-gs of Se- raphs, Christ (the principal figure) with an air of calm and serene majesty, his hand extended, as commanding the elemeiits to tlieir sereral places : near him an A;igel of superior rank biaring the golden comp'isses (that Milton describes) ; lieneath, the Chaos, like a dark and turbulent ocean, only illuminated by the Spirit^ who is brooding over it. A small picture.— Correggio. Eve newly created, admiring her own shadow in the lake. The famous Venus of this master, late in the possession of Sic William Hamilton, proves how judiciously Mr. Gray fixed upon his pencil for the execution of this charmiug subject. gray's letters^ 107 mains now, the flower of the collection is gone to Dresden. Bulogna is too vast a A nother . — Domen ich i no . Medea in a pensive posture, with i-evenge and maternal affee- tion striving in her visage ; her two children at play, sponing with one a^iother before her. On one side a bust of Jason, to which they bear some resemblance. A Statue.— Michael Angelo. Agave in the moine-. t she returns to her senses : the head of h«' son, fallen on the grouuil from h r hand. Vide Ovid Met. li .. lii. 1 731, ire. M. A picture.— Salvator Rosa. ^neas and the Sibyl sacrificing to Pluto by torch-light in the wood, the assistants in a fright. The day beginning lo bitak so as dimly to show tlie mouth of the caverp. Sigismonda with the heart of Gniscardo before her. I hare seen a small print on tliis subject, where the expression is admi. table, said to be graved from a picture of Correggio. Afterwards, when he had seen the original in the posses- sion of the late Sir Luke Schaub, he always expre-sed the highest admiration of it ; though we see, by his here giving it to Salvator Rosa, he thought the subject too horiid to be treated by Correggio ; and indeed I btlieve it is agreed that the capita* pictuie in question is not of his hand. Anotlier. — Albanu, or the Parmeggiano. Iphigenia asleep by the fouiitain-side, her maids about her .; Cyrooii gazing and laughing. Thij subject has bee.^ ofttn treated ; o:ice indeed v. ry curiously by Sir Peter Lely, in the way of portrait, wheu his sacred Majesty 108 gray's letters. subject for me to treat; the palaces and churches are open; you have nothing to do but to see them all. In coming down the Apennine you will see (if the sun shines) all Tuscany before you. And so I have brought you to Florence, where to be sure there is nothing worth seeing. Secondly, 1. Vide, quodcunque videndum est. Charles the Second represented Cjinon, and the duchesi of Cleve- land and Mrs, Eleanor Gwin (in as indecent attitudes as liis roy- al taste could prescribe) were Iphigenia and her attendants. Another.— Domenichino, or the Caracci. Electra with the urn, in which she imagined were her brother's ashes, lanieuting over them ; Orestes smothering his concern. Another .—Correggio. Ithuriel and Zephon entering the bower of Adam and Eve ; they sleeping. The, light to proceed from the Angels. Another. — Nicholas Poussin. Alcestis dying ; her children weeping, and hanging upon her robe ; the youngest of them, a little boy, crying too, but appearing rather to do so, because the others are afflicted, than from any sense of the reason of their sorrow : her right arm should be round this, her left extended towards the vest, as recommending them to licr loitl'* care ; he fainting, and supported by the attendants. Salvator Rosa. Hannibal passing the Alps ; the mountaineers rolling down rocks upon his army ; elephants turablingdown the precipices. grave's letters. 109 2. Q,uodcunque ego non vidi, id tu vide. 3. Q,aodcunque videris, scribe et describe; memoriae ne tide. 4. Scribendo nil admirare; et cum pictor non sis, verbis omnia depinge. 5. Tritam viatornm compitam calca, et cum poteris desere. 6. Erne, quodcunque emendam est; I do not mean pictures, medals, gems, draw- ings, &.C. only; but clothes, stockings, shoes, handkerchiefs, little moveables; every thing you may want all your life long: but have a care of the custom-house. Pray present my most respectful compli- ments to Mr. Weddell.* 1 conclude when the winter is over, and you have seen Rome and Naples, you will strike out of the beaten path of English travellers, and Another. — Domeniehino. Arria giving Claudius's order to Psetus, and stabbing herself at the same time. N. Poussin, or Le Sueur. Virginias murdering his daughter ; Appjus, at a distance, start- ing up from his ti-ibunal ; the people amazed, but few of them seeiug the action itself." * \yilllaua Weddell, esq. of Newby in Yorkshire, 110 GRAY S LETTERS. see a little of the country, throw your- selves into the bosom of the Apennine, survey the horrid lake of Amsanctus (look in Chiver's Italy), catch the breezes on the coast of Taranto and Salerno, expatiate to the very toe of the continent, perhaps strike over the Faro of Messina, and hav- ing measured the gigantic columns of Gir- genti, and the tremendous caverns of Syra- cusa, refresh yourselves amidst the fragrant vale of Euna. Oh! che bel riposo! Addio. CXXIII. TO MR. BEATTIE. Glames-Castle, Sept. 8, 1765. A LITTLE journey I have been niaking to Arbroath has been the cause that I did not answer your very obliging letter so soon as I ought to have done. A man of merit, that honours me with his esteem, and has the frankness to tell me po, doubtless can need no excuses: his apology is made, and we are already acquainted, however distant from each other. I fear I cannot (as 1 would wish) do my- self the pleasure of waiting on you at Aber- gray's letters. Ill deen, being under an engagement to go to- moiTovv to Taymoiitb, and, if the weather will allow it, to the Blair of Athol: this will take up four or five days, and at my return the approach of winter will scarce permit me to think of any farther expeditions north- wards. My stay here will, however, be a fortnight or three weeks longer; and if in that time any business or invitation should call you this way, lord Strathmore gives me commission to say, he shall be extremely glad to see you at Glames; and doubt not it will be a particular satisfaction to me to receive and thank you in person for the favourable sentiments you have entertained of me, and the civilities with which you have honoured me. CXXIV. TO DR. WHARTON. Glames-Cartle, Sept. 14. 1765. I DEFERRED writing to you till I tiad seen a little more of this country than yourself had seen; and now being just returned from an excursion, which I and major Lyon have been making into the Highlands, 1 sit down 112 gray's letters. to give you an account of it. But first I must return to my journey hither, on which I shall be very short; partly because you know the way as far as Edinburgh, and part- ly that there was not a great deal worth re- marking. The first night we passed at Tweedmouth (77 miles); the next at Edin- burgh (53 miles); where lord Strathmore left the major and me, to go to Lennox-Love, (lord Blantyre's) where his aunt lives: so that afternoon and all next day I had leisure to visit the castle, Holyrood-house, Heriot's hospital, Arthur's seat, kc. and am not sorry to have seen tbat most picturesque (at a dis- tance), and nastiest (when near) of all capital cities. I supped with Dr. Robertson and other literati, and the next morning lord Strathmore came for us. We crossed at the Queen's Ferry in a four-oared yawl without a sail, and were tossed about rather more than I should wisii to hazard again; lay at Perth, a large Scotch town with much wood about it, on the banks of the Tay, a very noble river; next morning ferried over it, and came by dinner-time to Glames; being (from Edinburgh) 67 miles,' which makes in all (from Helton) 197 miles. The castle* * This is said to be the rery castle iu which Duncan was mur- dered by Macbetb. GRAY S LETTERS. llo stands in Strathmore (i. e. the Great Valley) which winds about from Stonehaven on the east coast of Kincardineshire, obliquely, as f?tr as Stirling, near 100 miles in length, and from seven to ten miles in breadth, cultivat- ed every where to the foot of the hills, on either hand, with oats or here, a species of barley, except where the soil is mere peat- earth, (black as a coal) or barren sand cov- ered only with broom and heath, or a short grass tit for sheep. Here and there appear, just above ground, the huts of the inhabi- tants, which they call towns, built of, and covered with, turf; and among them, at great distances, the gentlemen's houses, with enclosures, and a fiew trees round them. Amidst these the castle of Glames distin- guishes itself, the middle part of it rising proudly out of what seems a great and thick wood of tall trees, with a cluster of hanging towers on the top. You descend to it gra- dually from the south, through a double and triple avenue of Scotch firs 60 or 70 feet high, under three gateways. This approach is a full mile long ; and when you have passed the second gate, tlie tirs change to limes, and another oblique avenue goes off on either hand towards the offices. These, as well as all the enclosures that surround VOL. IV. 24 114 gray's letters. the house, are bordered with three or four ranks of sycamores, ashes, and white poplars of the noblest height, and from 70 to 100 years old. Other alleys there are, that go off at right angles with the long one; small groves, a;id walled gardens, of earl Patrick's planting, full of broad-leaved elms, oaks, birch, black cherry-trees, laburnums, &c. all of great stature and size, which have not till this v>^eek begun to show the least sense of morning frosts. The third gate delivers you into a court with a broad pavement, and grassplats adorned with statues of the four Stuart kings, bordered with old silver iirs and yew-trees, alternately, and opening with an iron palisade on either side to two square old fashioned parterres surrounded by stone fruit-walls. The house, from the height of it, the greatness of its mass, the many towers atop, and the spread of its wings, has really a very singular and strik- ing appearance, like nothing I ever saw. You will comprehend something of its shape from the plan of the second floor, which I enclose. The wings are about 50 feet high; the body (which is the old castle, with walls 10 feet thick) is near 100. From the leads I see to the south of me (just at the end of the avenue) the little town of Glames, the gray's letters. 115 houses built of stone, and slated, with a neat kirk and small square tower (a rarity in this region.) Just beyond it rises a beautiful round hill, and another ridge of a longer forna adjacent to it, both covered with woods of tall tir. Beyond them, peep over the black hills of Sid-law, over which winds the road to Dundee. To the north, within about seven miles of me, begin to rise the Grampians, hill above hill, on whose tops three weeks ago I could plainly see some traces of the snow that fell in May last. To the east, winds a way to the Strath, such as I have before described it, among the hills, which sink lower and lower as they ap- proach the sea. To the west, the same valley (not plain, but broken, unequal ground) runs on for above 20 miles in view: there I see the crags above Dunkeld; there Beni-Gloe and Beni-More rise above the clouds; and there is that She-khallian, that spires into a cone above them all, and lies at least 45 miles (in a direct line) from this place. Lord Strathmore, who is the greatest far- mer in this neighbourhood, is from break of day to dark night among his husbandmen and labourers: he has near 2000 acres of land in his own hands, and is at present em- 116 gray's letters. ployed in building a low wall of four miles long, and in widening the bed of the little river Deane, which runs to south and south- east of the house, from about twenty to fifty feet wide, both to prevent inundations, and to drain the lake of Forfar. This work will be two years more in completing, and must be three miles in length. All the Highlan- ders that can be got are employed in it; many of them know no English, and 1 hear them singing Erse songs all day long. The price of labour is eight-pence a day; but to such as will join together, and engage to per- form a certain portion in a limited time, two shillings. I must say that all his labours seem to prosper; and my lord has casually found in digging such quantities of shell-marl, as not only fertilize his own grounds, but are dis- posed of at a good price to all his neighbours. In his nurseries are thousands of oaks, beech, larches, horse-chesnuts, spruce-firs, &c. thick as they can stand, and whose only fault is, that they are grown tall and vigorous before he has determined where to plant them out; the most advantageous spot we have for beauty lies west of the house, where (when the stone-walls of the meadows are taken away) the grounds, naturally un- gray's letters. 117 equal, vvili have a very park-like appear- ance: they are already fall of trees, which need only thinning here and there to break the regularity of their trout-stream which joins the river Deane hard by. Pursuing the course of this brook upwards, you come to a narrow sequestered valley sheltered from all winds, through which it runs mur- muring among great stones; on one hand the ground gently rises into a hill, on the other are the rocky banks of the rivulet almost perpendicular, yet covered with sycfimore, ash, and fir, that (though it seems to have no place or soil to grow in) yet has risen to a good height, and forms a thick shade: you may continue along this gill, and passing by one end of the village and its church for half a mile, it leads to an opening between the two hills covered with fir-woods, that I mentioned above, through which the stream makes it way, and forms a cascade often or twelve feet over broken rocks. A very little art is necessary to make all this a beautiful scene. The weather, till the last week, has been in general very fine and warm; we have had no fires till now, and often have sat with the window^s open an hour after sun set: now and then a shower has come, and sometimes sudden gusts of 118 gray's letters. wind descend from the mountains, that finish as suddenly as they arose; butto-day it blows a hurricane. Upon the whole, I have been exceeding lucky in my weather, and par- ticularly in my Highland expedition of five days. We set out then the 11th of September, and continuing along the Strath to the west, passed through Megill, (where is the tomb of Queen Wanders, that was riven to dethe hy stancd horses for nae gude that she did; so the women there told me, I assure you) through Cowper of Angus; over the river 11a; then over a wide and dismal heath, fit for an assembly of witches, till we came to a string of four small lakes in a valley, whose deep blue waters and green margin, with a gentle- man's house or two seated on them in little groves, contrasted with the black desert in vyhich they were enchased. The ground now grew unequal; the hills, more rocky, seemed to close in upon us, till the road came to the brow of a steep descent, and (the sun then setting) between two woods of oak w^e saw far below us the river Tay come sweeping along at the bottom of a pre- cipice, at least 150 feet deep, clear as glass, full to the brim, and very rapid in its course; it seemed to issue out of woods thick and gray's letters. 119 tall, that rose on either hand, and were over-hung by broken rocky crags of vast height; above them, to the west, the tops of higher mountains appeared, on which the evening clouds reposed. Down by the side of the river, under the thickest shades, is seated the town of Dunkeld; in the midst of it stands a ruined cathedral, the towers and shell of the building still entire: a little be- yond it, a large house of the duke of Athol, with its offices and gardens, extends a mile beyond the town; and as his grounds were interrupted by the streets and roads, he has f^ung arches of communication across them, that add to the scenery of the place, which of itself is built of good white stone, and handsomely slated; so that no one would take it for a Scotch town till they come into it. Here we passed the night; if I told you how, you would bless yourself. Next day we set forward to Tay mouth, 27 miles farther west ; the road winding through beautiful woods, with the Tay almost always in full vie'V to the right, being here from 3 to 400 feet over. The Strath-Tay, from a mile to three miles or more wide, covered with corn, and spotted with groups of people then in the midst of their har- vest ; on either hand a vast chain of rocky ISO GRAV'S LETTERS, mountains that changed their face and open- ed something- new every hundred yards, as the way turned, or th^ clouds passed: in short, altogether it was one of the most pleasing days I have passed these many years, and at every step I wished for you. At the close of day we came to Balloch^^ so the place was called ; hut now Tai/mctdh^ improperly enough ; for here it is that the liver issues out of Loch-Tay, a glorious lake 15 miles long and one mile and a half broad, surrounded with prodigious moun- tains ; there on its north-eastern brink, im- pending over it, is the vast hill of Lawers; 10 the east is that enormous creature, She- lihallian (i. e. the maiden's pap) s])iring above the clouds: directly west, bej'ond the end of the lake, Bern-more ; the great moun- tain rises to a most awful height, and looks down on the tomb of Fingal. Lord Breadal- bane*9 policji/ (so they call here all such ground as is laid out for pleasure) takes in about 2000 acres, of which his house, offi- i^es, and a deer-park, about three miles round, occupy the plain or bottom, which is little above a mile in breadth; through it winds the Tay, which, by means of a bridge, * Mr. Pennant, in bis tour in Scotland, explains this woid " the Meutb of the Loch." 6Ray's letters. 121 I found here to be 156 feet over: his planta- tions and woods rise with the ground^ on either side the vale, to the very summit of the enormous crags that overhang it : along them, on the mountain's *ide, runs a terras a mile and a half long, that overlooks the course of the river. From several seats and temples perched on particular rocky eminences, you command the lake for many miles in length, which turns like some huge river, and loses itself among the mountains that surround it; at its eastern extremity, where the river issues out of it, on a penin- sula my lord has built a neat little town and church with a high square tower; and just before it lies a small round island in the lake, covered with trees, amongst which are the ruins of some little religious house. Trees, by the way, grow here to great size and beauty. I saw four old chesnuts i-n the road, as you enter the park, of vast bulk and height ; one beech tree I measur- ed that was 16 feet 7 inches in the girth, and, I guess, near 80 feet in height. The gardener presented us with peaches, necta- rines, and plumbs from the stone-walls of the kitchen-garden (for there are no brick nor hot walls); the peaches were good, the rest well tasted, but scarce ripe; we had I3ii2 GRAY S LETTERS. also goWen pippins from an espalier, not ripe, and a melon very well flavoured and fit to cut : of the house I have little to say ; it is a very good nobleman's house, hand- somely furnished and well kept, very com- fortable to inhabit, but not worth going far to see. Of the earl's taste I have not much more to say; it is one of those noble situa- tions that man cannot spoil: it is however certain, that he has built an inn and a town just where his principal walks should have been, and in the most wonderful spot of ground that perhaps belongs to him. In this inn however we lay ; and next day, re- turning down the river four miles, we pass- ed it over a fine bridge, built at the expense of the government, and continued our way to LogieRait, just below which, in a most charming scene, the Tummcl^ which is here the larger river of the two, falls into the Tay. We ferried over tlie Tummel iji order to get into Marshal Wade's road, which leads from Dunkeld to Inverness, and continued our way along it toward the north: the road is excellent, but dangerous enough in conscience; the river often running di- rectly under us at the bottom of a precipice 200 feet deep, sometimes masked indeed by wood that finds means to crow where I could gray's letters„ 123 not stand, but very often quite naked and without any defence: in such places we walked for miles together, partly for fear, and partly to admire the beauty of the coun- try, which the beauty of the weather set off to the greatest advantage: as evening came on, we approached the pass of Gilli- krankie, where, in the year 1745, the Hes- sians, with their prince at their head, stop- ped short, and refused to march a foot farther. restibuhim ante ipsum, prhnisque in fauci- hus Orel, stands the solitary mansion of Mr. Robertson, of Fascley; close by it rises a hill covered with o^k, with grotesque mas- ses of rock staring from among their trunks, like the sullen countenances ofFingal and all his family, frowning on the little mortals of modern days: from between this hill and the adjacent mountains, pent in a narrow channel, comes roaring out the river Tum- mel, and falls headlong down involved in white foam which rises into a mist all round it: but my paper is deficient, and I must say nothing of the pass itself, the black river Garry, the Blair of Athol, mount Beni-Gloe, my return by another road to Dunkeld, the Hermitage, the Slra-Bram, and the Rum- bling Brig; in short, since I saw the x^lps, I 124 gray's letters. have seen nothing sublime till now. In about a week I shall set forward, by the Stirling road, on my return all alone. Pray for me till I see you, for I dread Edinburgh and the itch, and expect to find very little in my way worth the perils I am to endure. cxxv TO MR. BEATTIE. Glames Castle, Oct. 2. 3765. 1 MUST beg you would present my most grateful acknowledgments to your society for the public mark of their esteem, which you say they are disposed to confer on me.* I embrace, with so deep and just a sense of their goodness, the substance of that honour they do me, that I hope it may plead my pardon with them if I do not accept the form. I have been, sir, for several years a member of the university of Cambridge, and formerly ^when I had some thoughts of the profession) took a bachelor of laws' degree * The Marischal College of Abeitken had desired to know whether it would he agi-eeable to ^Ir. Gray to receive from them the degree of doctor of laws. Mr. afterwards Dr. Beattie wrote to htm on the subject, and this is the answer. GRAY S LETTERS. 125 there; since that time, though long qualified by my standing, 1 have always neglected to tinish my course, and claim my doctor's de- gree: judge, therefore, whether it will not look like a slight, and some sort of contempt, if i receive the same degree from a sister university. I certainly would avoid giving any offence to a set of men, among whom I have passed so many easy, and I may say, happy hours of my life; yet shall ever re- tain in my memory the obligations you have laid me under, and be proud of my connec- tion with the university of Aberdeen. It is a pleasure to me to find that you are not offended with the liberties I took when you were at Glames; you took me too lite- rally, if you thought I meant in the least to discourage you in your pursuit of poetry: all I intended to say was, that if either vanity (that is, a general and undistinguishing de- sire of applause), or interest, or ambition has any place in the breast of a poet, he stands a great chance in these our days of being severely disappointed; and yet, after all these passions are suppressed, there ma^' remain in the mind of one, " ingenti percul- sus amore,'' (and such I take you to be) incitements of a better sort, strong enough to make him write verse all his life, both 126 gray's letters. for his own pleasure and that of all pos- terity. 1 am sorry for the trouble you have had to gratify my curiosity and love of supersti- tion;* yet I heartily thank you. On Mon- day, sir, I set forward on my way to Eng- land; Vv^here if I can be of any little nse to you, or should ever have the good for- tune to see you, it will be a .particular satisfaction to me. Lord Strathniore^and the family here desire me to make their compli- ments to you. P. S. Remember Dryden, and be blind to all his faults. t * Mr Gray, when in Scotland, had been very inquisitive after the popular superstitions of the country ; his correspondent sent him two books on this subject, foolish ones indeed, as might be ex* pected, but the best that could be had ; a History of Second-sight, and a History of Witches. t Mr. Beattie, it seems, in their late inteniew, had expressed himself with less admiration of Dryden than Mr. Gray thought his due. He told him in reply, '' that if there was any excel- lence in his own numbers, he had learned it wholly from that great poet ; and pressed him with gi-eat earnestness to study him, as his choice of words and Tersification were singularly happy aj>rl lisinnonious." gray's letters. 127 CXXVI. TO MR. WALPOLE. Cambridge, December 13, 176S. I AM very much obliged to you. for the de- tail you enter into on the subject of your own health: in this you cannot be too cir- cumstantial for me, who had received no account of you, but at second-hand — such as, that you were dangerously ill, and there- fore went to France; thnt you meant to try a better climate, and therefore stayed at Paris: that you had relapsed, and were con- fined to your bed, and extremely in vogue, and supped in the best company, and were at all public diversions. I rejoice to find (improbable as it seemed) that all the won- derful part of this is strictly true, and that the serious part has been a little exaggerat- ed. This latter I conclude not so much from your own account of yourself, as from the spirits in which I see you write; and long may they continue to support you! I mean in a reasonable degree of elevation: but if (take notice) they are so volatile, so ' flippant, as to suggest any of those doctrines of health, which you preach with all the 128 gray's letters. zeal of a French atheist; at least, it' they really do influence your practice; I utterly renounce them and all their works. They are evil spiritfi^ and will lead you to destruc- tion. — You have long built your hopgs on temperance, you say, and hardiness. On the first point we are agreed. The second has totall}* disappointed you, and therefore you will persist in it; by all means. But then be sure to persist too in being young, in stopping the course of time, and making the shadow return back upon your sun-dial. If you find this not so easy, acquiesce with a good grace in my anilities^ put on your un- der-stockings of yarn or woolen, even in the nighttime. Don't provoke me! or 1 shall order you two night-caps (vvhich by the way would do your eyes good), and put a little of any French lioueur into your water: they are nothing but brandy and sugar, and among their various flavours some of them may surely be palatable enough. The pain in your feet / can bear; but I shudder at the sickness in your stomach, and the weakness, that still continues. 1 conjure you, as you love yourself; 1 conjure you by Strawberry, not to trifle with these edge-tools. There is no cure for the gout, when in the stomach, but to throw it into the limbs. There is no GRAY'S LETTERS. 129 I'viiief for the gout in the limbs, but in gentle warnmth and gradual perspiration. I was much entertained with 3 our account ot oar neighbours. As an Englishman and all Antigallican, I rejoice at their dullness and their nastiness: though I fear we shall come to imitate them in both. Their athe- ism is a little too much, too shocking to re- joice at. I have been long sick at it in their authors, and hated them for it: but 1 pit^' their poor innocent people of fijshion. They were bad enough, wiien they believed every thing! I have searched where you directed me; which I could not do sooner, as I was at London when I received j^our letter, and could not easily find her grace's works. Here they abound in every library. The print you ask after is the frontispiece to Natur£*s pictures drawn by Fancy^s pencil. But lest there should be any mistake, I must tell you, the flimily are not at dinner, but sitting round a rousing fire and telling stories. The room is just such a one as we lived in at Rheims: 1 mean as to the glazing and ceiling. The chimney is supported by Caryatides: over the mantel piece the arms of the faniily. The duke and duchess are crowned with laurel A servant stands be* VOL. iv. 25 130 gray's letters. hind him, holding a hat and feather. Art- other is shutting a window. Diepenbecke delin. et (I think) S. Clouwe sculps. It is a very pretty and curious print, and I thank you for the sight of it. If it ever was a picture, what a picture to have! I must tell you, that upon cleaning an old picture here at St. John's Lodge, which I always took for a Holbein; on a ring, which the figure wears, they have found H. H. it has been always called B. V. Fisher; but is plainly a layman, and probably sir Anthony Denny, who was a benefactor to the col- lege. What is come of your Sevigne-curiosity? I should be glad of a line now and then, when you have leisure. I wish you well, and am ever Yours. CXXVII. TO DR. WHARTON. Pembroke-Hall, March 5, 1766. I AM amazed at myself when 1 think 1 have never wrote to you; to be sure it is the sin of witchcraft, or something worse. Had I gray's letters. 131 been married, like Mason, some excuse might be made for it; who (for the first time since that great event) has just thought fit to tell me that he never passed so happy a winter as the last, and this in spite of his anxieties, which he says might even make a part of his happiness; for his wife is by no means in health; she has a constant cough: yet he is assured her lungs are not affected, and that it is nothing of the consumptive kind. As to me, I have been neither happy nor miserable; but in a gentle stupefaction of mind, and very tolerable health of body hitherto. If they last, I shall not much complain. The accounts one has lately had from ail parts, make me suppose you buried in the snow, like the old queen of Denmark. — As soon as you are dug out, I shall rejoice to hear your voice from the battlements of Old Park, Every thing is politics. There are no literary productions worth your notice, at least of our country. — The French have finished their great Encyclopedia in 17 volumes; but there are many flims}^ articles very hastily treated, and great incorrectness of the press. There are now 13 volumes of Buffon's Natural History; and he is not come to the monkies yet, who are a nume^' 13;^ okay's letters. rous people. The Life of Petrarch has entertained me; it is not tvell written, but very curious, and laid together from his own letters, and the original writings of the fourteenth century; so that he takes in much of the history of those obscure times, and the characters of many remarkable per- sons. There are t»vo volumes quarto; and another, unpublished yet, will complete it. Mr. Walpole writes me now and then a lon^ 9nd lively letter from Paris; to which place he went last year Avith the gout upon him, sometimes in his limbs, often in his stomach and head. He has got somehow well, (not by means of the climate, one would think) goes to all public places, sees all the best company,'' and is veiry much in fashion. He says he sunk like queen Elea- nor at Charing-Cross, and has risen again at Paris. He returns in April. I saw the lady you inquire after, when I was last in London, and a prodigious fine one she is. She had a strong suspicion of rouge on her cheeks, a cage of foreign birds and a piping bullincii at her elbow; two little dogs on a cushion in her lap, and a cockatoo on her shoulder; they were all exceeding glad to see me, and 1 theai. gray's letters. 133 CXXVIII. TO DR. WHARTON. Peinbrcke-Hall, Aug. 25, 1766. Whatever my pen may do, I am siire my thoughts expatiate no where oftener, or with more pleasure, than to Old Park. I hope you have made my peace with the angry little lady. It is certain, wiiether her name were in my letter or not, she was as present to my memory as the rest of the whole family; and 1 desire you would pre- sent her with two kisses in my name, and one a-piece to all the others;. for I shi.ll take the liberty to kiss them all, (great and small) as you are to be my proxy.. In spite of the rain, which 1 think conti- nued, with very short intervals, till the beginning of this month, and quite etlhced the summer from the year, I made a ghifko pass May and June not disagreeably in Kent. — I was surprised at the beauty of the road to Canterbury, which (I know not why) had not struck me before. The whole country is a rich and well-cultivated i-arden; orchards, cherry-grounds, hcp-gai dens, in- termixed with corn and frequent villages; 134 - GRAV'S LETTERS. gentle risings covered with wood, and every where the Thames and Medway breaking in upon the landscape with all their naviga- tion. It was indeed owing to the bad weather that the whole scene was dressed in that tender emerald green, which one usually sees only for a fortnight in the opening of the spring; and this continued till I left the country. My residence was eight miles east of CanterlDury, in a little quiet valley on the skirts of BarhamDown.* In these parts the whole soil is chalk, and whenever it holds up, in half an hour it is dry enough to walk out. I took the oppor- tunity of three or four days' tine weather to go into the isle of Thanet; saw Margate, (which is Bartholomew fair by the sea-side) Ramsgate, and other places there; and so came by Sandwich, Deal, Dover, Folkstone, and Hithe, back again. The coast is not like Hartlepool; there are no rocks, but only chalky cliffs of no great height till you come to Dover; there indeed the}^ are no- ble and picturesque, and the opposite coasts of France begin to bound your view, which * At Denton, where his friend the Rev. William Robinson, bro- tluT lo Matthew Robiuson, esq. late membei- for Canterbury, then rejiide*!. was left before to range unlimited by any thing but the horizon; yet it is by no means a shipless sea, but every where peopled with white sails, and vessels of all sizes in mo- tion: and take notice, (except in the isle, which is all corn -fields, and has very little enclosure) there are in all places hedge- rows, and tall trees even within a few yards of the beach. Particularly, Hiihe stands on an eminence covered with wood. I shall confess we had fires at night (ay, and at day too) several times in June; but do not go and take advantage in the north at this, for it was the most untoward year that ever I re- member. Have you read the New Bath Guide? It is the only thing in fashion, and is a new and original kind of humour. Miss Prue's con- version, I doubt, you will paste down, as a certain Yorkshire baronet did before he car- ried it to his daughters: yet I remember you all read Crazy Tales without pasting. Buf- foti's first collection of monkies is come out, (it makes the 14th volume) something, but not much to my edification; for he is pretty well acquainted with their persons, but not with their manners. My compliments to Mrs. Wharton and all your family; I will not name them, lest 1 should affront anv body. 136 gray's letters. CXXIX. TO MP.. NICHOLLS. It is long since that I heard you were gone in haste into Yorkshire on account oi* your mother's illness, and tlie same letter inform- ed me that she was recovered, otherwise I had then wrote to you only to beg you would take care of her, and to inform you that I had discovered a thing very little known, which is, that in one's whole life one can never have any more than a single mother. You may think this is obvious, and (what you call) a trite observation. You are a green gosling! I was at the same age (very near) as wise as you, and yet 1 never discovered this (with full evidence and con- viction 1 mean) till it was too late. It is thirteen years ago, and seems but as yester- ened it almost at the pre- cise moment when it would necessarily be the most affecting. oray's letters. 139 iiaster of our pleasures and of our pains, preserve and support you! Adieu. 1 have4ong understood how little you had to hope. CXXXI. TO MR, BEATTIE. Old Park, near Darlingten, Diiriiam, August 13, 1767. I RECEIVED from Mr. Williamson that very obliging mark you were pleased to give me of your remembrance. Had I not enter- tained some slight hopes of revisiting Scot- land this summer, and consequently of see- ing you at Aberdeen, I had sooner acknow- ledged, by letter, the favour you have done me. Those hopes are now at an end; but I do not therefore despair of seeing again a country that has given me so much pleasure; nor of telling you, in person, how much I esteem you and (as you choose to call them) your amusements: the specimen of them, which you v«'ere so good as to send me, I think excellent; the sentiments are such as a melanchol}'^ imagination naturally suggests in solitude and silence, and that (though 140 gray's letters. light and business may suspend or banish them at times) return with but so mjjch the greater force upon a feehng heart: the dic- tion is elegant and unconstrained; not loaded with epithets and figures, nor flagging into prose; the versilication is ea?y and harmoni- ous. My only objection is '^ * * You see, sir, I take the liberty you in dulged me in, when I first saw you; and therefore I make no excuses for it, but de- sire you would take your revenge on me in kind. I have read over (but too hastily) Mr. Ferguson's book. There are uncommon strains of eloquence in it: and I was sur- prised to find not one single idiom of his country (I think) in the whole work. He has not the fiiult you mention:* his applica- * To explain this, I mast take the liherty to transcribe a pai-ap S;raph from Mr Beattie"s letter, dated March 30, to which the above is an answer : " \ professor at Edinburgh has published an Essay on the History of Civil Society, but I have not seen it It is a fault common to almost all our Scotch authors, that they are too metaphysical : I wish tfjey would learn to speak more to the heart, and less to the understanding : bn t alas ! this is a talent which Heaven only can bestow : whereas the philosophic spirit C as we call it) is mei-ely artificial and level to the capacity of every man, who has mucli patience, a little learning, a.id no taste." He has since dilated on this just sentiment in bis admira- ble Essay on the Immutability of Truth . OR ay's letters. 141 tion to the heart is frequent, and often suc- cessfuL His love of Montesquieu and Ta- citus has led him into a manner of writing too short-winded and sententious; which those great men, had they lived in better times and under a better governmeDt, would have avoided. I know no pretence that I have to the honour lord Gray is pleased to do metj but if his lordship chooses to own me, it certainly is not my business to deny it. I say not this merely on account of his quali- ty, but because he is a very worthy and ac- complished person. I am truly sorry for the great loss he has had since I left Scot- Lmd. If you should chance to see him, I will beg you to present my respectful hum- ble service to his lordship. • I gave Mr. WiUiamson all the information I was able in the short time he stayed with me. He seemed to answer well the cha- racter you gave me of him: but what I chielly envied in him, was his ability of walking all the way from Aberdeen to Cam- bridge, and back again; which if I posses- sed, you would soon see your obliged, &.c. t Lord Gray had said tbat cur author was relattxl to his family 142 gray's letters. CXXXIl. TO MR. EEATTIE. Fembtoke-Hall, Dec. 24, 1767. Since I had the pleasure of receiving your last letter, which did not reach me till 1 had left the North, and was come to London, I have been confined to my room with a fit of the gout: now I am recovered and in quiet at Cambridge, I take up my pen to thank you for your very friendly offers, which have so much the air of frankness and real good meaning, that were my body as tracta- ble and easy of conveyance as my mind, you would see me to-morrow in the chamber you have so hospitably laid out for me at Aber- deen. But, alasl I am a summer-bird, and can only sit drooping till the sun returns: even then too my wings may chance to be clipped, and little in plight for so distant an excursion. The proposal you make me, about print- ing at Glasgow what little I have ever writ- ten, does me honour. I leave my reputation in that part of the kingdom to your care: and only desire you would not set your par- tiality to me and mine mislead you. If you 143 persist in your design, Mr. Foulis certainly ought to be acquainted with what I am now going to tell you When I was in London the last spring, Dodsley, the bookseller, asked nay leave to reprint, in a smaller form, all I ever published; to which I consented: and added, that 1 would send him a few ex- planatory notes; and if he would omit en- tirely the Lons^ Story (which was never meant for the public, and only suffered to appear in that pompous edition because of Mr. Bentley's designs, which were not intel- ligible without it), I promised to send him something else to print instead of it, lest the bulk of so small a volume should be reduced to nothing at all. Now it is very certain that 1 had rather see them printed at Glas- gow (especially as you will condescend to revise the press) than at London; but I know not how to retract my promise to Dodsley. By the way, you perhaps may imagine that I have some kind of interest in this publica- tion; but the truth is, I have none whatever. The expense is his, and so is the profit if there be any. I therefore told him the other day, in general terms, that I he^ird there would be an edition put out in Scot- land, by a friend of mine, whom I could not refuse; and that, if so, I would send thither 144 GRAV'S LETTERS. a copy of the same notes and additions that I had proniisod to send to hirn. This did not seem at all to cool his courage; Mr. Foulis must therefore judjj;e for himself, whether he thinks it uortii while to print what is going to he printed also at London. If he docs, I will send him (in a packet to you) the ^ame things I shall send to Dodsley. They arc imitations of two pieces of old Norwegian poetry, in vvhicii there was a wild spirit that struck me: but for my para- plirases I cannot say nrtich; you will judge. The rest are nothing but a few parallel passages, and small notes just to explain what people said at the time was wrapped in total darkness. You will please to tell me. as soon as you can conveniently, what Mr. Foulis says on this head; that (if he drops the design) 1 may save myself and you the trouble of this packet. 1 ask your pardon for talking so long about it; a little more, and my letter would be as big as all my works. I have read, with much pleasure, an ode of yours (in which you have done me the honour to adopt a measure that 1 have used) on lord Hay's birth-day Though I do not love panegyric, I cannot but applaud this, for there is nothing mean in it. The diction gray's letters. 145 is easy and noble, the textnre of the thoughts lyric, and the versification harmonious. The few expressions I object to are * * *. These, indeed, are minutiae; but they weigh for something, as half a grain makes a difference in the value of a diamond. CXXXIII. TO MR. HOVf . Pembrt)ke.Hall, Jan. 12, 1768. I WAS willing to go through the eight volumes of count Algarotti's works, which you lately presented to the library of this college, be- fore I returned you an answer: this must be my excuse to you for my silence. First, 1 condole with you, that so neat an edition should swarm in almost every page with errors of the press, not only in notes and citations from Greek, English and French authors, but in the Italian text itself, greatly to the disreputation of the Leghorn pub- lishers. This is the only reason, I think, that could make an edition in England ne- ces. The French Pockes j Nothing I , Good to be in debt ;>praisecl. Sadnesse Juhan the Apostate's vertiies J The title-page nill probably suffice you; but if you would know any more of him, he has read nothing but the common chronicles, and tliose without attention: for example, speaking of Anne the queen, he says, she was barren^ of which Richard had often com- plained to Rotheram. He extenuates the murder of Henry VI. and his son: the first, he says, might be a malicious accusation, for that many did suppose he died of mere melancholy and grief: the latter cannot be proved to be the action of Richard (though executed in his presence); and if it were, he did it out of love to his brother Edward. He justifies the death of the lords at Fom- fret, from reasons of state, for his own pre- servation, the safety of the commonwealth, and the ancient nobility. The execnlion of Hastings he excuses from necessity, from the dishonesty and sensuality of tl.e man: what was his crime with respect to Richard^ he does not say. Dr. Shaw's sermon was not by th'- king's command, but to be impat- VOL. IV. 27 162 gray's letters. ed to the preacher's own ambition: but if it was by order, to charge his mother with adul- tery was a matter of no such gnat moment^ since it is no wonder in that bcx. Of the murder in the Tower he doubts; but if it were by his order, the offence was to God, not to his people; and how could he dtmon- slraie his love more amply ^ than to venture his soul for their quiet ? Have you enough, pray? You see it is an idle declamation, the exer- cise of a school-boy that is to be bred a statesman. I iiave looked in Stowe: to be sure there is no proclamation there. Mr. Hume, I suppose, means Speed, where it is given, hovv truly I know not; but that he had seen the original is sure, and seems to quote the very words of it in the beginning of that f^peech which Perkin makes to James IV. and also just afterwards, where he treats of the Cornish rebellion. Gulhrie, you see, has vented himself in trie Critical Review. His History I never saw, nor is it here, nor do 1 know any one that ever saw it. He is a rascal, but rascals may chance to meet with curious records; and Uiat commission to sir J. Tyrell (if it be not a lie) is such: so is the order for Henry the Sixth's funeral. I would by no gray's letters. 163 means take notice of him, write what he would. I am glad you have seen the Man-" chester-roll. It is not I that talk of Phil, de Comines; it was mentioned to me as a thing that look- ed like a voluntary omission: but 1 see you have taken notice of it in the note to page 71, though rather too slightly. You have not observed that the same v/riter says,c, 55, Richard tua de sa main, ou Jit tucr en sa presence, quelqiie lieu apart, ce bon homtne le roi Henri/. Another oversight I think there is at p. 43, where you speak of the roll of parliament and the contract with lady Elea- nor Boteler, as things newly come to light; whereas Speed has given at large the same roll in his History. Adieu! CXXXVIII. TO THE DUKE OF GRAFTON. Cambridge, July, 1768. My lord, YbuR grace has dealt nobly with me; and the same delicacy of mind that induced you to confer this favour on me, unsolicited and unexpected, may perhaps make you averse 164 gray's letters. to receive my sincerest thanks and grateful acknowledgments. Yet your grace must excuse me, they will have theii* way: they are indeed but words; yet I know and feel they come fi-om my heart, and therefore are not wholly unworthy of your grace's accep- tance. I even flatter myself (such is my pride) that you have some little satisfaction in your own work. If I did not deceive myself in this, it would complete the happi- ness of, A My lord, your grace's Most obliored and devoted servant. CXXXIX. Jerniyn-street, Aug. 3, 1768. That Mr. Brocket has broken his neck by a fall from his horse, you will have seen in the newspapers; and also that I, your hum- ble servant, have kissed the king's hand for his succession; they are both true, but the manner how you know not; only 1 can as- * Rector of Lou nde and Bradwell,in Suffolk. His acquaintance with Mr. Gray commenced a few years before the date ef this, when he was a student of Trinity-Hall, Cambridge. gray's letters. 165 sure you that I had no hand at all in his fall, and almost as little in the second event. He died on the Sunday; on Wednesday follow- ing his grace the duke of Grafton wrote me a very polite letter, to say that his majesty had commanded him to offer me the vacant professorship, not only as a reward of, &c. but as a credit to, &c. with much more too high for me to transcribe. So on Thursday the king signed the warrant, and next day, at his levee, I kissed his hand; he made me several gracious speeches, which I shall not repeat, because every body, that goes to court, does so: besides, the day was so hot, and the ceremony so embarrassing to me, that I hardly knew what he said. Adieu. 1 am to perish here with heat this fortnight yet, and then to Cambridge; to be sure my dignity is a little the worse for wear, but mended and washed, it will do for me. CXL. TO MR. BEATTIE. Fembroke-Hall, Oct. 31, 1768. It is some time since I received from Mr. Foulis two copies of my poems, one by the 166 gray's letters. hands of Mr. T. Pitt, the other by Mr. Mer- rill, a bookseller of this town: it is indeed a most beautiful edition, and must certainly do credit both to him and to me: but 1 fear it will be of no other advantage to him, as J^odsley has contrived to glut the town alreadj' with two editions beforehand, one of 1500, and the other of 750, both indeed far inferior to that of Glasgow, but sold at half the price. I must repeat my thanks, sir, for the trouble you have been pleased to give yourself on my. account; and through you I must desire leave to convey my acknowledgmetits to Mr. Foulis, for the pains and expense he has been at in this publication. We live at sp great a distance, that, per- liaps, you may not yet have learned, what, I flatter myself, you will not be displeased to hear: the middle of last summer his majes- ty was pleased to appoint me Regius Profes- sor of Modern History in this university; it is the best thing the crown has to bestow (on a layman) here; the salary is 400/. per annum, but what enhances the value of it to me is, that it was bestowed without being asked. The person who held it before me, died on the Sunday; and on Wednesday fol- Ipwins: the duke of r, r;^fton wrote me a let- gray's letters. 167 ter to say, tbot the king offered me this office, with many additional expressions of kindness on his grace's part, to whom 1 am but little known, and whom I have not seen either before or since he did me this favour. Instances of a benetit so nobly conferred, I believe, are rare; and therefore I tell you of it as a thing that does honour, not only to me, but to the minister. As 1 lived here before from choice, I shall now continue to do so from obligation: if business or cmi iosity sho'.j'id call yoa south- wards, you will find few friends that will see you with more cordial satisfaction, than. dear sir, &c. CXLI. TO MR. NICHOLLS. { WAS absent from college, and did not re- ceive your melancholy letter till my return hither yesterday; so you must not attribute this delay to me but to accident; to sympa- thize with you in such a loss* is an easy task * The death of bis uncle, goranor Floycr. 16*8 gray's letters. for me, but to comfort you not so easy; can I wish to see you unaffected witli the sad scene now before your eyes, or with the loss of a person that, through a great part of your life, has proved himself so kind a friend to you? He who best knows our nature (for he made us what we are) by such afflictions recalls us from our wander- ing thoughts and idle merriment; from the insolence of youth and prosperity, to seri- ous reflection, to our duty, and to himself; nor need we hasie'.i to get rid of these im pressions; time (by appointment of the same Power) will cure the smart, and in some hearts soon blot out all the traces of sor- row: but such as preserve them longest (for it is partly left in our own power) do ■perhaps best acquiesce in the will of the Chastiser. For the consequences of this sudden loss, I see them well, and I think, in a like situation, could fortily my mind, so as to support them with cheerfulness and good hopes, though not naturally inclined to see things in their best aspect. When you have time to turn yourself round, you must think seriously of your profession; you know I would have wished to see you wear the livery of it long ago: but I will gray's letters. 169 DOt dwell on this subject at present. To be (ibliged to those we love and esteem is a ple-isure; but to serve and oblige them is a still greater; and this, with independence (no vulgar blessing) are what a profession at your age may reasonably promise: with- out it they are hardly attainable. Remem- ber 1 speak from experience. In the mean time, while your present situation lasts, which I hope will not be long, continue your kindness and confidence in me, by trusting me with the whole of it; and surely you hazard nothing by so doing: that situation does not appear so new to me fis it 4loes to you. You well know the tenour of my conversation (urged at times perhaps a little farther than you liked) has been intended to*^ prepare you for this event, and to familiarize your mind with this spectre, which you call by its worst name: but remember that " Honesta res est leeta paupertas." I see it with re- spect, and so will every one, whose pov- erty is not seated in their mind.* There is but one real evil in it (take my word who know it well) and that is, that you have less the power of assisting others, * An excellent thought finely expressed* 170 gray's letters. who have not the same resources to sup- port them. You have youth: you have many kind well-intentioned people belong- ing to you; many acquaintance of your own, or families that will wish to serve you. Consider how many have had the same, or greater cause for dejection, with none of these resources before their eyes. Adieu! I sincerely wish you happiness. P.S. I have just heard that a friend of mine is struck with a paralytic disorder, in which state it is likely he may live incapable of assisting himself, in the hands of servants or relations that only gape after his spoils, perhaps for vcais tG come: think how many things may befall a man far worse thrtn poverty or death. CXUI. TO MR. NICHOLLS. Pembroke College, June 24, 1769. And so you have a garden of your own,* and you plant and transplant, and are dirty * Mr. Nicholls, by having pursued the advice of his correspon- dent, we find was now possessed (^ that eonipeteiicy which he okay's letters. 171 and amused! Are not you ashamed of your- self ? Why, I have no such thing, you mon- ster, uor ever shall be either dirty or amus- ed as long as I live. My gardens are in the windows like those of a lodger up three pair of stairs in Petticoat-Lane, or Camo- mile-Street, and they go to bed regularly under the same roof that I do. Dear, how charming it must be to walk out in one's own gardins^^ and sit on a bench in the opea air, with a fountain and leaden statue, and a rolling stone, and an arbour: have a care of soar-throats though, and the agoe. However, be it known to you, though I have no garden, I have sold my estate and got a thousand guineas,* and fourscore pounds a year for mv old aunt, and a twenty pound prize in the lottery, and Lord knows what arrears in the treasury, and am a rich fellow enough, go to; and a fellow that hath had losses, and one that hath two gowns, wished him. Happy^ not only in having so sage an adviser, but ill his own good sense which pron.pted him to follow such advice. The g:ayety, whim, and humour of this letter contrast prettily with the gravity and serious reflection of the former. * Consisting of houses on the west side of Hand-Alley. London : Mrs. Glide was the aunt here mentioned, who bad a share in this estate, and for whom iie procured this annuity.^ She died in 1771, a few raomhs before her nephew. 172 grab's letters. a!id every thing handsome about hitn, and in a few days shall have new window curtains: are you advised of that? Ay, and a new mattress to lie upon. My ode has been rehearsed again and again,* and the scholars have got scraps by heart: I expect to see it torn piece-meal in the North-Briton before it is born. — If you will come you shall see it, and sing in it amidst a chorus from Salisbury and Glouces- ter music meeting, great names there, and all well versed in Judas Maccabaeus. I wish it were once over; for then I immediately go for a few days to London, and so with Mr. Brown to Aston, though I fear it will rain the whole summer, and Skiddaw will be invisible and inaccessible to mortals. I have got De la Lande's Voyage through Italy, in eight volumes; he is a member of the academy of sciences, and pretty good to read. I have read too an octavo volume of Shenstone's Letters: poor man! he was al- ways wishing for money, for fame, and other distinctions; and his whole philosophy con- sisted in living against his will in retirement, and in a place which his taste had adorned; but which he onl}*" enjoyed when people of t Ocle for Music on the duke of Grafton's installation. Sec Poems. His reason for writing it is given in the next letter. ghay's letters. 173 note came to see and commend it: his cor- respondence is about nothing else but this place and his own writings, with two or three neighbouring clergymen who wrote verses too. I have just found the. beginning of a let- ter, which somebody had dropped: I should rather call it tirst-thoughts for the begin- ning of a letter; for there are many scrr^tches and correction?. As 1 cannot use it myself, (having got a beginning already of my own) I send it for your use on some great occa- sion. Dar Sir., " After so long silence, the hopes of par- don, and prospect of forgiveness might seem entirely extinct, or at least very remote, was 1 not truly sensible of your goodness and candour, which is the only asylum that my negligence can fly to, since every apo- logy wo lid prove insufficient to counter- balance it, or alleviate my fault: how then shall my deficiency presume to make so bold an attempt, or be able to suffer the hard- ships of so rough a campaign?" kc. &;c. &c. 174 GRAY S LETTERS. CXLIIl. TO MR. BEATTIE. Cambridge, July 16, 1769. The late ceremony of the chike of Grafton's installation has hindered me from acknow- ledging sooner the satisfaction your friendly compliment gave me: I thought myself bound in gratitude to his grace, unasked, to take upon me the task of writing those verses which are usually set to music on this occa- sion.* I do not think them worth sending you, because tliey are by nature doomed to live but a single day; or, if their existen«"e is prolonged beyond that date, it is only by means of newspaper parodies, and witless criticisms. This sort of Jibuse I had reason to expect, but did not think it worth while to avoid. * In a short note ■whirh he vftote to Mr. Stonhewer, June 12, -when, at his request, he seiit him the ode in manuscript for his grace's perusal, he exprestss this motive more fully. " I did not intend the duke should have heard me till he could not help it. Tou are desired to make the best excuses you can to his grace for the liberty I have taken of praising him to his face ; but as some- body was necessai'ily to do this, I did uot see why gratitude should sit silent and leave it to Fxpectation to sing, who certainly would hare sung* and that a gorge deployee upon such an occasion." gray's letters. 175 Mr. Foulis is maj;nilicent in his gratitude:* I cannot figure to myself ho'.v it can be worth his while to offer me such a present. Yon can judge better of it than I; and if he does not hurt himself by it, I would accept bis Homer with many thanks. I have not got or even seen it. I could wish to subscribe to his new edi- tion of Milton, and desire to be set down for two copies of the large paper; but you must inform me where and when I may pay the money. You have taught me to long for a second letter, and particularly for what you say will make the contents of it. t 1 have nothing to requite it with but plain and friendly truth, and that you shall have, joined to a zeal for your ftime, and a pleasure in your success. I am now setting forward on a journey towards the north of England; but it will not reach so far as I could wish. I must return hither before Michaelmas, and shall barely * When the Glasgow edition of Air Gray's poems was sold off' (which it was in a short tiine) Mr. Foulis, finding hiir.self a con- siderable gainer, raeutioued to Mi. Bcattie, tba> he wished to make Ml- Gray a present either of his Homei', in 4 vols, folio, or the Greek historians, piiiited likewise at his press, in : Q vols, duode- eimo. t His forrespondent had intimated to him his intention of send- ing him his first book of the Minsttel. 176 ©ray's letters. have time to visit a few places, and ;j few friends. CXLIV. TO DR. WHARTON. Aston, Oct. 18, 1769. J HOPE yo«] got safe and well home after that troublesome night.'* 1 long- to hear jou say so. For me, 1 have continued well, been so * Dr. Wharton, who had intended to accompany Mr Gray to Keswick, was seized at Brongh with a violent fit of his asthma, which obliged him to retvim home. This was the reason thai Mr. Gray undertook to write the following journal of his tour for his friend's amusement. He sent it under diftert rit covers. I give it here in continuation. It may not he amiss, however, to hint to the reader, that if he expects to find elaborate and nicelj-turntd peri- ods in this narration, he will be givatly .dlsappointetl. "When Mr. Gray described places, he aimed only to be exact, tkar, and intel- ligible ; to convey peculiar, not general ideas, and to paint by the eye, not the fancy. There lave been many accounts of the West- moreland and Cumberland lakes, both before and since this was written, and all of them better calculated to please readers who are fond of what they C2i\\fne writing : yet those, who can content themselves with an elegant simplicity of nanative, will, I flatter jnyself, find this to their taste ; they will i)erceive it was written with a view rather to inform than surprise ; and, if they make it their co.npanion when they take the same tour, it will enhance their opinion of its intrinsic excellence ; in this way I tiied it myself before 1 resolved to print it. gray's letters. 177 favoured by the weather, that my walks have never once been hindered till yester- day) that is a fortnight and three or four days, and a journey of more than 300 miles). I am novv at Aston for tvvo da\'^s. To-mor- row I go to Cambridge. Mason is not here, but Mr. Alderson receives me. According to my promise, I send you the first sheet of my journal, to be continued without end. Sept. 30. A mile and a half from Brough, where we parted, on a hill, lay a great army* encamped: to the left opened a fine valley with green meadows and hedge-rows, a gen- tleman's house peeping forth from a grove of old trees. On a nearer approach appeared myriads of cattle and horses in the road itself, and in all the fields round me, a brisk stream hurrying cross the way, thousands of clean healthy people in their best party-coloured apparel: farmers and their families, enquires and their daughters, hastening up from the dales and down the fells from every quarter, glittering in the sun, and pressing forward to join the throng; while the dark bins, on whose tops the mists were yet hanging, served as a contrast to this gay and moving * There is a great fair for cattle kept on the Wll near Brough on this day and the prectdiug. VOL. ir. 28 178 gray's letters. scene, which continued for near two miles more along the road, and the crowd (coming towards it) reached on as far as Appleby. Op the ascent of the hill above Appleby the thick hanging wood, and the long reaches of the Eden, clear, rapid, and as full as ever, winding below, with views of the castle and town, gave much employment to the mir- ror:'^ but now the sun was wanting, and the sky overcast. Oats and barley cut every where, but not carried in. Passed Kirby- thore, sir William Dalston's house at Acorn- Bank, Whinfield Park, Harthorn Oaks, Coun- tess-Pillar, Brougham Castle, Mr. Brown's large new house ; crossed the Eden and the Eimot (pronounce Eeman) with its green vale, and dined at three o'clock with Mrs. Buchanan at Penrith, on trout and partridge. In the afternoon walked up Beacon-hill, a mile to the top, and could see Ulswater through an opening in the bosom of that cluster of broken mountains, which the doc- tor well remembers, Whinfield and Lowther * Mr. Gray carried usually with him on these tours a planet convex mirror of about four inches diameter on a black foil, and bound up like a pocket-book. A glass of this soit is perhaps the best and most convenient sul'stitute for a camera obscura, of any thing that has hitherto be«n iiirented, and may be hsui cf any optician. gray's letters. 179 parks, &c. and the craggy tops of an hun- dred nameless hills: these lie to west and south. To the north, a great extent of black and dreary plains. To the east, Cross- fell, just visible through mists and vapours hovering round it. Oct, 1. A gra3^ autumnal day, the air per- fectly calm and mild; went to see Ulswater, five miles distant; soon left the Keswick- road, and turned to thfe left, through shady lanes, along the vale of Eeman, which runs rapidly on near the way, rippling over the stones; to the right is Delmaine, a large fabric of pale red stone, with nine windows in front and seven on the side, built by Mr. Hassle; behind it a fine lawn surrounded by woods, and a long rocky eminence rising over them: a clear and brisk rivulet runs by the house to join the Eeman, whose course is in sight and at a small distance. Farther on appears Hatton St. John, a cas- tle-like old mansion of Mr. Huddleston. Approached Dunmallert, a fine pointed hill covered with wood, planted by old Mr. Hassle before-mentioned, who lives always at home, and delights in planting. Walked over a spongy meadow or two, and began to mount the hill through a broad straight green alley among the trees, and with some toil )80 gained the summit. From hence saw the lake opening directly at my feet, majestic in its calmness, clear and smooth as a blue mirror, with winding shores and low points of land covered with green enclosures, white farm-houses looking out among the trees, and cattle feeding. The water is almost every where bordered with cultivated lands, gently sloping upwards from a mile to a quarter of a mile in breadth, till' they reach the feet of the mountains, which rise very rude and awful with their broken tops on either hand. Directly in front, at better than three miles distance, Place-Fell, one of the bravest among them, pushes its bold broad breast into the midst of the lake, and forces it to alter its course, forming first a large bay to the left, and then bending to the right. I descended Dunmallert again by a side avenue, that was only not perpen- dicular, and came to Bartonbridge over the JEeman, then walking through a path in the wood round the bottom of the hill, came forth where the Eeman issues out of the lake, and continued my way along its wes- tern shore close to the water, and generally on a level with it. Saw a cormorant flying over it and fishing. The figure of the lake nothing resembles that laid down in our gray's letters. 181 maps: it is nine miles long, and at widest under a mile in breadth. After extending itself three miles and a half in a line to the south-west, it turns at the foot of Place«Fell almost due west, and is here not twice the breadth of the Thames at London. It is soon again interrupted b}'^ the root of Hel- vellyn, a lofty and very rugged mountain; and spreading again, turns oft' to south-east, and is lost among the deep recesses of the hills. To this second turning I pursued ray way about four miles along its borders be- yond a village scattered among trees, and called Water-Mallock, in a pleasant grave day, perfectly calm and warm, but without a gleam of sunshine; then the sky seeming to thicken, and the valley to grow more de- solate, and evening drawing on, I returned by the way 1 came to Penrith. OcL 2. I set out at ten for Keswick, by the road we went in 1767; saw Greystock town and castle to the right, which lie about three miles from Ulswater over the fells; passed through Penradoch and Threlcot at the foot of Saddleback, whose furrowed sides were gilt by the noonday sun, whilst its brow appeared of a sad purple from the shadow of the clouds as they sailed slowly by it. The broad aid green valley of Gar i'6'£ gray's letters. dies and Lowside, with a swift stream glit- tering among the cottages and meadows, lay to the left, and the much finer but narrower valley of St. John's opening into it: Hilltop, the large though low mansion of the Gas- karths, now a farm-house, seated on an emi- nence among woods, under a steep fell, was what appeared the most conspicuous, and beside it a great rock, like some ancient tower nodding to its fall. Passed by the side of Skiddaw and its cub called Latter-rig; and saw from an eminence, at two miles distance, the vale of Elysium in all its ver- dure; VhQ sun then playing on the bosom of the lake, and lighting up all the mountains with its lustre. Dined by two o'clock at the Queen's Head, and then straggled out alone to the Parsonage, where I saw the sun set in all its glory. Oct. 3. A heavenly day; rose at seven and walked out under the conduct of my landlord to Borrowdale; the grass was co- vered with a hoar-frost, which soon melted and exhaled in a thin blueish smoke; crossed the meadows, obliquely catching a diversity of views among the hills over the lake and islands, and changing prospect at every ten paces. Left Cockshut (which we formerly mounted J and Castle-hill, a loftier and more GRAlr's LETTERS. 183 rugged hill behind me, and drew near the foot of Wallacrag, whose bare and rocky- brow cut perpendicularly down above 400 feet (as I guess, though the people call it much more) awfully overlooks the way. Our path here tends to the left, and the ground gently rising and covered with a glade of scattering trees and bushes on the very margin of the water, opens both ways the most delicious view that my eyes ever beheld; opposite are the thick woods of lord Egremont and Newland-valley, with green and smiling fields embosomed in the dark cliffs; to the left the jaws of Borrowdale, with that turbulent chaos of mountain be- hind mountain, rolled in confusion; beneath you, and stretching far away to the right, the shining purity of the lake reflecting rocks, woods, fields, and inverted tops of hills, just ruffled by the breeze, enough to show it is alive, with the white buildings of Keswick, Crosthwaite church, and Skiddaw for a back ground at a distance. Behind you the magnificent heights of Walla-crag: here the glass played its part divinely ; the place is called Carfclose-reeds; and 1 chose to set down these barbarous names, that any body may inquire on the place, and easily find the particular station that I mean. This 184 gray's letters. scene continues to Barrow-gate, and a little farther, passing a brook called Barrow-beck; we entered Borrowdale: the crags named Lawdoor banks begin now to impend terribly over your way, and more terribly when you hear that three years since an immense mass of rock tumbled at once from the brow, and barred all access to the dale (for this is the only road) till they could work their way through it. Luckily no one was passing at the time of this fall; but down the side of the mountain, and far into the lake, lie dispersed the huge fragments of this ruin in all shapes and in all directions: something farther we turned aside into a coppice, ascending a little in front of Lawdoor water-fall; the height appeared to be about 200 feet, the quantity of water not great, though (these three days excepted) it had rained daily in the hills for near two months before: but then the stream was nobly broken, leaping from rock to rock, and foaming with fury. On one side a towering crag that spired up to equal, if not overtop, the neighbouring tilifls (this lay all in shade find darkness): on the other hand a rounder broader projecting hill shagged with wood, and illuminated by the sunj which glanced sideways on the up- per part of the cataract. The force of the gray's letters. 185 water wearing a deep channel in the ground, hurries away to join the lake. We descend- ed again, and passed the streano over a rude bridge. Soon after we came under Gowdar- crag, a hill more formidable to the eye, and to the apprehension, than that of Lawdoor; the rocks at top, deep-cloven perpendicular- ly by the rains, hanging loose and nodding forwards, seem just starting from their base in shivers. The whole way down, and the road on both sides is strewed with piles of the fragments strangely thrown across each other, and of a dreadful bulk; the place re- minds me of those passes in the Alps, where the guides tell you to move on with speed, and say nothing, lest the agitation of the air should loosen the snows above, and bring down a mass that would overwhelm a cara- van. I took their counsel here, and hasten- ed on in silence. Non ragioDiam di lor, ma g^uarda, e passa ! The hills here are clothed all up their steep sides with oak, ash, birch, holly, kc. : some of it has been cut forty years ago, some within these eight years; yet all is sprung again, green, flourishing, and tall, for its age, in a place where no soil appears but 186 GRA¥'S LETiTERS. the staring rock, and where a man could scarce stand upright: here we met a civil young farmer overseeing his reapers (for it is now oat harvest) who conducted us to a neat white house in the vilhige of Grange, which is built on a rising ground in the midst of a valley; round it the mountains form an awful amphitheatre, and through it obliquely runs the Derwent clear as glass, and showing under its bridge every trout that passes. Beside the village rises around eminence of rock covered entirely with old trees, and over that more proudly towers Castle-crag, invested also with wood on its sides, and bearing on its naked top some tra- ces of a fort said to be Roman. By the side of this hill, which al;nost blocks up the way, ihe valley turns to the left, and contracts its dimensions till there is hardly any road but the rocky bed of the river. The wood of the mountains increases, and .their summits grow loftier to the eye, and of more fantastic forms; among them appear Eagle 's-cl iff, Dove's-nest, Whitedale-pike, &c. celebrated names in the annals of Kesvvick. The dale opens about four miles higher till you come to Seawhaite (where lies the way, mounting the hills to the right, that leads to the Wadd- mines); all farther access is here barred to gray's letteks. 187 prying mortals, only there is a little path winding over the fells, and for some weeks in the year passable to the dalesmen; but the mountains know well that these innocent people will not reveal the mysteries of their ancient kingdom, "the reign of Chaos and Old Night:" only 1 learned that this dread- ful road, dividing again, leads one branch to Ravenglas, and the other to Hawkshead. For me, I went no farther than the far- mer's (better than four miles from Keswick) at Grange; his mother and he brought us butter that Siserah would have jumped at, though not in a lordly dish, bowls of milk, thin oaten cakes and ale; and we had car- ried a cold tongue thither with us. Our fir- mer was him«elf the man that last year plun- dered the eagle's eyrie; all the dale are up in arms on such an occasion, for they lose abundance of lambs yearly, not to mention hares, partridges, grouse, &c. He was let down from the cliff in ropes to the shelf of the rock on which the nest was bnilt, the people above shouting and hollowing to fright the old birds, which flew screaming round, but did not dare to attack him. He brought off the eaglet (for there is rarely more than one) and an addle egg. The nest was roundish, and more than a yard over, made 188 Cray's letters. of twigs twisted together. Seldom a year passes but they take the brood or eggs, and sometimes they shoot one, sometimes the other parent; but the survivor has alwaj^s fonnd a mate (probably in Ireland) and they breed near the old place. By his descrip- tion, J learn that this species is the Erne^ the vulture Albicilla of Linnaeus, in his last edition, (but in yours Falco Albicilla) so con- sult him and Pennant about it. We returned leisurely home the ivay we came; but saw a new landscape; the features indeed were the same in part, but many new ones were disclosed by the mid-day sun, and the tints were entirely changed: take notice this was the best, or perhaps the only day forgoing up Skiddaw, but 1 thought it better employed; it was perfectly serene, and hot as midsummer. In the evening I walked alone down to the lake by the side of Crow-park after sun- set, and saw the solemn colouring of night draw on, the last gleam of sunshine fading away on the hill-tops, the deep serene of the waters, and the long shadows of the mountains thrown across them, till they nearly touched the hithermost shore. At a distance were heard the murmurs of many GRAY S LETTERS. 189 water- fills, not audible in the day-time; I wished for the moon, but she was dark to me and silent. Hid in her vacant interlunar cave. Oct. 4. I walked to Crow-park, now a rough pasture, once a glade of ancient oaks, whose large roots still remain on the ground, but nothing has sprung from them. If one sin- gle tree had remained, this would have been an unparalleled spot; and Smith judged right, when he took his print of the lake from hence, for it is a gentle eminence, not too high, on the very margin of the water, and commanding it from end to end, looking full into the gorge of Borrowdale. I prefer it even to Cockshut-hill, which lies beside it, and to which I walked in the afternoon; it is covered with young trees both sown and planted, oak, spruce, Scotch-f^r, kc. all which thrive wonderfully. There is an easy ascent to the top, and the view far preferable to that on Castle-hill (which you remember) because this is lower and nearer to the lake: for I find all points, that are much elevated, spoil the beauty of the valley, and make its parts, which are not large, look poor and diminu- 190 gray's letters. live.* While 1 was here a little shower fell, red clouds came marching up the hills from the east, and part of a bright rain- bow seemed to rise along the side of Cas- tle-hill. From hence 1 got to the Parsonage a lit- tle before sun-set, and saw in my glass a picture, that if I could transmit to you, and tix it in all the softness of its living colours, would fairly sell for a thousand pounds. This is the sweetest scene 1 can yet discover in point of pastoral beauty; the rest are in a sublimer style. Oct. 5. I walked through the meadows and corn-fields to the Derwent, and cross- ing it went up How-hill; it looks along Bas- singthwaite-water, and sees at the same time • The picturesque point is always thus low ia all prospects ; a trutk, which though the landscape painter knows, he cannot silwayS observe ; since the patron who emplo) s him to lake a view of his place, usvially carries him to some elevation for that purjiose, in order, I suppose, that he may have more of him for his money. Yet when 1 say this, I would not be thought to mean that a draw- ing should be made from the lowest poim possible ; as for in- stance, in this very vi^w, from the lake itself, for then a fore-ground would be wanting. On this account, when I sailed on Derwent- ■water, I did not receive so much pleasure from the superb amphi- theatre of mountains around me, as when, like Mr. Gray, I tra- versed its mar^u ; and I therefore think be did not lose much by not taking boat. gray's letters. 191 the course of the river, and a part of the upper-lake, with a full view of Skiddavv; then I took my way through Portingskall village to the park, a hill so called, covered entirely with wood; it is all a mass of crum- bling slate. Passed round its foot between the trees and the edge of the water, and came to a peninsula that juts out into the lake, and looks along it both ways; in front rises Walla crag and Castle hiil, the town, the road lo Penrith, Skiddaw, and Saddle- back. Returning, met a brisk and cold north- eastern bl.ist that ruffled all the surface of the lake, and made it rise in little waves that broke at the foot of the wood. After dinner walked up the Penrith road two miles, or more, and turning into a corn- field to the right, called Castle-rig, saw a Druid-circle of large stones, 108 feet in di- ameter, the biggest not eight feet high, but most of them still erect; they are lifty in number. The valley of St. John's appear- ed in sight, and the summits of Catchide- cam (called by Camden, Casticand) and Hel- vellyn, said to be as high as Skiddaw, and to rise from a much higher base. Oct. 6. ♦Went in a chaise eight miles along the east-side of Bassingthwaite water to Ousebridge (pronounced Ews-bridge); the 1^2 gray's letters. road in some part made and very good, the rest slippery and dangerous cart-road, or narrow rug:ged lanes, but no precipices; it runs directly along the foot of Skiddavv; op- posite to Widhopebrows, clothed to the top with wood, a very beautiful view opens down to the lake, which is narrower and longer than that of Keswick, less broken into bays, and without islands.* At the foot of it, a few paces from the brink, gently sloping upwards, stands Armathwaite in a thick grove of Scotch firs, commanding a noble view directly up the lake: at a small distance behind the house is a large extent of wood, and still behind this a ridge of cultivated hills, on which, according to the Keswick proverb, the sun always shines. The inhabitants here, on the contrary, call the vale of Derwentwater, the DeviVn Cham- ber-pot, and pronounce the name of Skiddaw- fell, which terminates here, with a sort of terror and aversion. Armathwaite house is a modern fabric, not large, and built of dark- red stone, belonging to Mr. Spedding, whose grandfather was steward to old sir James * It is somewhat extraordinary that Mr. Gray omitted to men^ tion the islands on Derwentwater ; one of which, I think they call it Vicar's Island, makes a principal object in the scene. See Smith's View of Derwentwater. 193 Lovvther, and bought this estate of the Hi- mers. The sky was overcast and the wind cool; so, after dining at a public-house, which stands here near the bridge, (that crosses the Derwent just where it issues from the lake) and sauntering a little by the water-side, I came home again. The turn- pike is finished from Cockermouth hither, five miles, and is carrying on to Penrith: se- veral little showers to-day. A man came in, who said there was snow on Cross-fell this morning. Oct, 7. I walked in the morning to Crow- park, and in the evening up Penrith road. The clouds came rolling up the mountains all round very dark, yet the moon shone at intervals. It was too damp to go towards the lake. To-morrow 1 mean to bid fare- well to Keswick. Botany might be studied here to great ad- vantage at another season, because of the great variety of soils and elevations, all lying within a small compass. I observed nothing but several curious lichens, and plenty oi, gale or Dutch myrtle perfuming the bor- ders of the lake. This year the Wadd- raine had been opened, which is-done once in five years; it is taken out in lumps some- times as big as a man's fist, and will undergo VOL. IV. 29 194 gray's letters. no preparation by fire, not being fusible; when it is pure, soft, black, and close-grain- ed, it is worth sometimes thirty shillings a pound. There are no char ever taken in these lakes, but plenty in Buttermere water, which lies a little way north of Borrow- dale, about Martinmas, which are potted here. They sow chiefly oats and bigg here, which are now cutting and still on the ground; the rains have done much hurt: yet observe, the soil is so thin and light, that no day has passed in which I could not walk out with ease, and you know I am no lover of dirt. Fell mutton is now in season for about six weeks; it grows fat on the mountains, and nearly resembles venison. Excellent pike and perch, here called bass; trout is out of season; partridge in great plenty. Oct, 8. I left Keswick and took the Am- bleside road in a gloomy morning; and about two miles from the town mounted an emi- nence called Castle-rig, and the sun break- ing out, discovered the most enchanting view I have yet seen of the whole valley behind me, the two lakes, the river, the mountains, all in their glory; so that I had almost a mind to have gone back again. The road in some few parts is not yet com- gray's letters. 196 pleted, yet good country road, through sound but narrow and stony lanes, very safe in broad^ay-light. This is the case about Cause\va^foot, and among Naddle-fells to Lancwaite. The vale you go in has little breadth; the mountains are vast and rocky, the fields little and poor, and the inhabitants are now making hay, and see not the sun by tvvo hours iji a day so long as at Keswick. Came to the foot of Helvellyn, along which runs an excellent road, looking down from a little height on Lee's water, (called also Thirl-meer, or Wiborn water) and soon de- scending on its margin. The lake looks black from its depth, and from the gloom of the vast crags that scowl over it, though really clear as glass; it is narrow, and about three miles long, resembling a river in its course; little shining torrents hurry down the rocks to join it, but not a bush to over- shadow them, or cover their march; all is rock and loose stones up to the very brow, which lies so near your way, that not above half the height of Helvellyn can be seen. Next I passed by the little chapel of Wiborn, out of which the Sunday congrega- tion were then issuing; soon after a beck near Dunmeil-raise, when I entered West- moreland a second time; and now began to 196 gray's letters. see Holmcrag, distinguished from its rugged neighbours, not so much by its height, as by the strange broken outhnes of it* tog, like some gigantic building demolishea, and the stones that composed it flung across each other in wild confusion. Just beyond it- opens one of the sweetest landscapes that art ever attempted to imitate. The bosom of the mountains spreading here into a broad basin discovers in the midst Grasmere water; its margin is hollowed into small bays, with bold eminences; some of rock, some of soft turf, that half conceal, and vary the figure of the little lake they command; from the shore, a low promontory pushes itself far into the water, and on it stands a white vil- lage with the parish church rising in the midst of it: hanging enclosures, corn fields, and meadows green as an emerald, with their trees and hedges, and cattle, fill up the whole space from the edge of the water: and just opposite to you is a large farm- house at the bottom of a steep smooth lawn, embosomed in old woods, which climb half- way up the mountain's side, and discover above them a broken line of crags that crown the scene. Not a single red tile', no flaring gentleman's house, or garden walls, break in upon the repose of this little un- gray's letters. 197 suspected paradise; but all is peace, rustici- ty, and happy poverty, in its neatest most becoming attire. The road winds here over Grasmere-hil), whose rocks soon conceal the water from your sight; yet it is continued along behind them, and, contracting itself to a river, com- municates with Ridale water, another small lake, but of inferior size and beauty; it seems shallow too, for large patches of reeds appear pretty far witljin it. Into this vale the road descends. On the opposite banks large and ancient woods mount up the hills; and just to the left of our way stands Ridale- hall, the family-seat of sir Michael Fleming, a large old-fashioned fabric, surrounded with wood. Sir Michael is now on his travels, and all this timber, far and wide, belongs to him. Near the house rises a huge crag, call- ed Ridale-head, which is said to command a full view of Wynander-mere, and I doubt it not; for within a mile that great lake is visible, even from the road: as to going up the crag, one might as well go up Skiddaw. I now reached Ambleside, eighteen miles from Keswick, meaning to lie there; but, on looking into the best bed-chamber, dark and damp as a cellar, grew delicate, gave up Wynander-mere in despair, and resolved 1 j98 GRAY S LETTERS. would go on to Kendal directly, fourteen miles farther.^ The road in general line turnpike, but some parts (about three miles in all) not made, yet without danger. For this determination 1 was unexpected- ly well rewarded: for the afternoon was hne, and the road, for the space of full five miles, ran along the side of Wynander-mere, with delicious views across it, and almost from one end to the other. It is ten miles m length, and at most a mile over, resem- * By not staying a little at Ambit side, Mr. Gray lost the sight of two most magnificent cascades ; tlie one not above l.alf a mile ^behind the inn, the other down RidaU-crag, where sir Michael Fleming is now making a path-way to the top of it These^ when I saw them, were in full towent, whereas Lawdoor water-fall, H hich I visited in the evening of the very same day, was almost Mithout a stream. Hence 1 conclude that this distinguished fea- ture in the vale of Kesv\ ick, is, like most noithern rivers, only in high beauty duiing bad weather. But his greattst loss was in not seeing a small water-fall visible only through the window of a ruined summer-house in sjr Micliael's orf.hard. Here Nature has jierfonned every thing in little that she usually execi tts on her largest"^ scale ; and on that account, like the miniature painter, seems to have finished every part of it in a studied maimer ; not a little fragment of rock thrown into the basin, not a single stem of brushwood that starts from its ciaggy sides but has its picturL-sque meaning : and the little central stream dashing down a cleft ot the darkest-coloured stone, i^roduces an eftett of light and sii;idow becutiful beyond dtscriptioji. This little theatrical scene might be painted as large as the original, on a canvass not bigger than those which are usually dropped in the Opera-house. 199 bling the course of some vast and magnifi- cent river; but no flat marshy grounds, no osier-beds, or patches of scrubby plantations on its banks: at the head two valleys open among the mountains; one, that by which we came down, the other Langsledale, in which Wry-nose and Hard-knot, two great mountains, rise above the rest: from thence the fells visibly sink, and soften along its sides; sometimes they run into it (but with a gentle declivity) in their own dark and natural complexion: oftener they are green and cultivated, with farms interspersed, and round eminences, on the border covered with trees: towards the south, it seemed to break into larger bays, with several islands and a wider extent of cultivation. The way rises continually, till at a place called Orrest- head, it turns south-east, losing sight of the water. Passed by Ing's-Chapel and Staveley, but I can say no farther; for the dusk of even- ing coming on, I entered Kendal almost in the dark, and could distinguish only a shadow of the castle on a hill, and tenter- grounds spread far and wide round the town, which I mistook for houses. My inn prom- ised sadl}', having two wooden galleries, like Scotland, in front of it: it was indeed an old 200 GRAV'S LETTERS. ill-contrived house, but kept by civil sensi- ble people; so I stayed two nights nith them, and fared and slept very comfortably. Oct. 9. The air mild as summer, all corn off the ground, and the sky-larks singing aloud (by the way, I saw not one at Kes- wick, perhaps because the place abounds in birds of prey). 1 went up the castle-hill; the town consists chietly of three nearly parallel streets, almost a mile long; except these, all the other houses seem as if they had been dancing a country-dance, and were out: there they stand back to back, corner to corner, some up hill, some down, without intent or meaning. Along by their side runs a fine brisk stream, over which are three stone bridges; the buildings, (a few comfortable houses excepted) are mean, of stone, and covered with a bad rough cast. Near the end of the town stands a hand- some house of colonel Wilson's, and adjoin- ing to it the church, a very large Gothic fabric, with a square tower; it has no par- ticular ornaments but double isles, and at the east-end four chapels or choirs; one of the Parrs, another of the Stricklands; the third is the proper choir of the church, and the fourth of the Bellinghams, a family now extinct. There is an altar-tomb of one of gray's letters. 201 them dated 1577, with a flat brass, arms and quarterings; and in the window their arms alone, arg. a hunting-horn, sab. strung gules. In the Stricklands' chapel several modern monuments, and another old altar-torab, not belonging to the family: on the side of it a fess dancetty between ten billets, Deincourt. In the Parrs' chapel is a third altar tomb in the corner, no tigure or insf^ription, but on the side, cut in stone, an escutcheon of Ross of Kendal, (three water-budgets) quartering Parr (two bars in abordure engrailed); 2dly, an escutcheon, vaire, a fess for Marmion; 3dly, an escutcheon, three chevronels braced, and a chief (which I take for Fitz- hugh): at the foot is an escutcheon, sur- rounded with the garter, bearing ^oos and Parr quarterly, quartering the other two before-mentioned. I have no books to look in, therefore cannot say v/hether this is the Lord Parr of Kendal, queen Catharine's father, or her brother the marquis of North- ampton: perhaps it is a cenotaph for the lat- ter, who was buried at Warwick in 1571. The remains of the castle are seated on a fine hill on the side of the river opposite the town; almost the whole enclosure of the walls remains, with four towers, two square and two round, but their upper part and em- 202 gray's letters. battlements are demolished; it is of rough stone and cement, without any ornament or arms, round, enclosing a court of like form, and surrounded by a moat; nor ever could it have been larger than it is, for there are no traces of outworks There is a good view of the town and river, with a fertile open valley through which it winds. After dinner I went along the Miltbrop turnpike, four miles, to see the falls, or force, of the river Kent; came to Sizergh, (pronounced Siser) and turned down a lane to the left. This seat of the Stricklands, an old Catholic family, is an ancient hall-house, with a very large tower embattled; the rest of the buildings added to it are of later date, but all is white, and seen to advantage on a back ground of old trees; there is a small park also well wooded. Opposite to this, turning to the left, I soon came to the river; it works its way in a narrow and deep rocky channel overhung with trees. The calm- ness and brightness of the evening, the roar of the waters, and the thumping of huge hammers at an iron-forge not far distant, made it a singular walk; but as to the falls, (for there are two) they are not four feet high. I went on, down to the forge, and saw the demons at work bv the light of their gray's letters. 203 own fires: the iron is brought in pigs to Mil- throp by sea from SccUand, kc. and is here beat into bars and plates. Two miles fur- ther, at Lev ens, is ihe scat of loiu Suffolk, where he sometimes passes the summer: it was a favourite place of his late countess; but this I did not see. Oct. 10. I proceeded by Burton to Lan- caster, twenty-two miles: very good country, well enclosed and wooded, with some com- mon intersjiersed. Passed at the foot of Farlton-knot, a high fell four miles north of Lancaster; on a~ rising ground called Botrlton (pronounced Bouton) we had a full view of Carimell-sands, with here and there a pas- senger riding over them (it being low water): the points of Furness shooting far into the sea, and lofty mountains, partly covered with clouds, extending north of them. Lan- caster also appeared very conspicuous and fine; for its most distinguished features, the castle and church, mounted on a green emi- nence, were all that could be seen. Wo is me! when I got thither, it was the second day of their fair; the inn, in the principal street, was a great old gloomy house, full of people; but I found tolerable quarters, and even slept two nights in peace. 204 gray's letters. In R fine afternoon I ascended the castle- hill; it trikes up the higher top of the emi- nence on which it stands, and is irregularly round, encompassed with a deep moat: in front, towards the town, is a magnificent Gothic gateway, lofty and huge; the^ver- han &c. any where to be seen; nithin, it is lightsome and spacious, but not one monument of antiquity, or piece of painted glass, is left. From the church- yard there is an extensive sea-view, (for now the tide had almost covered the sands, and tilled the river) and besides the greatest part of Furness, 1 could distinguish Peel- castle on the isle of Fowdrey, which lies off its southeifo extremity. The town is built on the slo^ and at the foot of the castle- hill, mor^i^n twice the bigness of Auk- land, witlimiLtny neat buildings of white stone, but a little disorderly in their position, and, *'ad Hbitum," like Kendal: many also ex- tend below on the keys by the river- side, where a number of ships were moored, some of them three-masted vessels decked out with their colours in honour of the fair. Here is a good bridge of four arches ovej- the Lune, that runs, when the tide is out, in two streams divided by a bed of graveJ, which is not covered but in spring-tides; below the town it widens to near the breadth of the Thames at London, and meets the sea at five or six miles distance to. south-west. 206 gray's letters. Oct. 11. I crossed the river and walked over a peninsula, three niiles, to the village of Pooton, which stands on the beach. An old fisherman mending his nets (while 1 in- quired about the danger of passing those sands) told me, in his dialect, a moving story; how a brother of the trade, a cockier, as he styled him, driving a little cart with two daughters (women grown) in it, and his wife on horseback following, ^ei out one day to pass the seven-mile sands, as they had fre- quently been used to do, (for no body in the village knew them better than the old man did); when they were about halfway over, a thick fog rose, and as they advanced they found the water much deeper than they ex- pected: the old man was puzzled; he stop- ped, and said he would go a little way to find some mark he was acquainted with; they stayed awhile for him, but in vain; they called aloud, but no reply: at last the young women pressed their mother to think where they were, and go on; she would not leave the place; but wandered about forlorn aiid amazed; she would not quit her horse and get into the cart with them: they determin- ed, after much time wasted, to turn back, and give themselves up to the guidance of their horses. The old woman was soon gray's letters. 207 washed off, and perished; the poor girls clung close to their cart, and the horse, sometimes wading and sometimes swimming, brought them back to land alive, but sense- less with tenor and distress, and unable for many dajs to give any account of themselves. The bodies of their parents were found next ebb; that of the father a very few paces dis- tant from the spot where he had left them. In the afternoon I wandered about the town, and by the key, till it grew dark. Oct. 12. I set out for Settle by a fine turnpike-road, twenty-nine miles, through a rich and beautiful enclosed country, diversi- fied with frequent villages and churches, very unequal ground; and on the left the river Lune winding in a deep vallej', its hanging banks clothed with fine woods, through which you catch long reaches of the water, as the road winds about at a con- siderable height above it. In the most pic- turesque part of the way, I passed the park belonging to Ihe Hon. Mr. Clifford, a Catho- lic. The grounds between him and the river are indeed charming;* the house is • This scene opens just thi-ee miles from Lancaster, on what is called the Queen's Road. To see the view in perfection, you riust go into a field on the left. Here Ingleborough, behind a rai'iety of lesser luouBtains, makes the back-ground of the prospect : on 208 gray's letters. ordinary, and the park nothing but a rocky fell scattered over with ancient hawthorns. Next I came to Hornby, a little town on the river Wanning, over which a handsome bridge is now building; the castle, in a lordly situation, attracted me, so I walked up the hill to it: first presents itself a large white ordinary sashed gentlem-^n's house, and behind it rises the ancient Keep, built by Edward Stanley, lord Monteagle. He died about 1523, in King Henry the Eighth's time. It is now only a shell, the rafters are laid within it as for flooring. 1 went up a winding stone-stair-case in one corner to the leads, and at the angle is a single hexa- gon watch-tower, rising some feet higher, fitted up in the taste of a modern summer- house, with sash-windows in gilt frames, a stucco cupola, and on the top a vast gilt eagle, built by Mr. Charteris, the present possessor. He is the second son of the earl of Wemvs, brother to the lord Elcho, each hand of the middle distance, rise two sloping hilh ; the left clothed with thick woods, the right with variegated rock and hec- \)age : between them, in the most futile of valleys, the Lune ser- pentizes for many a mile, and comts forth ample and clear, through a well-wixnled and richly pastured fore-ground. Every feature, which constitutes a perfect landscapt of the extensive sort' *s here not only boldly marked, but also in its best |H>sition. gray's letters. 209 and grandson to colonel Charteris, whose name he bears. From the leads of the tower there is a tme view of the country round, and much wood near the castle. Ingleborough, which I had seen before distinctly at Lancaster to nortb-east, wasnow completely wrapped in clouds, all but its summit; which might have been easily mistaken for a long black cloud too, fraught with an approaching storm. Now our road began gradually to mount towards the Apennine, the trees growing less and thinner of leaves, till we came to Ingleton, eighteen miles; it is a pretty vil- lage, situated very high, and yet in a valley at the foot of that huge monster of nature, Ingleborough: two torrents cross it, with great stones rolled along their beds instead of water; and over them are flung two hand- some arches. The nipping air, though the afternoon was growing \ery bright, now taught us we were in Craven; the road was all up and down, though no where very steep; to the left were mountain-tops, to the right a wide valley, all enclosed ground, and beyond it high hills again. In approaching Settle, the crags on the left drew nearer to our way, till we descended Brunton-brow into a cheerful valley (though thin of trees) VOL. IV. • 30 210 to Giggleswick, a village with a small piece cf water by its side, covered over with coots; near it a church, which belongs also to Settle; and half a mile farther, having passed the Kibble over a bridge, I arrived there; it is a small market-town standing directly under a rocky fell; there are not in it above a dozen good-looking houses; the rest are old and low, with little wooden por- ticos in front. My inn pleased me much, (though small) for the neatness and civility of the good woman that kept it; so I lay there two nights, and went, Oct. 13. To visit Gordale-scar, which lay six miles from Settle; but that way was di- rectly over a fell, and as the weather was not to be depended on, I went round in a chaise, the only way one could get near it in a carriage, which made it full thirteen miles, half of it such a road ! but I got safe over it, so there's an end, and came to Mal- ham (pronounced Maum) a village in the bosom of the mountains, seated in a wild and dreary valley. — From thence 1 was to walk a mile over very rough ground, a torrent rattling along on the left hand; on the cliffs above hung a few goats; one of them danced and scratched an ear with its hind foot in a place where 1 would not have stood stock- still gray's letters. 211 For all beneath the moon. As I advanced, the crags seemed to close in, but discovered a narrow entrance turning to the left between them: 1 followed my guide a few paces, and the hills opened again into no large space; and then all farther way is barred by a stream that, at the height of about fifty feet, gushes from a hole in the rock, and spreading in large sheets over its broken front, dashes from steep to steep, and then rattles away in a torrent down the valley: the rock on the left rises perpen- dicular, with stubbed yew-trees and shrubs staring from its side, to the height of at least 300 feet; but these are not the thing: it is the rock to the right, under which you stand to see the fall, that forms the principal hor- ror of the place. From its very base it be- gins to slope forwards over you in one block or solid mass without any crevice in its sur- face, and overshadows half the area below with its dreadful canopy; when 1 stood at (1 believe) four yards distance from its foot, the drops, which perpetually distil from its brow, fell on my head; and in one part of its top, more exposed to the weather, there are loose stones that hang in air, and threa- ten visibly some idle spectator with instant 212 GRAY 'a LETTERS. destruction; it is safer to shelter yourself close to its bottom, and trust to the mercy of that enormous mass which nothing but an earthquake can stir. The gloomy uncom- fortable day well suited the savage aspect of the place, and made it still more formidable: I stayed there, not without shuddering, a quarter- of an hour, and thought my trouble richly paid; for the impression will last for life. At the ale-house where 1 dined in Malham, Vivares, the landscape-painter, had lodged for a week or more; Smith and Bel- lers had also been there, and tv*o prints of Gordale have been engraved by them. Oct. 14. Leaving my comfortable inn, to which I had returned from Gordale, I set out for Skipton, sixteen miles. From several parts of the road, and in many places about Settle, I saw at once the three famous hills of this country, Ingleborough, Peni- gent, and Pendle; the first is esteemed the highest, and their features not to be describ- ed, but by the pencil.* * Without the pencil nothing indeed is to be described with pre- cision ; and even then that pencil ought to be in the very hand of the writei-, ready to supply ^vilh om lines every thing that his pen c annot express by words. As far as language can describe, Mr. Gray lias, I think, pushed its powers : for rejecting, as I before hinted, every general unmeaning and hyperbolical phi-ase, he has grab's letters. 213 Craven, after all, is an unpleasing country when seen from a height; its valleys are selected (both iu this jonnial, and on other similar occasions) the plainest, simplest, and most direct terms : yt't notwithstanding his judicious cai-e in the use of tliese, I must own I feel tliern defec? tive. Tliey present nie, it is true, with a picture of the same species, but not witli the identical picture : ray imagination re- ceives clear anddistiuct, but not tnie and exact images. It may be asked then , why am I entertainetl by well-written descnptions ? I answer, because they amuse ^^hen they do not inform meymid because, after I have seen the places described they f^erve to recall to my memoi-y the original scene, almost as well as the truest drawing or picture. In the mean while, my mind is flattered by thinking it has acquired some conception of the place, and rests contented in an innocent error, which nothing but ocular proof can detect, and wh^ch, when detected, does not diminish the pleasure I had before received, but augments it by superadding the charms of comparison and verification; and herein I would place the rc«l and only merit of verlial prose description. To speak of poetical, would lead me beyond the limits as well as the purpose of this note. I cannot, however, helj) adding, (hat I have seen one piece of ver- bal description which corajjletely satisfies me, because it is throughout assisted by masterly delineation. It is composed by the Rev. Mr. Gilpin, of Cheam in Surrey ; and contains, amongst other places, an account of the very scenes wliich, in this tour, our author visited. This gentleman., possessing the conjoined talent ofa writer and a designer, has employed them in this manuscript to every purpose of picturesque beauty, in the description of which, a eonvct eye. a practised pencil, and an eloqu«it ptn could assist liiJTi He has. consequently, pr6ducetl a work vnique in its kind. But I have said it is in manuscript, and i am afraid, likely to continue so ; for would his modv-sty pennit him to print it, the great expense of iilates would make its publication almost impmc ticable. 214 gray's letters. chiefly wide, and either marshy or enclosed pasture, with a few trees. Numbers of black cattle are fatted here, both of the Scotch breed, and a larger sort of oxen with great horns. There is little cultivated ground, except a few oats. Skipton, to which I went through Long- Preston and Gargrave, is a pretty large market-town, in a valley, with one very broad street gently sloping downwards from the castle, which stands at the head of it. This is one of our good countess''s build- ings,* but on old foundations; it is not very large, but of a handsome antique appearance, with round towers, a grand gateway, bridge, and moat, surrounded by many old trees. It is in good repair and kept up as a habitation of the earl of Thanet, though he rarely comes thither: what with the sleet, and a foolish dispute about chaises, that delayed me, I did not see the hiside of it, but went on fifteen miles, to Otley; first up Shode-bank, the steepest hill I ever saw a road carried over in England, for it mounts in a strait line (without any other repose for the horses than by placing stones every now and then behind the wheels) for a full mile; then the * Anne countess of Pembroke and Montgomery. gray's letters. 215 road goes on a level along the brow of this high hill over Rumbald-moor, till itgreatly de- scends into Wharldale, so they call the vale of the wharf; and a beautiful vale it is, well wooded, well cultivated, well inhabited, but with high crags at a distance, that border the green country on either hand; through the midst of it, deep, clear, full to the brink, and of no inconsiderable breadth, runs in long windings the river How it comes to pass that it should be so fine and copious a stream here, and at Tadcaster (so much lower) should have nothing but a wide stony chan- nel without water, I cannot tell you. I passed through Long Addingham, llkeley (pronounced Eecly) distinguished by a lofty brow of loose rocks to the right: Burley, a neat and pretty village, among trees on the opposite side of the river lay Middleton- Lodge, belonging to a Catholic gentleman of that name; Weston, a venerable stone fabric, with large offices, of Mr. Vavasour, the meadows in front gently descending to the water, and behind ^a great and shady wood; Farley (Mr. Fawkes's) a place like the last, but larger, and rising higher on the side of the hill. Otley is a large airy town, with clean but low rustic buildings, and a bridge over the wharf; I went into its spa- 216 quay's letters. cious Gothic church which has been new- roofed, with a flat stucco-ceiling ; in the corner of it is the monument of Thomas lord Fairfax, and Helen Aske, his lady, de- scended from the Cliifords and Latimers, as her epitaph says; the figures, not ill-cut, (particularly his in armour, but bareheaded) lie on the tomb. 1 take them to be the narents of the famous sir Thomas Fairfax. CXLV. TO DR. WHARTON. April 18, 1770. i HAVE utterly forgot where my journal left off, but 1 think it was after the account of Gordale near Settle; if so, there was little more worth your notice: the principal things were Wharldale, in the way from Skipton to Otley, and Kirkstall abbey, three miles from Leeds * * * *|. Kirkstall is a noble ruin in the semi-saxon style of building, as old as King Stephen, towards the end of his reign, 1152. The whole church is still standing, t Here a paragraph, desev'bjng AVharldale in the foregoing jour- nalj T,as repeated. gray's letters. 217 the roof excepted, seated in a delicious quiet valley, on the banks of the river Aire, and preserved with religious reverence by the duke of Montagu. Adjoining to the church, between that and the river, are variety of chapels and remnants of the abbey, shatter- ed by the encroachments of the ivy, and surrounded by many a sturdy tree, whose twisted roots break through the fret of the vaulting, and hang streaming from the roofs. The gloom of these ancient cells, the shade and verdure of the landscape, the glittering and murmur of the stream, the lofty towers, and long perspectives of the church, in the midst of a clear bright day, detained me for many hours, and were the truest objects for my glass I have yet met with any where. As I lay at that smoky, ugly, busy town of Leeds, I dropped all further thoughts of my journal; and after passing two days at Ma- son's (though he was absent) pursued my way by Nottingham, Leicester, Harborough, Kettering, Thrapston, and Huntingdon, to Cambridge, where I arrived on the 22d of October, having met with no rain to signify till this last day of my journey. There's luck for you! I do think of seeing Wales this summer, having never found my spirits lower than at 218 gray's letters. present, and feeling that motion and change of the scene is absolutely necessary to me; I will make Aston in my way to Chester, and shall rejoice to meet you there the last week in May. Mason writes me word that he wishes it; and though his old house is down, and his new one not- up, proposes to re- ceive us like princes in grain. CXLVI. TO MR. NICHOLLS.* I RECEIVED your letter at Southampton; and as I would wish to treat every l^ody accord- ing to their own rule and measure of gooil breedings have, against my inclination, waited till now before I answered it, purely out of fear and respect, and an ingenuous diffidence of my own abilities, if you will not take this as an excuse, accept it at least as a well- turned period, which is always my principal concern. * This letter was written the 19th of November, 1764 ; but as it delineates another abbey, in a different manner, it seems to make no improper companion to that which precedes it. gray's letters. 219 So I proceed to tell you that my health is much improved by the sea: not that I drank it, or bathed in it, as the common people do: no! I only walked by it and looked upon it. The climate is remarkably mild, even in Oc- tober and November; no snow has been seen to lie there for these thirt}^ years past; the myrtles grow in the ground against the houses, and Guernsey lilies bloom in every window: the town, clean and well-built, sur- rounded by its old stone walls, with their towers and gateways, stands at the point of a peninsula, and opens full south to an arm of the sea, whi:h, having formed two beautiful bays on each hand of it, stretches away in direct view, till it joins the British channel; it is skirted on either side with gently rising- groimds, clothed with thick wood, and di- rectly cross its mouth rise the high knds of the Isle of White at a distance, but distinctly seen. In the bosom of the woods (conceal- ed from profane eyes) lie hid the ruins of Net- tely abbey; there may be richer and greater houses of religion, but the abbot is content with his situation. See there, at the top of that hanging mnadow, under the shade of those old trees that bend into a half circle about it, he is walking slowly (good mani) and telling his beajs for the souls of his be' 220 gray's letters. nefactors, interred in that venerable pile that lies beneath him. Beyond it (the meadows still descending) nods a thicket of oaks that mask the building, and have excluded a view too garish and luxuriant for a holy eye; only on either hand they leave an opening to the blue glittering sea. Did you not observe how, as that white sail shot by and was lost, he turned and crossed himself to drive the tempter from him that had thrown that dis- traction in his wav? I should tell you that the ferryman who rowed me, a lusty young fel- low, told me that he would not for all the world pass a night at the abbey (there were such things seen near it) though there was a power of money hid there. From thence I vreut to Salisbury, Wilton, and Stonehenge: but of these things 1 say no more, they will be published at the University press. P. S. I must not close my letter without giving you one principal event of my history; which was, that, (in the course of my late tour) I set out one morning before five o'clock, the moon shining through a dark and misty autumnal air, and got to the sea- coast time enough to be at the sun's levee. I saw the clouds and dark vapours open gra- dually to right and left, rolling over one gray's letters. 221 another in great smoky wreaths, and the tide (as it flowed gently in upon the sands) tirst whitening, then slightly tinged with g()]d and blue; and all at once a little line of insuf- ferable brightness that (before 1 "can write these tive words) was grown to half an orb, and now to a whole one, too glorious to be distinctly seen * It is very odd it makes no figure on paper; yet I shall remember it as long as the sun, or at least as long as I en- dure. I wonder whether any body ever saw it before? I hardly believe it. CXLVII. TO MR. BEATTIE. Pembroke-Hall, July 2, 1770. 1 REJOICE to hear that you are restored to better state of health, to your books, and to your muse once again. That forced dis* * This puts me in miBd of a similar description written by Dr. Jeremy Taylor, which I shall here beg leave to present to the read- er, who will find by it that the old divine had occaiionallj as much power of desci-iption as even our modem poet " As when the sun approaches towards tlie gates of the morning, he first opens a little eye of heaven, and sends away the spirits of dark- ness ; gives light to the cock, and calls up the l^k to mat- tins ; and by and by g^lds the fringes of a cloud, aad j)eeps X.'^^ GRAY S LETTERS. sipation and exercise we are obliged to % to as a remed}', nht n this frail mRchine goes wrong, is often almost as bad as the distem- per we would cure; yet I too have been constrained of ];ite to pursue a like regimen, on account of certain pains in the head (a sensation unknown to me before) and of great dejection of spirits. This, sir, is the only excuse I have to make you for my long silence, and not (as perhaps you may nave figured to yourself) any secret reluctance I had to tell you my mind concerning the spe- cimen you so kindly sent me of your new poem:* on the contrary, if I had seen any- thing of importance to disapprove, I should have hastened to inform you, and never doubt- ed of being forgiven. The truth is, I greatly like all 1 have seen, and wish to see more. The design is simple, and pregnant with poe- tical ideas of various kinds, yet seems some- how imperfect at the end. Why may notyoung Edwin, when necessity has driven him to over the eastern hills, thrusting out his golden horns * * • } and still (while a man tells the story) the sun gets up higher till he shows a fair face and a full light." J. Taylor's Holy Dy. ing, p. 17. • This letter was written in answer to one that enclosed only a part of the first book of the Mi.istrel in manuscript, and I belierc a sketch of Mr> Beattie's plan for the whole. gray's letters. 223 take up the harp, and assume the profes- sion of a minstrel, do some great and sin- gular service to his country? (what service I must leave to your invention) such as no general, no statesman, no moralist, could do without the aid of music, inspiration, and poetr}'. This will not appear an improba- bility in those early times, and in a cha- racter then held sacred, and respected by all nations: besides, it will be a full answer to all the hermit has said, when he dissuaded him from cultivating these pleasing arts; it will show their use, and make the best pane- gyric of our favourite and celestial science. And lastly, (what weighs most with me) it will throw more of action, pathos, and inte- rest into your design, which already abounds in reflection and sentiment. As to descrip- tion, I have always thought that it made the most graceful ornament of poetry, but never ought to make the subject. Your ideas are new, and borrowed from a mountainous country; the only one that can furnish truly picturesque scenery. Some trifles in the language or versitication you will permit me to remark. * * * I will not enter at present into the merits of your Essai/ on Truths because I have not yet given it all the attention it deserves, 2^4 gray's letters. though I have read it through with pleasure; besides, I am partial; for I have always thought David Hume a pernicious writer, and believe he has done as much mischief here as he has in his own country. A turbid and shallow stream often appears to our ap- prehensions very deep. A professed scep- tic can be guided by nothing but his present passions (if he has any) and interests; and to be masters of his philosophy we need not his books or advice, for every child is capable of the same thing, without any ^tudy at all. Is not that naivcie aiid good humour, which his admirers celebrate in him, owing to this, that he has continued all his days an infant, but one that unhappily has been taught to read and w^ite? That childish nation, the French, have given him vogue and fashion, and we, as usual, have learned from them to admire him at second- hand.* * On a similar subject Mr. Gray expresses himself thus in a let- ter to Mr. Walpole, dated March 17, 1771 : "He must lia^e a very good stomach that can digest the Crambe recocta of Voltaire. Athe- ism is a vile dish, though all the cooks of France combine to make new sauces to it. As to the soul, perhaps they may have none on the continent ; but I do think we have such things in England. Shalispeare, for example, I believe had several to his own share. As to the Jews (tliough they do not eat pork) I like them because they are better Christians tlian Voltaire." This was written only gray's letters. 225 CXLVIII. TO MR. NICHOLLS. Pembroke-Hall, Jan. 26, 1771. I REJOICE you have met with Froissard, he is the Herodotus of a barbarous age; had he but had the luck of writing in as good a lan- guage, he might,have been immortal! His locomotive disposition, (for then there was no other way of learning things) his simple curiosity, his religious credulity, were much three months befoiie lus death ; and I insert it to show how constant and uniform he was in his contempt of infidel writers. Dr. Beat- tic received only one letter more from his coirespondent, dated March 8, 1771. It related to the first book of the Minstrel, now sent to him in print, and contained criticisms on particular passa- ges, and commendations of particular stanzas. Those criticisms the author attended to in a future edition, because his good taste found that they deserved his attention ; the passages therefore be- ing altered, the strictures die of course. As to the notes of commendation, tlie poem itself abounds with so many striking beauties, that they neetl not even the hand of Mr. Gray to point them out to a reader of any feeling : all therefore that I shall print of that letter, is the concluding paragraph relating to his Essay on the Immutability of Truth. " I am happy to hear of your success in another way, because I think you are serving the. cause of human nature, and the true interests of mankind ; your 'wok is read here too, and with just applause." VOL. IV. 31 226 gray's letters. like those of the old Grecian.* When you have tant chcvauche, as to get to the end of him, there is Monstrelet waits to take you up, and will set you down at Philip de Co- mines; but previous to all these, you should have read Villehardouin and Joinville. I do not think myself bound to defend the charac- ter of even the best of kings :t pray slash them all and spare not. It would be strange too if I should blame your Greek studies, or find fault with you for reading Isocrates; I did so myself twenty years ago, and in an edition at least as bad as yours. The Panegyric, the de Pace, Areo- pagitic, and Advice to Philip, are by far the noblest remains we have of this writer, and equal to most things extant in the Greek tongue; but it depends on your judgment to distinguish between his real and occasional opinion of things, as he directly contradicts in one place what he has advanced in ano- ther: for example, in the Panathenaic, and the de Pace, &c. on the naval power of Athens; the latter of the two is undoubtedly his own undisguised sentiment. *, See more of his opinion of this author, Letter CVII. 1 1 suppose his coirespondent had uj^tde some strictures on the character of Henry IV. •£ France. gray's letters. 227 I would by all means wish you to comply Avith your friend's request, and write the let- ter he desires. I trust to the cause and to the warmth of 3^our own kindness for inspi- ration. Write eloquently, that is from your heart, in such expressions as that will furnish * Men sometimes catch that feeling from a stranger which should have originally sprung from their own heart. CXLIX. TO DR. WHARTON. :May 24, 1771. My last summer's tour was through Worces- tershire, Gloucestershire, Monmouthshire, Herefordshire, and Shropshire, five of the most beautiful counties in the kingdom. The * This short sentence contains a complete definition of natiu-al eloquence : when it beconies an art it requires one rnoiv prolix, and our author seems to have begun to sketch it on a detached paper. *' Its province (says he) is to reign over minds of slow perception and little imagination, to set things in lights they never saw them in ; to engage their attention by details and circumstances gradually unfoldvd, to adorn and heighten them with images and colours un- known to them, and to ifjise and engage their rude passions to tbe point t« which the speaker wishes to bring them." * * ♦ 5*28 GRAY S LETTERS, very principal light and capital feature oi'mv journey was the river Wye, which 1 descend- ed in a boat for near forty miles from Ross to Chepstow. Its banks are a succession of nameless beauties; one out of many you may see not ill described by Mr. Whately, in his observations on gardening, under the name of the New-Weir; he has also touched upon two others, Tinterne Abbey and Pers- field, both of them famous scenes, and both on the Wye. Monmouth, a town I never heard mentioned, lies on the same river, in a vale that is the delight of my eyes, and the very seat of pleasure. The vale of Abergavenny, Ragland, and Chepstovr castles; Ludlow, Mah ern-hills, Hampton- court, near Lemster; the Leasowes, Hagley, the three cities and their cathedrals; and lastly Oxford (where I passed two days on my return with great satisfaction) were the rest of my acquisitions, and no bad harvest in my opinion; but I made no journal myself, else you should have had it: I have indeed a short one written by the companion of my travels,* that serves to recall and fix the fleeting images of these things. I have had a cough upon me these three months, which is incurable. The approach- * :Mr. NicUolls. fray's letters. 229 ing summer I have sometimes had thoughts of spending on the continent; but I have now dropped that intention, and believe my expeditions will terminate in Old Park: but I make no promise, and can answer for nothing; my own employment so sticks in my stomach, and troubles my conscience: and yet travel I must, or cease to exist. Till this year 1 hardly knew what (mecha- nical) lo.w spirits were, but now I even trem- ble at an. east wind. The gout, which he always believed heiieditary in his constitu- tion, (for both h\s parents died of thiit distemper) had now flr Biown.— Sending him a message to write to a gentleman abroad relatijig to count Algarotti, and recommending the Erse poems 93 CXVIII. Count Algaiotti to Mr Gray.-Complimentary, and scalding iiiin some dissertations oi his own - - - - - - 95 CXIX. To Dr Wharton.— On Rousseau sEmile - 96 CXX. To Mr. How.— On receiving three of Count Algi.rotti's Treatises, and hinting an error which that author had fallen into, with re- gai-d to the English tisste of gardening - 98 CXXI. To Mr. Walpole.— Ludicrous remarks on the Castle of Otranto, &c. - - _ 102 CXXII. To Mr . Palg.-ave — What he partic ularly advises him to see when abroad - - -104 CXXIIL To Mr. Beattie —Thanks for a letter received from him, and an iuviiation from lord Strath- more to Glames .... no CXXIV. To Dr. Wharton.-Descriptiou of the old castle of Glames, and pait of the Highlands - 111 CXXV. To Mr Beattie.— Apology for not accepting the degree of Doctor, offered him by th« Uni- versit} of Aberdeen - - . _ i24 CXXVI. To Mr. Walpole.— Humorous recommendation of warm clothing -French nastine«s and atheism censured.— Description of an old pic- ture - - - - . - 127 CXXVII. To Dr. Wharton.-Buffln's Natural History.— Memoirs of Peirarch.— Mr. Walpole at Pai'is, — Descriutiou of a fine lady ... 130 CXXVIII. To Dr. Wharton.-Tour into Kent.-New Bath Guide.- Aiiotlier volume of Biiftbn . 133 fiXXIX. To Mr Nicholls.-Ou the affection due to a mother.— Description of that j)art of Kent from whence the letter was written - . 1S§ VOL. lY. 32 i>34 INDEX. No. Page CXXX. To Mr. Mason — On the death of his wife - 138 CXXXI To Mr. Beattie -Thanks for a n.an « > script poem. -Mr Adam Ftrgusoii s Essa; on Civil S«;ciety. — A coc.plimtn? to lord Gray - - 139 CXXXII. To Mr. Biattie —On th > projected edition of our author's poems in England and Scoilajjd. — Comniendntion of Mr Beattie's ode on Lord Hay's Birth. of health 227 THE ENP. '^ <1 ^, Deacidified using the Bookkeeper proces! Neutralizing agent; Magnesium Oxide .-, Treatment Date: March 2009 '' PreservationTechnologiei A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATIO 111 Thomson Park Drive Cranberry Township, PA 16066 (724)779-2111 -Kr^ I ^rr-- ^■ •-^A v"' x^o^. -.^- X ^^>^^ ■y v^^ .,.% X*\..o ,^^' : ^9% %"- ..iy" A^^ ,0- "^^ .^^' %^^- ,0 c ^^ ^c*^. 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