LETTER I.

Mr. WEST to Mr. GRAY.

YOU uſe me very cruelly: You have ſent me but one letter ſince I have been at Oxford, and that too agree⯑able 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 hearing you is the pleaſure of hearing from you. 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 quondam ſchool-fellow; in behalf of one who has walked hand in hand with you, like the two children in the wood,

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 themſelves Doctors and [7] Maſters of Arts; a country 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

P.S. I deſire you will ſend me ſoon, and truly and poſitively, ^* a hiſtory of your own time.

LETTER II.

Mr. GRAY 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 furtheſt. I do not wonder in the leaſt at your frequent bla⯑ming my indolence, it ought rather to be called ingratitude, and I am obliged to your goodneſs for ſoftening ſo harſh an ap⯑pellation. When we meet it will, however, be my greateſt of pleaſures to know what you do, what you read, and how you ſpend your time, &c. &c. and to tell you 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; [8] and yet neither ſomething 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 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, bet⯑ter than moſt people, ſay my life is but a ſpan, were I not afraid leſt you ſhould not believe that a perſon ſo ſhort-lived could write even ſo long a letter as this; in ſhort, I believe I muſt not ſend you the hiſtory of my own time, till I can ſend you that alſo of the reformation.^* However, as the moſt undeſerving 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 pleaſed 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 crouded 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 few tolerable lines.

For this little while paſt I have been playing with Statius; we yeſterday had a game at quoits together; you will eaſily forgive me for having broke his head, as you have a little pique to him. I ſend you my tranſlation^†, which I did not engage [9] in becauſe I liked that part of the Poem, nor do I now ſend it to you becauſe I think it deſerves it, but merely to ſhow you how I miſpend my days.

Cambridge, May 8, 1736.

LETTER III.

Mr. WEST to Mr. GRAY.

I Agree with you that you have broke Statius's head, but it is in like manner as Apollo broke Hyacinth's, you have foiled him infinitely at his own weapon; I muſt in⯑ſiſt on ſeeing the reſt of your tranſlation, and then I will exa⯑mine it entire, and compare it with the latin, and be very wiſe and ſevere, and put on an inflexible face, ſuch as becomes the character of a true ſon of Ariſtarchus, of hyper-critical me⯑mory. In the mean while,

Is exactly Statius—Summos auro manſueverat ungues. I never knew before that the golden fangs on hammercloths were ſo old a faſhion. Your Hymenêal^* I was told was the beſt in [11] the Cambridge Collection before I ſaw it, and, indeed, it is no great compliment 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 The⯑tis, and Zephyrs and Dryads, was never read. As for my poor little Eclogue it has been condemned and beheaded by our Weſtminſter judges; an exordium of about ſixteen lines abſo⯑lutely cut off, and its other limbs quartered in a moſt barba⯑rous manner. I will ſend it you in my next as my true and lawful heir, in excluſion of the pretender, who has the impu⯑dence to appear under my name.

As yet I have not looked into Sir Iſaac. Public diſputa⯑tions I hate; mathematics I reverence; hiſtory, morality, and natural philoſophy 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 & poene omni negotio pulchrius."’

LETTER IV.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. WEST.

YOU muſt know that I do not take degrees, and, after this term, ſhall have nothing more of college impertinencies to undergo, which I truſt will be ſome pleaſure to you, as it is a [13] great one to me. I have endured lectures daily and hourly ſince I came laſt, ſupported by the hopes of being ſhortly at full liber⯑ty 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 indeed, what can I do elſe? Muſt I plunge into metaphyſics? Alas, I cannot ſee in the dark; nature has not furniſhed me with the optics of a cat. Muſt I pore upon mathematics? Alas, I cannot ſee in too much light; I am no eagle. It is very poſ⯑ſible 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 peo⯑ple 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 deſart 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 for ever, 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 deſolate 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 be taken by abundance of handles; however, I defy your owls to match mine.

[14] 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,

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 eſteem for you than

LETTER V.

Mr. WEST to Mr. GRAY.

I Congratulate you on your being about to leave college,^† and rejoice much you carry no degrees with you. For I would not have had You dignified, and I not, for the world, you would have inſulted me ſo. My eyes, ſuch as they are, like yours, are neither metaphyſical nor mathematical; I have, nevertheleſs, a great [15] reſpect for your connoiſſeurs that way, but am always contented to be their humble admirer. Your collection of deſolate ani⯑mals pleaſed me much; but Oxford, I can aſſure you, has her owls that match yours, and the prophecy has certainly 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 you, but what will you do with your claſſic companions? An inn of court is as horrid a place as a college, and a moot caſe is as dear to gentle dullneſs as a ſyllogiſm. But wherever you go, let me beg you not to throw poetry ‘"like a nauſeous weed away:"’ Cheriſh its ſweets in your boſom, they will ſerve you now and then to correct the diſguſting ſober fol⯑lies of the common law, miſce ſtultitiam conſiliis 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 pigmies,

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 to me and openly, as I do to you, and to give you a proof of it I have ſent you an elegy^* of Ti⯑bullus tranſlated. Tibullus, you muſt know, is my favourite elegiac poet; for his language is more elegant and his thoughts more natural than Ovid's. Ovid excells him only in wit, of which no poet had more in my opinion. The reaſon I chooſe [16] ſo melancholy a kind of poeſie, is becauſe my low ſpirits and conſtant ill health (things in me not imaginary, 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 de⯑pend upon it I value my health above what they call diſcipline. As for this poor unlicked thing of an elegy, pray criticiſe it unmercifully, for I ſend it with that intent. Indeed your late tranſlation of Statius might have deterred me, but I know you are not more able to excell others, than you are apt to for⯑give the want of excellence, eſpecially when it is found in the productions of

LETTER VI.^*

Mr. GRAY 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 idea of any ſocial happineſs that I have almoſt ever received, and which (begging your pardon for [17] 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 I any ma⯑terials but myſelf to entertain you with. Love and brown ſu⯑gar 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 mer⯑chandize you do not profeſs dealing in; now and then, indeed, and to oblige a friend, you may perhaps ſlip a little out of your pocket, as a decayed gentlewoman would a piece of right meck⯑lin, or a little quantity of run tea, but this only now and then, not to make a practice of it. Monſters appertaining to this climate you have ſeen already, both wet and dry. So you per⯑ceive within how narrow bounds my pen is circumſcribed, and the whole contents of my ſhare in our correſpondence may be reduced under the two heads of 1ſt, You, 2dly, I; the firſt is, indeed, a ſubject to expatiate upon, but you might laugh at me for talking about what I do not underſtand; the ſecond is ſo tiny, ſo tireſome, that you ſhall hear no more of it than that it is ever

LETTER VII.

Mr. WEST to Mr GRAY.

I Have been very ill, and am ſtill hardly recovered. 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, du⯑ring my ſickneſs, in the way of imitation; and this I ſend to you and my friends at Cambridge not to divert them, for it can⯑not, 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 well.

Chriſt Church, July 4, 1737.

LETTER VIII.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. WEST.

AFTER a month's expectation of you, and a fortnight's deſpair, at Cambridge, I am come 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 com⯑plain of is (I hope) quite departed; though, if I were ſelf-intereſt⯑ed, [23] I ought to wiſh for the continuance of any thing that could be the occaſion 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, I believe they muſt undergo the fate of all humble companions, 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 ſpi⯑rit of amber, nor all that furniſhes the cloſet of an apothecary's widow, ſhould perſuade me to part with them: But, while I write to you, I hear the bad news of Lady Walpole's death on Saturday night laſt. Forgive me if the thought of what my poor Horace muſt feel on that account, obliges me to have done in reminding you that I am

LETTER IX.

Mr. GRAY 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 [24] preſent writing; and though the gout forbids him galloping 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 walking 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 my own, at leaſt as good as ſo, for I ſpy no human thing in it but myſelf. It is a little chaos of mountains and precipices; mountains, it is true, that do not aſcend 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 craggs that give the eye as much pleaſure as if they were more dangerous: Both vale and hill are covered with moſt venerable beeches, and other very reverend vegetables, that, like moſt other antient people, are always dreaming out their old ſtories to the winds,

At the foot of one of theſe ſquats me I, (Il 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 pardon for taking all the converſation to myſelf, but it is entirely your own fault. We have old Mr. Southern at a Gentleman's [25] houſe a little way off, who often comes to ſee us; he is now ſeventy-ſeven years old,^* and has almoſt wholly loſt his me⯑mory; but is as agreeable as an old man can be, at leaſt I per⯑ſuade 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.

LETTER X.

Mr. GRAY 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 I am under the miſ⯑fortune of having nothing to do, but it is a misfortune which, thank my ſtars, I can pretty well bear. You are in a confuſion 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, how⯑ever, you will rather chooſe 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 realities of a noiſy one, and, as I gueſs, will imitate what you prefer, and for an hour or two at noon will [26] 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, I aſſure you, has been propagated 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 Walpolians. We have hardly any body in the pariſh but knows exactly the dimenſions of the hall and ſaloon at Houghton, and begin to believe that the ^*lanthorn is not ſo great a con⯑ſumer 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.

LETTER XI.

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 I had in town, has only ſerved to endear you to me the more. The moments I paſt 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 miſe⯑rably my time paſſes away. My health and nerves and ſpirits [27] are, thank my ſtars, the very worſt, I think, in Oxford. Four⯑and-twenty hours of pure unalloy'd health together, are as un⯑known to me as the 400,000 characters in the Chineſe voca⯑bulary. One of my complaints has of late been ſo over-civil as to viſit me regularly once a month—jam certus conviva. This is a painful nervous head-ach, which perhaps you have ſometimes heard me ſpeak of before. Give me leave to ſay, I find no phy⯑ſic comparable to your letters. If, as it is ſaid in Eccleſiaſticus, ‘"Friendſhip be the phyſic of the mind,"’ preſcribe to me, dear Gray, as often and as much as you think proper, I ſhall be a moſt obedient patient.

I venture here to write you down a Greek epigram,^* which I lately turned into Latin, and hope you will excuſe it.

[28] Adieu! I am going to my tutor's lectures on one Puffendorff, a very juriſprudent author as you ſhall read on a ſummer's day.

LETTER XII.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. WEST.

LITERAS mi Favonî!^* abs te demum nudiuſtertiùs, credo, accepi planè mellitas, niſi fortè quà de aegritudine quâ⯑dam tuâ dictum: atque hoc ſane mihi habitum eſt non paulò a⯑cerbiùs, 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 orbarer! quàm ex animo mihi dolendum eſt, quod

Salutem mehercule, nolo, tam parvipendas, at (que) amicis tam im⯑probè conſulas: quanquam tute fortaſſis—aeſtuas anguſto limite mundi, viam (que) (ut dicitur) affectas Olympo, nos tamen non eſſe tam ſublimes, utpote qui hiſce in ſordibus & faece diutius paulu⯑lum verſari volumus, reminiſcendum eſt: illae tuae Muſae, ſi te ament modo, derelinqui pauliſper non nimis aegrè patientur: in⯑dulge, amabo te, pluſquam ſoles, corporis exercitationibus: ma⯑gis te campus habeat, aprico magis te dedas otio, ut ne id [29] ingenium quod tam cultum curas, diligenter nimis dum foves, officioſarum matrum ritu, interimas. Vide quaeſo, quam [...] tecum agimus,

ſi de his pharmacis non ſatis liquet; ſunt feſtivitates merae; ſunt facetiae & riſus; quos ego equidem ſi adhibere nequeo, tamen ad praecipiendum (ut medicorum fere mos eſt) certè ſatis ſim; id, quod poeticé ſub finem epiſtolae luſiſti, mihi gratiſſimum quidem accidit; admodum latinè coctum & conditum tetraſti⯑con, graecam tamen illam [...] mirificè ſapit: tu quod reſtat, vide, ſodes, hujuſce hominis ignorantiam; cum, unde hoc tibi ſit depromptum, (ut fatear) prorſus neſcio: ſane ego equidem nihil in capſis reperio quo tibi minimae partis ſolutio fiat. Vale, & me ut ſoles, ama.

A. D. 11 Kalend. Februar.

LETTER XIII.^*

Mr. WEST to Mr. GRAY.

I Ought to anſwer you 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 Au⯑guſtan urbanity that amazes me: Your Greek too is perfect in its kind. And here let me wonder that a man, longè graecorum [30] doctiſſimus, ſhould be at a loſs for the verſe and chapter whence my epigram is taken. I am ſorry I 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 ſuſpence. I thank you again and again for your medical preſcription. I know very well that thoſe ‘"riſus feſti⯑vitates & facetiae"’ 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 elec⯑tuary of theſe drugs, made up ſecundùm artem, ‘"et eris mihi magnus Apollo,"’ in both his capacities as a god of poets and god of phyſicians. Wiſh me joy of leaving my college, and leave yours as faſt as you can. I ſhall be ſettled at the Temple very ſoon.

Dartmouth-ſtreet, Feb. 21, 1737-8.

LETTER XIV.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. WEST.

[33] Ohe! amicule noſter, et unde, ſodes tu [...] adeò repente evaſiſti? jam te rogitaturum credo. Neſcio hercle, ſic planè habet. Quicquid enim nugarum [...] inter ambu⯑landum in palimpſeſto ſcriptitavi, hiſce te maxumè impertiri viſum eſt, quippe quem probare, quod meum eſt, aut certè ignoſcere ſolitum probè novi: bonâ tuâ veniâ ſit ſi fortè videar in fine ſubtriſtior; nam riſui jamdudum ſalutem dixi; etiam paulò moeſtitiae ſtudioſiorem factum ſcias, promptumque, [...].

Sed de me ſatis. Cura ut valeas.

Jun. 1738.

LETTER XV.

Mr. WEST to Mr. GRAY.

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 ſhew us the way to Weſtminſter-Hall. Nor muſt I forget thanking you for your [34] 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 penetra⯑tion is very juſt, he is indeed

I go to-morrow to Epſom, where I ſhall be for about a month. Excuſe me, I am in haſte^*, but believe me always, &c.

Auguſt 29, 1738.

LETTER XVI.

Mr. GRAY 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 mono⯑ſyllables above written, for

[35] 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 burr, 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 after) are much like thoſe of a pendulum or(^*Dr. Longi⯑cally ſpeaking) oſcillatory. I ſwing from Chapel or Hall home, and from home to Chapel or Hall. All the ſtrange incidents that happen in my journies and returns I ſhall be ſure to ac⯑quaint you with; the moſt wonderful is, that it now rains ex⯑ceedingly, this has refreſhed the ^† proſpect, as the way for the moſt part lies between green fields on either hand, ter⯑minated with buildings at ſome diſtance, caſtles, I preſume, and of great antiquity. The roads are very good, being, as I ſuſ⯑pect, the works of Julius Caeſar's army, for they ſtill pre⯑ſerve, in many places, the appearance of a pavement in pretty good repair, and, if they were not ſo near home, might per⯑haps be as much admired as the Via Appia; there are at preſent ſeveral rivulets to be croſſed, and which ſerve to enliven the view all around. The country is exceeding fruitful in ra⯑vens and ſuch black cattle; but, not to tire you with my travels, I abruptly conclude

LETTER XVII.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. WEST.

I AM coming away all ſo faſt, and leaving behind me, with⯑out 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, all's one for that; I ſhall not once viſit them, nor ſo much as take my leave. The uni⯑verſity has publiſhed a ſevere edict againſt ſchiſmatical con⯑gregations, 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.

I 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 bedſteads, and tutors that are about my ears, you would look upon this letter as a great effort of my reſolution and unconcernedneſs in the 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.

LETTER XVIII.

Mr. WEST to Mr. GRAY.

I Thank you again and again for your two laſt moſt agree⯑able 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 Horace and Tibullus—Non ita loquor aſſentandi causâ ut probè noſti ſi me noris, verum quia ſic mea eſt ſenten⯑tia. I am but juſt come to Town, and, to ſhew you my eſteem of your favours, I venture to ſend you by the penny poſt, to your Father's, what you will find on the next page; I hope it will reach you ſoon after your arrival, your boxes out of the wag⯑gon, yourſelf out of the coach, and tutors out of your memory.

Adieu, we ſhall ſee one another, I hope, to-morrow.

Sept. 17, 1738.

LETTER I.

Mr. GRAY to his MOTHER.

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 pretty briſk gale, which pleaſed every body mighty well, except myſelf who was extremely ſick the whole time; we reached Calais by five: The weather changed, and it began to ſnow hard the minute we came into the harbour, where we took the boat, and ſoon landed. Calais is an exceeding old, but very pretty town, and [42] we hardly ſaw any thing there that was not ſo new and ſo different from England, that it ſurprized us agreeably. We went the next morning to the 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 Pacquet, a letter-caſe to remember her by. In the after⯑noon 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 beauty, 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 drives too:^* This vehicle will, upon occaſion, go fourſcore miles a-day, but Mr. Walpole, being 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 commonly 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 would be the fineſt tra⯑velling in the world, were it not for the inns, which are moſtly terrible places indeed. But to deſcribe our progreſs ſomewhat more regularly, we came into Boulogne when it was almoſt dark, and went out pretty early on Tueſday morning; ſo that all I can ſay about it is, that it is a large, old, fortified town, [43] with more Engliſh in it than French. On Tueſday we were to go to Abbéville, ſeventeen leagues, or fifty-one ſhort Engliſh miles; but by the way we dined at Montreuil, much to our hearts' content, on ſtinking mutton cutlets, addle eggs, and ditch water. Madame the hoſteſs made her appearance in long lappets of bone lace and a ſack of linſey-woolſey. We ſupped and lodged pretty well at Abbéville, and had time to ſee a little of it before we came out this morning. There are ſeventeen convents in it, out of which we ſaw the chapels of the Minims and the Carmelite Nuns. We are now come further thirty miles to Amiens, the chief city of the province of Picardy. We have ſeen the cathedral, which is juſt what that of Can⯑terbury muſt have been before 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 beau⯑tiful painted windows, and a vaſt number of chapels dreſſed out in all their finery of altar-pieces, embroidery, gilding, and marble. Over the high altar is preſerved, in a very large wrought ſhrine of maſſy gold, the reliques of St. Firmin, their patron ſaint. We went alſo to the chapels of the Jeſuits and Urſuline Nuns, the latter of which is very richly adorned. To⯑morrow we ſhall lie at Clermont, and next day reach Paris. The country we have paſſed through hitherto has been flat, open, but agreeably diverſified with villages, fields well-culti⯑vated, and little rivers. On every hillock is a wind-mill, a crucifix, or a Virgin Mary dreſſed in Flowers, and a ſarcenet robe; one ſees many people or carriages on the road; now and then indeed you meet a ſtrolling friar, a country-man with his great muff, or a woman riding aſtride on a little aſs, with ſhort petticoats, and a great head-dreſs of blue wool. ***

LETTER II.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. WEST.

ENFIN donc me voici à Paris. Mr. Walpole is gone out to ſupper at Lord Conway's, and here I 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 actually given me an averſion to eating in general. 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 profuſely, 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 long enough for a letter. Six days have we been coming hither, which other people do in two; they have not been diſagree⯑able ones; through a fine, open country, admirable roads, and in 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 paté des perdrix; paſſed through the park of Chantilly by the Duke of Bourbon's palace, which we only beheld as we paſſed; broke down at Luſarch; ſtopt 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 reliquaries, of ineſtimable value; but of all their curioſities the thing the moſt to our taſtes, and which they in⯑deed [45] 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 thou⯑ſand years old, the beauty of the ſtone and ſculpture upon it (repreſenting the myſteries of Bacchus) beyond expreſſion ad⯑mirable; we have dreamed of it ever ſince. The jolly old Be⯑nedictine, that ſhowed us the treaſures, had in his youth been ten years a ſoldier; he laughed at all the reliques, was very full of ſtories, and mighty obliging. On Saturday Evening we got to Paris, and were driving through the ſtreets a long while be⯑fore we knew where we were. The minute we came, voila Milors Holderneſſe, 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 Holder⯑neſſe's, there was the Abbé Prevôt, author of the Cleveland, and ſeveral other pieces much eſteemed; the reſt were Engliſh. At night we went to the Pandore; a ſpectácle literally, for it is nothing but 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 ſale des machines in the Palais des Tuileries. Next day dined at Lord Waldegrave's; then to the opera. Imagine to yourſelf for the drama four acts entirely unconnected with each other, each founded on ſome little hiſtory, ſkilfully 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 I [46] ſaw, called the Ballet de la Paix, had its firſt act built upon the ſtory of Nereus. Homer having ſaid 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 ſing ſentiment in lamentable ſtrains, neither air nor recitative; only, to one's great joy, they are every now and then interrupt⯑ed by a dance, or (to one's great ſorrow) by a chorus that bor⯑ders 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 Ianthe, and the Judgment of Paris. Imagine, I ſay, all this tranſacted by cracked voices, trilling diviſions upon two notes and a half, accompanied by an orcheſtra of humſtrums, and a whole houſe more attentive than if Farinelli ſung, and you will almoſt have formed a juſt notion of the thing.^* Our aſtoniſhment at their abſurdity you can never con⯑ceive; we had enough to do to expreſs it by ſcreaming an hour louder than the whole dramatis perſonae. We have alſo ſeen twice the Comedie Françoiſe; firſt, the Mahomet Second, a tra⯑gedy that has had a great run of late; and the thing itſelf does not want its beauties, but the actors are beyond meaſure de⯑lightful. Mademoiſelle Gouſſin (Mr. Voltaire's Zara) has with [47] a charming (though little) perſon the moſt pathetic tone of voice, the fineſt expreſſion in her face, and moſt proper action imaginable. There is alſo a Dufrêne, who did the chief cha⯑racter, a handſome man and a prodigious fine actor. The ſecond we ſaw was the Philoſophe marié, 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 celebrated here. Great part of our time is ſpent in ſeeing churches and palaces full of fine pictures, &c. the quarter of which is not yet exhauſted. For my part, I could entertain myſelf this month merely with the common ſtreets and the people in them. ***

LETTER III.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. WEST.

AFTER the little particulars aforeſaid I ſhould have pro⯑ceeded to a journal of our tranſactions 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 I have reaſon to ſto⯑mach your laſt piece of gravity. Suppoſing you were in your ſobereſt mood, I am ſorry you ſhould think me capable of ever being ſo diſſipé, ſo evaporé, as not to be in a condition of [48] 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-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 partridges, 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 itſelf 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 Verſailles? What a huge heap of littleneſs! it is compoſed, as it were, of three courts, all open to the eye at once, and gradually dimi⯑niſhing till you come to the royal apartments, 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 yel⯑low; the firſt proceeding from ſtone changed by age; the ſecond, from a mixture of brick; and the laſt, from a profu⯑ſion 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 window. 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 ter⯑race ſpreads itſelf, adorned with two large baſons; theſe are bordered and lined (as moſt of the others) with white marble, with handſome ſtatues of bronze reclined on their edges. From [49] hence you deſcend a huge flight of ſteps into a ſemi-circle formed by woods, that are cut all round into niches, which are filled with beautiful copies of all the famous antique ſtatues in white marble. Juſt in the midſt is the baſon 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 this place runs on the great alley, which brings you into a complete round, where is the baſon of Apollo, the biggeſt in the gardens. He is riſing in his car out of the water, ſurrounded by nymphs and tritons, all in bronze, and finely executed, and theſe, as they play, raiſe a perfect ſtorm about him; beyond this is the great canal, a prodigious long piece of water, that terminates the whole: All this you have at one coup d'oeil 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 conſtrained about you; ſtatues and vaſes ſowed every where without diſtinction; ſugar-loaves and minced-pies of yew; ſcrawl-work of box, and little ſquirt⯑ing jets-d'eau, beſides a great ſameneſs in the walks, cannot help ſtriking one at firſt ſight, not to mention the ſillieſt of labyrinths, and all Aeſop's fables in water; ſince theſe were de⯑ſigned in uſum Delphini only. Here then we walk by moon⯑light, and hear the ladies and the nightingales ſing. Next morning, being Whitſunday, make ready to go to the Inſtalla⯑tion of nine Knights du Saint Eſprit, Cambis is one: high maſs celebrated with muſic, great croud, much incenſe, King, Queen, Dauphin, Meſdames, Cardinals, and Court: Knights arrayed by his majeſty; reverences before the altar, not bows, but [50] curtſies; ſtiff hams; much tittering among the ladies; trum⯑pets, kettle-drums and fifes. My dear Weſt, I am vaſtly de⯑lighted with Trianon, all of us with Chantilly; if you would know why, you muſt have patience, for I can hold my pen no longer, except to tell you that I ſaw Britannicus laſt Night; all the characters, particularly Agrippina and Nero, done to per⯑fection; to-morrow Phaedra and Hippolitus. We are making you a little bundle of petites pieces; there is nothing in them, but they are acting at preſent; there are too Crebillon's Let⯑ters, and Amuſemens ſur le langage des Bêtes, ſaid to be of one Bougeant, a Jeſuit; they are both eſteemed, and lately come out. This day ſe'nnight we go to Rheims.

LETTER IV.

Mr. GRAY to his MOTHER.

WE have now been ſettled almoſt three weeks in this city, which is more conſiderable upon account of its ſize and antiquity, than from the number of its inhabitants, or any advantages of commerce. There is little in it worth a ſtranger's curioſity, beſides the cathedral church, which is a vaſt Gothick building of a ſurprizing beauty and lightneſs, all co⯑vered over with a profuſion of little ſtatues and other orna⯑ments. It is here the Kings of France are crowned by the Archbiſhop of Rheims, who is the firſt Peer, and the Primate of the kingdom: The holy veſſel made uſe of on that occa⯑ſion, which contains the oil, is kept in the church of St. Nica⯑ſius [51] hard by, and is believed to have been brought by an angel from heaven at the coronation of Clovis, the firſt chriſtian king. The ſtreets in general have but a melancholy aſpect, the houſes all old; the public walks run along the ſide of a great moat under the ramparts, where one hears a continual croaking of frogs; the country round about is one great plain covered with vines, which at this time of the year afford no very pleaſing proſpect, as being not above a foot high. What pleaſures the place denies to the ſight, it makes up to the palate; ſince you have nothing to drink but the beſt champaigne in the world, and all ſort of proviſions equally good. As to other pleaſures, there is not that freedom of converſation among the people of faſhion here, that one ſees in other parts of France; for though they are not very numerous in this place, and conſequent⯑ly muſt live a good deal together, yet they never come to any great familiarity with one another. As my Lord Conway had ſpent a good part of his time among them, his brother, and we with him, were ſoon introduced into all their aſſemblies: As ſoon as you enter, the lady of the houſe preſents each of you a card, and offers you a party at quadrille; you ſit down, and play forty deals without intermiſſion, excepting one quar⯑ter of an hour, when every body riſes to eat of what they call the gouter, which ſupplies the place of our tea, and is a ſervice of wine, fruits, cream, ſweetmeats, crawfiſh, and cheeſe. Peo⯑ple take what they like, and ſit down again to play; after that, they make little parties to go to the walks together, and then all the company retire to their ſeparate habitations. Very ſeldom any ſuppers or dinners are given; and this is the manner they live among one another; not ſo much out of any averſion they have to pleaſure, as out of a ſort of formality they have con⯑tracted [52] by not being much frequented by people who have lived at Paris. It is ſure they do not hate gaiety any more than the reſt of their country-people, and can enter into diverſions, that are once propoſed, with a good grace enough; for inſtance, the other evening we happened to be got together in a company of eighteen people, men and women of the beſt faſhion here, at a garden in the town to walk; when one of the ladies bethought herſelf of aſking, Why ſhould not we ſup here? Immediately the cloth was laid by the ſide of a fountain under the trees, and a very elegant ſupper ſerved up; after which another ſaid, Come, let us ſing; and directly began herſelf: From ſinging we in⯑ſenſibly fell to dancing, and ſinging in a round; when ſome⯑body mentioned the violins, and immediately a company of them was ordered: Minuets were begun in the open air, and then came country-dances, which held till four o'Clock next morning; at which hour the gayeſt lady there propoſed, that ſuch as were weary ſhould get into their coaches, and the reſt of them ſhould dance before them with the muſic in the van; and in this manner we paraded through all the principal ſtreets of the city, and waked every body in it. Mr. Walpole had a mind to make a cuſtom of the thing, and would have given a ball in the ſame manner next week, but the women did not come into it; ſo I believe it will drop, and they will return to their dull cards, and uſual formalities. We are not to ſtay above a month longer here, and ſhall then go to Dijon, the chief city of Burgundy, a very ſplendid and a very gay town; at leaſt ſuch is the preſent deſign.

LETTER V.

Mr. GRAY to his FATHER.

WE have made three ſhort days journey of it from Rheims hither, where we arrived the night before laſt: The road we have paſſed through has been extremely agreeable; it runs through the moſt fertile part of Champaigne by the ſide of the river Marne, with a chain of hills on each hand at ſome diſtance, entirely covered with woods and vineyards, and every now and then the ruins of ſome old caſtle on their tops; we lay at St. Dizier the firſt night, and at Langres the ſecond, and got hither the next evening time enough to have a full view of this city in entering it: It lies in a very extenſive plain covered with vines and corn, and conſequently is plentifully ſupplied with both. I need not tell you that it is the chief city of Bur⯑gundy, nor that it is of great antiquity; conſidering which one ſhould imagine it ought to be larger than one finds it. However, what it wants in extent, is made up in beauty and cleanlineſs, and in rich convents and churches, moſt of which we have ſeen. The palace of the States is a magnificent new building, where the Duke of Bourbon is lodged when he comes every three years to hold that Aſſembly, as governour of the Province. A quarter of a mile out of the town is a famous Abbey of Carthuſians, which we are juſt returned from ſee⯑ing. In their chapel are the tombs of the ancient Dukes of Burgundy, that were ſo powerful, till at the death of Charles the Bold, the laſt of them, this part of his dominions was united by Lewis XI. to the crown of France. To-morrow we [54] are to pay a viſit to the Abbot of the Ciſtercians, who lives a few leagues off, and who uſes to receive all ſtrangers with great civility; his Abbey is one of the richeſt in the king⯑dom; he keeps open houſe always, and lives with great mag⯑nificence. We have ſeen enough of this town already, to make us regret the time we ſpent at Rheims; it is full of people of condition, who ſeem to form a much more agreeable ſociety than we found in Champaigne; but as we ſhall ſtay here but two or three days longer, it is not worth while to be introdu⯑ced into their houſes. On Monday or Tueſday we are to ſet out for Lyons, which is two days journey diſtant, and from thence you ſhall hear again from me.

LETTER VI.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. WEST.

SCavez vous bien, mon cher ami, que je vous hais, que je vous deteſte? voila des termes un peu fortes; and that will ſave me, upon a juſt computation, a page of paper and ſix drops of ink; which, if I confined myſelf to reproaches of a more moderate nature, I ſhould be obliged to employ in uſing you according to your deſerts. What! to let any body reſide three months at Rheims, and write but once to them? Pleaſe to conſult Tully de Amicit. page 5, line 25, and you will find it ſaid in expreſs terms, ‘"Ad amicum inter Remos relegatum menſe uno quinquies ſcriptum eſto;"’ nothing more plain, or leſs liable to falſe interpretations. Now becauſe, I ſuppoſe, it will [55] give you pain to know we are in being, I take this opportu⯑nity to tell you that we are at the ancient and celebrated Lugdunum, a city ſituated upon the confluence of the Rhône and Saône (Arar, I ſhould ſay) two people, who though of tempers extremely unlike, think fit to join hands here, and make a little party to travel to the Mediterranean in company; the lady comes gliding along through the fruitful plains of Burgun⯑dy, incredibili lenitate, ita ut oculis in utram partem fluit judi⯑cari non poſſit; the gentleman runs all rough and roaring down from the mountains of Switzerland to meet her; and with all her ſoft airs ſhe likes him never the worſe; ſhe goes through the middle of the city in ſtate, and he paſſes incog. without the walls, but waits for her a little below. The houſes here are ſo high, and the ſtreets ſo narrow, as would be ſufficient to render Lyons the diſmalleſt place in the world, but the number of people, and the face of commerce diffuſed about it, are, at leaſt, as ſufficient to make it the livelieſt: Between theſe two ſufficiencies, you will be in doubt what to think of it; ſo we ſhall leave the city, and proceed to its environs, which are beautiful beyond expreſſion; it is ſurrounded with mountains, and thoſe mountains all bedroped and beſpeckled with houſes, gardens, and plantations of the rich Bourgeois, who have from thence a proſpect of the city in the vale be⯑low on one hand, on the other the rich plains of the Lyonnois, with the rivers winding among them, and the Alps, with the mountains of Dauphiné, to bound the view. All yeſterday morning we were buſied in climbing up Mount Fourviere, where the ancient city ſtood perched at ſuch a height, that no⯑thing but the hopes of gain could certainly ever perſuade their neighbours to pay them a viſit: Here are the ruins of the [56] Emperor's palaces, that reſided here, that is to ſay, Auguſtus and Severus; they conſiſt in nothing but great maſſes of old wall, that have only their quality to make them reſpected. In a vineyard of the Minims are remains of a theatre; the Fathers, whom they belong to, hold them in no eſteem at all, and would have ſhowed us their ſacriſty and chapel inſtead of them: The Urſuline Nuns have in their garden ſome Roman baths, but we having the misfortune to be men, and heretics, they did not think proper to admit us. Hard by are eight arches of a moſt magnificent aqueduct, ſaid to be erected by Antony, when his legions were quartered here: There are many other parts of it diſperſed up and down the country, for it brought the water from a river many leagues off in La Forez. Here are remains too of Agrippa's ſeven great roads which met at Lyons; in ſome places they lie twelve feet deep in the ground: In ſhort, a thou⯑ſand matters that you ſhall not know, till you give me a de⯑ſcription of the Païs de Tombridge, and the effect its waters have upon you.

LETTER VII.

Mr. WEST to Mr. GRAY.

IF wiſhes could turn to realities, I would fling down my law books, and ſup with you to-night. But, alas, here am I doomed to fix, while you are fluttering from city to city, and enjoying all the pleaſures which a gay climate can afford. It is out of the power of my heart to envy you your good for⯑tune, [57] yet I cannot help indulging a few natural deſires; as for example, to take a walk with you on the banks of the Rhône, and to be climbing up mount Fourviere;

However, ſo long as I am not deprived of your correſpondence, ſo long ſhall I always find ſome pleaſure in being at home. And, ſetting all vain curioſity aſide, when the fit is over, and my reaſon begins to come to herſelf, I have ſeveral other power⯑ful motives which might eaſily cure me of my reſtleſs inclina⯑tions: Amongſt theſe, my Mother's ill ſtate of health is not the leaſt; which was the reaſon of our going to Tunbridge, ſo that you cannot expect much deſcription or amuſement from thence. Nor indeed is there much room for either; for all diverſions there may be reduced to two articles, gaming and going to church. They were pleaſed to publiſh certain Tun⯑brigiana this ſeaſon; but ſuch ana! I believe there were never ſo many vile little verſes put together before. So much for Tunbridge: London affords me as little to ſay. What! ſo huge a town as London? Yes, conſider only how I live in that town. I never go into the gay world or high world, and con⯑ſequently receive nothing from thence to brighten my imagina⯑tion. The buſy world I leave to the buſy; and am reſolved never to talk politics till I can act at the ſame time. To tell old ſtories, or prate of old books, ſeems a little muſty; and toujours Chapon bouilli, won't do. However, for want of better fare, take another little mouthful of my poetry.

LETTER VIII.

Mr. GRAY to his MOTHER.

IT is now almoſt five weeks ſince I left Dijon, one of the gayeſt and moſt agreeable little cities of France, for Lyons, its reverſe in all theſe particulars. It is the ſecond in the king⯑dom in bigneſs and rank, the ſtreets exceſſively narrow and naſty; the houſes immenſely high and large; (that, for in⯑ſtance, where we are lodged, has twenty-five rooms on a floor, and that for five ſtories) it ſwarms with inhabitants like Paris itſelf, but chiefly a mercantile people, too much given up to commerce to think of their own, much leſs of a ſtranger's diverſions. We have no acquaintance in the town, but ſuch Engliſh as happen to be paſſing through here, in their way to Italy and the South, which at preſent happen to be near thirty in number. It is a fortnight ſince we ſet out from hence upon a little excurſion to Geneva. We took the longeſt road, which lies through Savoy, on purpoſe to ſee a famous monaſtery, called the grand Chartreuſe, and had no reaſon to think our time loſt. After having travelled ſeven days very ſlow (for we [59] did not change horſes, it being impoſſible for a chaiſe to go poſt in theſe roads) we arrived at a little village, among the moun⯑tains of Savoy, called Echelles; from thence we proceeded on horſes, who are uſed to the way, to the mountain of the Chartreuſe: It is ſix miles to the top; the road runs winding up it, commonly not ſix feet broad; on one hand is the rock, with woods of pine-trees hanging over head; on the other, a mon⯑ſtrous precipice, almoſt perpendicular, at the bottom of which rolls a torrent, that ſometimes tumbling among the fragments of ſtone that have fallen from on high, and ſometimes precipitating itſelf down vaſt deſcents with a noiſe like thunder, which is ſtill made greater by the echo from the mountains on each ſide, con⯑curs to form one of the moſt ſolemn, the moſt romantic, and the moſt aſtoniſhing ſcenes I ever beheld: Add to this the ſtrange views made by the craggs and cliffs on the other hand; the caſcades that in many places throw themſelves from the very ſummit down into the vale, and the river below; and many other particulars impoſſible to deſcribe; you will con⯑clude we had no occaſion to repent our pains. This place St. Bruno choſe to retire to, and upon its very top founded the aforeſaid Convent, which is the ſuperior of the whole order. When we came there, the two fathers, who are commiſſioned to entertain ſtrangers, (for the reſt muſt neither ſpeak one to another, nor to any one elſe) received us very kindly; and ſet be⯑fore us a repaſt of dried fiſh, eggs, butter, and fruits, all ex⯑cellent in their kind, and extremely neat. They preſſed us to ſpend the night there, and to ſtay ſome days with them; but this we could not do, ſo they led us about their houſe, which is, you muſt think, like a little city; for there are 100 fathers, beſides 300 ſervants, that make their clothes, grind their corn, [60] preſs their wine, and do every thing among themſelves: The whole is quite orderly and ſimple; nothing of finery, but the wonderful decency, and the ſtrange ſituation, more than ſup⯑ply the place of it. In the evening we deſcended by the ſame way, paſſing through many clouds that were then forming themſelves on the mountain's ſide. Next day we continued our journey by Chamberry, which, though the chief city of the Dutchy, and reſidence of the king of Sardinia, when he comes into this part of his dominions, makes but a very mean and inſignificant appearance; we lay at Aix, once famous for its hot baths, and the next night at Annecy; the day after, by noon, we got to Geneva. I have not time to ſay any thing about it, nor of our ſolitary journey back again. ***

LETTER IX.

Mr. GRAY to his FATHER.

IN my laſt I gave you the particulars of our little journey to Geneva; I have only to add, that we ſtayed about a week, in order to ſee Mr. Conway ſettled there: I do not wonder ſo many Engliſh chooſe it for their reſidence; the city is very ſmall, neat, prettily built, and extremely populous; the Rhône runs through the middle of it, and it is ſurrounded with new fortifications, that give it a military compact air; which, joined to the happy, lively countenances of the inhabitants, and an exact diſcipline always as ſtrictly obſerved as in time of war, makes the little republic appear a match for a much greater [61] power; though perhaps Geneva, and all that belongs to it, are not of equal extent with Windſor and its two parks. To one that has paſſed through Savoy, as we did, nothing can be more ſtriking than the contraſt, as ſoon as he approaches the town. Near the gates of Geneva runs the torrent Arve, which ſepa⯑rates it from the King of Sardinia's dominions; on the other ſide of it lies a country naturally, indeed, fine and fertile; but you meet with nothing in it but meager, ragged, bare-footed peaſants, with their children, in extreme miſery and naſtineſs; and even of theſe no great numbers: You no ſooner have croſſed the ſtream I have mentioned, but poverty is no more; not a beggar, hardly a diſcontented face to be ſeen; numerous, and well-dreſſed people ſwarming on the ramparts; drums beat⯑ing; ſoldiers, well-cloathed and armed, exerciſing; and folks, with buſineſs in their looks, hurrying to and fro; all contribute to make any perſon, who is not blind, ſenſible what a difference there is between the two governments, that are the cauſes of one view and the other. The beautiful lake, at one end of which the town is ſituated; its extent; the ſeveral ſtates that border upon it; and all its pleaſures, are too well known for me to mention them. We ſailed upon it as far as the domi⯑nions of Geneva extend, that is, about two leagues and a half on each ſide; and landed at ſeveral of the little houſes of plea⯑ſure, that the inhabitants have built all about it, who received us with much politeneſs. The ſame night we eat part of a trout, taken in the lake, that weighed thirty-ſeven pounds; as great a monſter as it appeared to us, it was eſteemed there no⯑thing extraordinary, and they aſſured us, it was not uncommon to catch them of fifty pounds; they are dreſſed here, and ſent poſt to Paris upon ſome great occaſions; nay, even to Madrid, [62] as we were told. The road we returned through was not the ſame we came by: We croſſed the Rhône at Seyſſel, and paſſed for three days among the mountains of Bugey, without meet⯑ing with any thing new: At laſt we came out into the plains of La Breſſe, and ſo to Lyons again. Sir Robert has written to Mr. Walpole, to deſire he would go to Italy; which he has reſolved to do; ſo that all the ſcheme of ſpending the winter in the South of France is laid aſide, and we are to paſs it in a much finer country. You may imagine I am not ſorry to have this opportunity of ſeeing the place in the world that beſt de⯑ſerves it: Beſides as the Pope (who is eighty-eight, and has been lately at the point of death) cannot probably laſt a great while, perhaps we may have the fortune to be preſent at the election of a new one, when Rome will be in all its glory. Friday next we certainly begin our journey; in two days we ſhall come to the foot of the Alps, and ſix more we ſhall be in paſſing them. Even here the winter is begun; what then muſt it be among thoſe vaſt ſnowy mountains where it is hardly ever ſummer? We are, however, as well armed as poſſible againſt the cold, with muffs, hoods, and maſks of bever, fur-boots, and bear ſkins. When we arrive at Turin, we ſhall reſt after the fatigues of the journey. ***

LETTER X.

Mr. GRAY to his MOTHER.

I AM this night arrived here, and have juſt ſet down to reſt me after eight days tireſome journey: For the three firſt we had the ſame road we before paſt through to go to Geneva; the fourth we turned out of it, and for that day and the next travelled rather among than upon the Alps; the way commonly running through a deep valley by the ſide of the river Arc, which works itſelf a paſſage, with great difficulty and a mighty noiſe, among vaſt quantities of rocks, that have rolled down from the mountain tops. The winter was ſo far advanced, as in great meaſure to ſpoil the beauty of the proſpect; however, there was ſtill ſomewhat fine remaining amidſt the ſavageneſs and horrour of the place: The ſixth we began to go up ſeveral of theſe mountains; and as we were paſſing one, met with an odd accident enough: Mr. Walpole had a little fat black ſpaniel, that he was very fond of, which he ſometimes uſed to ſet down, and let it run by the chaiſe ſide. We were at that time in a very rough road, not two yards broad at moſt; on one ſide was a great wood of pines, and on the other a vaſt precipice; it was noon-day, and the ſun ſhone bright, when all of a ſudden, from the wood-ſide, (which was as ſteep upwards, as the other part was downwards) out ruſhed a great wolf, came cloſe to the head of the horſes, ſeized the dog by the throat, and ruſhed up the hill again with him in his mouth. This was done in leſs than a quarter of a minute; we all ſaw it, and yet the ſervants had not time to draw their piſtols, or do any thing to [64] ſave the dog^*. If he had not been there, and the creature had thought fit to lay hold of one of the horſes; chaiſe, and we, and all muſt inevitably have tumbled above fifty fathoms per⯑pendicular down the precipice. The ſeventh we came to Lanebourg, the laſt town in Savoy; it lies at the foot of the famous mount Cenis, which is ſo ſituated as to allow no room for any way but over the very top of it. Here the chaiſe was forced to be pulled to pieces, and the baggage and that to be carried by mules: We ourſelves were wrapped up in our furs, and ſeated upon a ſort of matted chair without legs, which is carried upon poles in the manner of a bier, and ſo begun to aſcend by the help of eight men. It was ſix miles to the top, where a plain opens itſelf about as many more in breadth, covered perpetually with very deep ſnow, and in the midſt of that a great lake of unfathomable depth, from whence a river takes its riſe, and tumbles over monſtrous rocks quite down the other ſide of the mountain. The deſcent is ſix miles more, but infinitely more ſteep than the going up; and here the men perfectly fly down with you, ſtepping from ſtone to ſtone with incredible ſwiftneſs in places where none but they could go three paces without falling. The immenſity of the preci⯑pices, the roaring of the river and torrents that run into it, the huge craggs covered with ice and ſnow, and the clouds below you and about you, are objects it is impoſſible to conceive with⯑out ſeeing them; and though we had heard many ſtrange de⯑ſcriptions of the ſcene, none of them at all came up to it. We were but five hours in performing the whole, from which you may judge of the rapidity of the men's motion. We are now [65] got into Piedmont, and ſtopped a little while at La Ferriere, a ſmall village about three quarters of the way down, but ſtill among the clouds, where we began to hear a new language ſpoken round about us; at laſt we got quite down, went through the Pás de Suſe, a narrow road among the Alps, defended by two for⯑treſſes, and lay at Boſſolens: Next evening thro' a fine avenue of nine miles in length, as ſtraight as a line, we arrived at this city, which, as you know, is the capital of the Principality, and the reſidence of the King of Sardinia.^*** We ſhall ſtay here, I believe, a fortnight, and proceed for Genoa, which is three or four days journey to go poſt.

LETTER XI.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. WEST.

AFTER eight days journey through Greenland, we ar⯑rived at Turin. You approach it by a handſome avenue of nine miles long, and quite ſtrait. The entrance is guarded by certain vigilant dragons, called Douäniers, who mumbled us for ſome time. The city is not large, as being a place of ſtrength, and conſequently confined within its fortifications; it has many beauties and ſome faults; among the firſt are ſtreets [66] all laid out by the line, regular uniform buildings, fine walks that ſurround the whole, and in general a good lively clean ap⯑pearance: But the houſes are of brick plaiſtered, which is apt to want repairing; the windows of oiled paper, which is apt to be torn; and every thing very ſlight, which is apt to tumble down. There is an excellent Opera, but it is only in the Car⯑nival: Balls every night, but only in the Carnival: Maſque⯑rades too, but only in the Carnival. This Carnival laſts only from Chriſtmas to Lent; one half of the remaining part of the year is paſt in remembering the laſt, the other in expecting the future Carnival. We cannot well ſubſiſt upon ſuch ſlender diet, no more than upon an execrable Italian Comedy, and a Puppet-Show, called Rappreſentazione d'un' anima dannata, which, I think, are all the preſent diverſions of the place; ex⯑cept the Marquiſe de Cavaillac's Converſazione, where one goes to ſee people play at Ombre and Taroc, a game with 72 cards all painted with ſuns, and moons, and devils and monks. Mr. Walpole has been at court; the family are at preſent at a country palace, called La Venerie. The palace here in town is the very quinteſſence of gilding and looking-glaſs; inlaid floors, carved pannels, and painting, wherever they could ſtick a bruſh. I own I have not, as yet, any where met with thoſe grand and ſimple works of Art, that are to amaze one, and whoſe ſight one is to be the better for: But thoſe of Nature have aſtoniſhed me beyond expreſſion. In our little journey up to the Grande Chartreuſe, I do not remember to have gone ten paces without an exclamation, that there was no reſtraining: Not a precipice, not a torrent, not a cliff, but is pregnant with religion and poetry. There are certain ſcenes that would awe an atheiſt into belief, without the help of other argument. One need [67] not have a very fantaſtic imagination to ſee ſpirits there at noon⯑day: You have Death perpetually before your eyes, only ſo far removed, as to compoſe the mind without frighting it. I am well perſuaded St. Bruno was a man of no common genius, to chooſe ſuch a ſituation for his retirement; and perhaps ſhould have been a diſciple of his, had I been born in his time. You may believe Abelard and Heloïſe were not forgot upon this oc⯑caſion: If I do not miſtake, I ſaw you too every now and then at a diſtance among the trees; il me ſemble, que j'ai vu ce chien de viſage là quelque part. You ſeemed to call to me from the other ſide of the precipice, but the noiſe of the river below was ſo great, that I really could not diſtinguiſh what you ſaid; it ſeemed to have a cadence like verſe. In your next you will be ſo good to let me know what it was. The week we have ſince paſſed among the Alps, has not equalled the ſingle day upon that mountain, becauſe the winter was rather too far advanced, and the weather a little foggy. However, it did not want its beauties; the ſavage rudeneſs of the view is incon⯑ceivable without ſeeing it: I reckoned, in one day, thirteen caſcades, the leaſt of which was, I dare ſay, one hundred feet in height. I had Livy in the chaiſe with me, and beheld his ‘"Nives coelo propè immiſtae, tecta informia impoſita rupi⯑bus, pecora jumentaque torrida frigore, homines intonſi & inculti, animalia inanimaque omnia rigentia gelu; omnia con⯑fragoſa, praeruptaque."’ The creatures that inhabit them are, in all reſpects, below humanity; and moſt of them, eſpecially women, have the tumidum guttur, which they call goſcia. Mont Cenis, I confeſs, carries the permiſſion mountains have of being frightful rather too far; and its horrours were ac⯑companied with too much danger to give one time to reflect [68] upon their beauties. There is a family of the Alpine monſters I have mentioned, upon its very top, that in the middle of winter calmly lay in their ſtock of proviſions and firing, and ſo are buried in their hut for a month or two under the ſnow. When we were down it, and got a little way into Piedmont, we began to find ‘"Apricos quoſdam colles, rivoſque prope ſyl⯑vas, et jam humano cultu digniora loca."’ I read Silius Italicus too, for the firſt time; and wiſhed for you, according to cuſtom. We ſet out for Genoa in two days time.

LETTER XII.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. WEST.

At leaſt if they do not, they have a very ill taſte; for I never beheld any thing more amiable: Only figure to yourſelf a vaſt ſemicircular baſon, full of fine blue ſea, and veſſels of all ſorts and ſizes, ſome ſailing out, ſome coming in, and others at an⯑chor; and all round it palaces and churches peeping over one another's heads, gardens and marble terraſes full of orange and cypreſs trees, fountains, and trellis-works covered with vines, which all together compoſe the grandeſt of theatres. This is the firſt coup d'oeil, and is almoſt all I am yet able to give [69] you an account of, for we arrived late laſt night. To-day was, luckily, a great feſtival, and in the morning we reſorted to the church of the Madonna delle Vigne, to put up our little ori⯑ſons; (I believe I forgot to tell you, that we have been ſome⯑time converts to the holy Catholic church) we found our Lady richly dreſſed out, with a crown of diamonds on her own head, another upon the child's, and a conſtellation of wax lights burning before them: Shortly after came the Doge, in his robes of crimſon damaſk, and a cap of the ſame, followed by the Senate in black. Upon his approach began a fine concert of muſic, and among the reſt two eunuchs' voices, that were a perfect feaſt to ears that had heard nothing but French operas for a year. We liſtened to this, and breathed nothing but in⯑cenſe for two hours. The Doge is a very tall, lean, ſtately, old figure, called Coſtantino Balbi; and the Senate ſeem to have been made upon the ſame model. They ſaid their prayers, and heard an abſurd white friar preach, with equal devotion. After this we went to the Annonciata, a church built by the family Lomellini, and belonging to it; which is, indeed, a moſt ſtately ſtructure, the inſide wholly marble of various kinds, ex⯑cept where gold and painting take its place. From hence to the Palazzo Doria. I ſhould make you ſick of marble, if I told you how it was laviſhed here upon the porticoes, the baluſtrades, and terraſes, the loweſt of which extends quite to the ſea. The inſide is by no means anſwerable to the outward magnificence; the furniture ſeems to be as old as the founder of the family. There great imboſſed ſilver tables tell you, in bas-relief, his victories at ſea; how he entertained the Emperor Charles, and how he refuſed the ſovereignty of the Commonwealth when it was offered him; the reſt is old-faſhioned velvet chairs, and [70] gothic tapeſtry. The reſt of the day has been ſpent, much to our hearts' content, in curſing French muſic and architecture, and in ſinging the praiſes of Italy. We find this place ſo very fine, that we are in fear of finding nothing finer. We are fallen in love with the Mediterranean ſea, and hold your lakes and your rivers in vaſt contempt. This is ‘" The happy country where huge lemons grow,"’ as Waller ſays; and I am ſorry to think of leaving it in a week for Parma, although it be‘The happy country where huge cheeſes grow.’

LETTER XIII.

Mr. GRAY to his MOTHER.

OUR journey hither has taken up much leſs time than I expected. We left Genoa (a charming place, and one that deſerved a longer ſtay) the week before laſt; croſſed the mountains, and lay that night at Tortona, the next at St. Giovan⯑ni, and the morning after came to Piacenza. That city, (though the capital of a Dutchy) made ſo frippery an appearance, that inſtead of ſpending ſome days there, as had been intended, we only dined, and went on to Parma; ſtayed there all the fol⯑lowing day, which was paſſed in viſiting the famous works of Corregio in the Dome, and other churches. The fine gallery of pictures, that once belonged to the Dukes of Parma, is no more here; the King of Naples has carried it all thither, and the city had not merit enough to detain us any longer, ſo we proceeded [71] through Reggio to Modena; this, though the reſidence of its Duke, is an ill-built melancholy place, all of brick, as are moſt of the towns in this part of Lombardy: He himſelf lives in a private manner, with very little appearance of a court about him; he has one of the nobleſt collections of paintings in the world, which entertained us extremely well the reſt of that day and a part of the next; and in the afternoon we came to Bologna: So now you may wiſh us joy of being in the domi⯑nions of his Holineſs. This is a populous city, and of great extent: All the ſtreets have porticoes on both ſides, ſuch as ſur⯑round a part of Covent-Garden, a great relief in ſummer-time in ſuch a climate; and from one of the principal gates to a church of the Virgin, [where is a wonder-working picture, at three miles diſtance] runs a corridore of the ſame ſort, lately finiſhed, and, indeed, a moſt extraordinary performance. The churches here are more remarkable for their paintings than architecture, being moſtly old ſtructures of brick; but the palaces are numerous, and fine enough to ſupply us with ſome⯑what worth ſeeing from morning till night. The country of Lombardy, hitherto, is one of the moſt beautiful imaginable; the roads broad, and exactly ſtraight, and on either hand vaſt plantations of trees, chiefly mulberries and olives, and not a tree without a vine twining about it and ſpreading among its branches. This ſcene, indeed, which muſt be the moſt lovely in the world during the proper ſeaſon, is at preſent all deform⯑ed by the winter, which here is rigorous enough for the time it laſts; but one ſtill ſees the ſkeleton of a charming place, and reaps the benefit of its product, for the fruits and proviſions are admirable; in ſhort you find every thing, that luxury can deſire, in perfection. We have now been here a week, and [72] ſhall ſtay ſome little time longer. We are at the foot of the Apennine mountains; it will take up three days to croſs them, and then we ſhall come to Florence, where we ſhall paſs the Chriſt⯑mas. Till then we muſt remain in a ſtate of ignorance as to what is doing in England, for our letters are to meet us there: If I do not find four or five from you alone, I ſhall wonder.

LETTER XIV.

Mr. GRAY to his MOTHER.

WE ſpent twelve days at Bologna, chiefly (as moſt travellers do) in ſeeing ſights; for as we knew no mortal there, and as it is no eaſy matter to get admiſſion into any Italian houſe, without very particular recommendations, we could ſee no com⯑pany but in public places; and there are none in that city but the churches. We ſaw, therefore, churches, palaces, and pictures from morning to night; and the 15th of this month ſet out for Florence, and began to croſs the Apennine mountains; we tra⯑velled among and upon them all that day, and, as it was but in⯑different weather, were commonly in the middle of thick clouds, that utterly deprived us of a ſight of their beauties: For this vaſt chain of hills has its beauties, and all the vallies are culti⯑vated; even the mountains themſelves are many of them ſo within a little of their very tops. They are not ſo horrid as the Alps, though pretty near as high; and the whole road is admirably well kept, and paved throughout, which is a length of fourſcore miles, and more: We left the Pope's dominions, [73] and lay that night in thoſe of the Grand Duke at Fiorenzuola, a paltry little town, at the foot of Mount Giogo, which is the higheſt of them all. Next morning we went up it; the poſt⯑houſe is upon its very top, and uſually involved in clouds, or half-buried in the ſnow. Indeed there was none of the laſt at the time we were there, but it was ſtill a diſmal habitation. The deſcent is moſt exceſſively ſteep, and the turnings very ſhort and frequent; however, we performed it without any danger, and in coming down could dimly diſcover Florence, and the beautiful plain about it, through the miſts; but enough to convince us, it muſt be one of the nobleſt proſpects upon earth in ſummer. That afternoon we got thither; and Mr. Mann^*, the reſident, had ſent his ſervant to meet us at the gates, and conduct us to his houſe. He is the beſt and moſt obliging perſon in the world. The next night we were introduced at the Prince of Craon's aſſembly (he has the chief power here in the Grand Duke's abſence). The Princeſs, and he, were extremely civil to the name of Walpole, ſo we were aſked to ſtay ſupper, which is as much as to ſay, you may come and ſup here whenever you pleaſe; for after the firſt invitation this is always underſtood. We have alſo been at the Counteſs Suarez's, a favourite of the late Duke, and one that gives the firſt movement to every thing gay that is going forward here. The news is every day expected from Vienna of the Great Dutcheſs's delivery; if it be a boy, here will be all ſorts of balls, maſquerades, operas, and illuminations; if not, we muſt wait for the Carnival, when all thoſe things come of courſe. In the mean time it is impoſſible to want enter⯑tainment; [74] the famous gallery, alone, is an amuſement for months; we commonly paſs two or three hours every morning in it, and one has perfect leiſure to conſider all its beauties. You know it contains many hundred antique ſtatues, ſuch as the whole world cannot match, beſides the vaſt collection of paint⯑ings, medals, and precious ſtones, ſuch as no other prince was ever maſter of; in ſhort, all that the rich and powerful houſe of Medicis has in ſo many years got togéther.^* And beſides this city abounds with ſo many palaces and churches, that you can hardly place yourſelf any where without having ſome fine one in view, or at leaſt ſome ſtatue or fountain, magnificently adorned; theſe, undoubtedly, are far more nu⯑merous than Genoa can pretend to; yet, in its general appear⯑ance, I cannot think that Florence equals it in beauty. Mr. Walpole is juſt come from being preſented to the Electreſs Palatine Dowager; ſhe is a ſiſter of the late Great Duke's; a ſtately old lady, that never goes out but to church, and then ſhe has guards, and eight horſes to her coach. She received him with much ceremony, ſtanding under a huge black canopy, and, after a few minutes talking, ſhe aſſured him of her good will, and diſmiſſed him: She never ſees any body but thus in form; and ſo ſhe paſſes her life, ^†poor woman! ***

LETTER XV.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. WEST.

I Think I have not yet told you how we left that charming place Genoa: How we croſſed a mountain, all of green marble, called Buchetto: How we came to Tortona, and waded through the mud to come to Caſtel St. Giovanni, and there eat muſtard and ſugar with a diſh of crows gizzards:

Nor, thirdly, how we paſſed through Piacenza, Parma, Mo⯑dena, entered the territories of the Pope; ſtayed twelve days at Bologna; croſſed the Apennines, and afterwards arrived at Florence. None of theſe things have I told you, nor do I in⯑tend to tell you, till you aſk me ſome queſtions concerning them. No not even of Florence itſelf, except that it is as fine as poſſible, and has every thing in it that can bleſs the eyes. But, before I enter into particulars, you muſt make your peace both with me and the Venus de Medicis, who, let me tell you, is highly and juſtly offended at you for not inquiring, long before this, concerning her ſymmetry and proportions. ***

LETTER XVI.

Mr. WEST to Mr. GRAY.

LETTER XVII.

Mr. GRAY to his MOTHER.

THE Pope^* is at laſt dead, and we are to ſet out for Rome on monday next. The Conclave is ſtill ſitting there, and likely to continue ſo ſome time longer, as the two French Cardinals are but juſt arrived, and the German ones are ſtill expected. It agrees mighty ill with thoſe that remain incloſed: Ottoboni is already dead of an apoplexy; Altieri and ſeveral 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 [78] 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 preſent you have your proportion of them, and that all 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 imagine them more various abroad. The diver⯑ſions 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 peo⯑ple's houſes, full of I cannot tell what: Beſides this, there is twice a week a very grand concert. ***

LETTER XVIII.

Mr. GRAY to his MOTHER.

THIS is the third day ſince we came to Rome, but the firſt hour I have had to write to you in. The journey from Florence coſt us four days, 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 [79] and delicacy in the old-faſhioned way. Within too are ſome paintings and ſculpture of conſiderable hands. The ſight of this, and ſome collections 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 bottom with rows of olive-trees, or elſe elms, each of which has its vine twining about it, and mixing with the branches; and corn ſown between all the ranks. This, diver⯑ſified with numerous ſmall houſes and convents, makes the moſt agreeable proſpect in the world: But, all of a ſudden, it alters to black barren hills, as far as the eye can reach, that ſeem never to have been capable of culture, and are as ugly as uſeleſs. Such is the country for ſome time before one comes to Mount Radicofani, a terrible black hill, on the top of which we were to lodge that night. It is very high, 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 handkerchief tied round its head, which, by its voice and mien, ſeemed a fat 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 fabrick, but ſuch an inſide, ſuch cham⯑bers, and accommodations, that your cellar is a palace in com⯑pariſon; and your cat ſups and lies much better than we did; [80] for, it being a ſaint's eve, there were 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 other 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 firſt 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 ſepulcher 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 appeared very vaſt, and ſurrounded with magnificent villas and gardens. We ſoon after croſſed the Tiber, a river that ancient Rome made more conſiderable than any merit of its own could have done: However, it is not contemptibly ſmall, but a good hand⯑ſome ſtream; very deep, yet ſomewhat of a muddy complex⯑ion. The firſt entrance of Rome is prodigiouſly ſtriking. It is by a noble gate, deſigned by Michel Angelo, and adorned with ſtatues; this brings you into a large ſquare, in the midſt of which is a vaſt obeliſk of granite, and in front you have at one view two churches of a handſome architecture, and ſo much alike that they are called the twins; with three ſtreets, the mid⯑dlemoſt [81] of which is one of the longeſt in Rome. As high as my expectation was raiſed, I confeſs, 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 foun⯑tain, the moſt pictureſque and noble one can imagine. We have not yet ſet about conſidering its beauties, ancient and modern, with attention; but have already taken a ſlight tranſient 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 off his journey, immediately repaired hither to offer up his vows at the high altar, and went directly into the Con⯑clave; the doors of which we ſaw opened to him, and all the other immured Cardinals came thither to receive him. Upon his entrance they were cloſed again directly. It is ſup⯑poſed they will not come to an agreement about a Pope till after Eaſter, though the confinement is very diſagreeable. I 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 majeſty of Great-Britain, &c. though I have the two boys in the gar⯑dens of the Villa Borgeſe, 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 imagine. This letter (like all thoſe the Engliſh 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 I deſire you to give my duty to my father, and wherever elſe it is due, and that I am, &c.

LETTER XIX.

Mr. GRAY to his MOTHER.

TO-DAY I am juſt come from paying my adoration at St. Peter's to three extraordinary reliques, 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 effect imaginable as one entered the great door. Soon after came one after ano⯑ther, 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 cruci⯑fixes before them; and to each company, as they arrived 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 hand⯑kerchief, with the miraculous 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 [83] 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 ſattin doublet torn, and ſhewing 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 you joy of Porto Bello, and many other things, which I hope are all true. ****

LETTER XX.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. WEST.

THIS day being in the palace of his Highneſs the Duke of Modena, he laid his moſt ſerene commands upon me to write to Mr. Weſt, and ſaid he thought it for his glory, that I ſhould draw up an inventory of all his moſt ſerene poſſeſſions for the ſaid Weſt's peruſal.—Imprimis, a houſe, being in circum⯑ference 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 N^o. 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, containing two millions [84] of ſuperfine laurel hedges, a clump of cypreſs trees, and half the river Teverone, that piſſes into two thouſand ſeveral chamber⯑pots. Finis.—Dame Nature deſired me to put in a liſt of her little 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 ſemi-circle; from certain others behind, at a greater diſtance, ſhe has drawn a canal, into which ſhe has put a little river of her's, called Anio; ſhe has cut a huge cleft between the two innermoſt of her four hills, and there ſhe has left it to its own diſpoſal; which ſhe has no ſooner done, but, like a heedleſs chit, it tumbles headlong down a declivity fifty feet perpendicular, 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 without any further trouble, it is the moſt noble ſight in the world. The weight of that quantity of waters, and the force they fall with, have worn the rocks they throw themſelves among into a thouſand irregular craggs, 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 waters; for by this time it has divided itſelf, being croſſed and oppoſed by the rocks, into four ſeveral ſtreams, each of which, in emulation 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 intermix⯑ed with groves of olive and little woods, the mountains riſing behind them, and on the top of one (that which forms the extre⯑mity of one of the half-circle's horns) is ſeated the town itſelf. [85] At the very extremity of that extremity, on the brink of the precipice, ſtands the Sybils' temple, the remains of a little rotunda, ſurrounded with its portico, above half of whoſe beau⯑tiful 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 ſuppoſe, 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's houſe, a curious ſituation to obſerve the

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 of the 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 Teverone, oppoſite to Maecenas's; and they told us there was a bridge of communication, by which ‘"andava il detto Signor per traſtullarſi 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 gar⯑den 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.

[86] 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 coming together. See my honeſty, I do not mention a ſyllable of the temple of Fortune, becauſe 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, where, 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 dry.

There are, indeed, two whole modern ones, works of Popes, that run about thirty miles a-piece in length; one of them con⯑veys ſtill the famous Aqua Virgo to Rome, and adds vaſt beauty to the proſpect. So we came to Rome again, where waited for us a ſplendidiſſimo regalo of letters; in one of which came You, with your huge characters and wide intervals, ſta⯑ring. I would have you to know, I expect you ſhould take a handſome 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 yourſelf a Roman villa; all its little apartments thrown open, and lighted up to the beſt advantage. At the upper end of the gallery, a fine concert, in which La Dia⯑mantina, a famous virtuoſa, played on the violin divinely, and ſung angelically; Giovannino and Paſqualini (great names in muſical ſtory) alſo performed miraculouſly. On each ſide were [87] ranged all the ſecular grand monde of Rome, the Ambaſſa⯑dors, Princeſſes, and all that. Among the reſt Il Sereniſſimo Pretendente (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 I ſat in a corner regaling myſelf with iced fruits, and other pleaſant rinfreſcatives.

LETTER XXI.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. WEST.

I am to day juſt returned from Alba, a good deal fatigued; for you know the Appian is ſomewhat tireſome.^* We dined at [89] Pompey'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 Pholoë's health; and, after bathing, and playing 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 gud⯑geons; as alſo that the night paſt a dreadful voice had been heard out of the Adytum, which ſpoke Greek during a full half hour, but no body underſtood it. But quitting my Romanities, to your great joy and mine, let me tell you, in plain Engliſh, that we come from Albano. The preſent town lies within the incloſure of Pompey's Villa in ruins. The Appian way runs through it, by the ſide of which, a little far⯑ther, is a large old tomb, with five 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 Colli⯑nette, that forms a brim to the baſon, commonly called the [90] Alban lake. It is ſeven miles round; and directly oppoſite-to you, on the other ſide, riſes the Mons Albanus, much taller than the reſt, along whoſe ſide are ſtill diſcoverable (not to common 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 Collona's, where ſtood the temple of Jupiter Latialis. At the foot of the hill Gondolfo, are the famous outlets of the lake, built with hewn ſtone, a mile and a half under ground. Livy, you know, amply informs us of the fooliſh occaſion of this expence, and gives me this opportunity of diſplaying all my erudition, that I 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 Tyrrene ſea (twelve miles diſtant) ſo diſtinguiſhable, that you may ſee the veſſels ſailing upon it. All this is charming. Mr. Walpole ſays, our memory ſees more than our eyes in this country. Which is extremely true; ſince, for realities, Windſor, or Richmond Hill, is infinitely prefer⯑able to Albano or Freſcati. I am now at home, and going to the window to tell you it is the moſt beautiful of Italian nights, which, in truth, are but juſt begun (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 foun⯑tain? Do not you ſmell the orange flowers? That building yonder is the Convent of S. 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 hundred yards in length. We ſend you ſome Roman inſcriptions to entertain [91] you. The firſt two are modern, tranſcribed from the Vatican library by Mr. Walpole.

Mine is ancient, and I think not leſs curious. It is ex⯑actly tranſcribed from a ſepulchral marble at the villa Giuſtini⯑ani. I put ſtops to it, when I underſtand it.

LETTER XXII.

Mr. GRAY to his MOTHER.

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 unwholeſome airs, or violent heats, yet heard of: The people call it a backward year, and are in pain about their corn, wine, and oil; but we, who are neither corn, wine, nor oil, [93] find it very agreeable. Our road was through Velletri, Ciſter⯑na, Terracina, Capua, and Averſa, and ſo to Naples. The minute one leaves his Holineſs's dominions, the face of things begins to change from wide uncultivated 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 be⯑tween the rows from one tree to another. The great old fig⯑trees, the oranges in full bloom, and myrtles in every hedge, make one of the delightfulleſt 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 increa⯑ſed 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 ani⯑mals, more induſtrious than Italians uſually are; they work till evening; then they take their lute or guitar (for they all play) 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 ones dancing with caſtanets, while others play on the cymbal to them. Your maps will ſhow you the ſituation of Naples; it is on the moſt lovely bay in the world, and one of the calmeſt ſeas: It has many other beauties 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 Solfatara, Charon's grotto, &c. We have been in the Sybils' cave and many other ſtrange holes under⯑ground (I only name them, becauſe you may conſult Sandy's [94] travels); but the ſtrangeſt hole I ever was in, has been to-day at a place called Portici, where his Sicilian Majeſty has a coun⯑try-ſeat. About a year ago, as they were digging, they diſco⯑vered ſome parts of ancient buildings above thirty feet deep in the ground: Curioſity led them on, and they have been dig⯑ging 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 painted in freſco. Some pieces of painting have been taken out from hence, finer than any 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 known to be a Roman town^*, that in the Emperor Titus's time was over⯑whelmed 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 foot of that mountain, which at preſent only ſmokes a little, where we ſaw the mate⯑rials that fed the ſtream of fire, 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. ***

LETTER XXIII.

Mr. GRAY to his FATHER.

AT my return to this city, the day before yeſterday, I had the pleaſure of finding yours dated June the 9th. The period of our 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 little 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 te⯑dious expectation of what, when it happens, will only be a great ſhow. For my own part, I give up the thoughts of all that with but little regret; but the city itſelf I do not part with ſo eaſily, which alone has amuſements for whole years. How⯑ever, I have paſſed through all that moſt people do, both ancient and modern; what that is you may ſee, better than I can tell you, in a thouſand books. The Conclave we left in greater uncertainty than ever; the more than ordinary liberty they en⯑joy there, and the unuſual coolneſs of the ſeaſon, makes the confinement leſs diſagreeable to them than common, and, con⯑ſequently, 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 Portia; the latter died diſtracted; and we left another (Altieri) at the extremity: Yet nobody dreams of an election till the [96] latter end of September. All this gives great ſcandal to all good catholics, and every body talks very freely on the ſubject. The Pretender (whom you deſire an account of) I have had frequent opportunities of ſeeing at church, at the corſo, and other places; but more particularly, and that for a whole night, at a great ball given by Count Patrizii to the Prince and Prin⯑ceſs Craon, (who were come to Rome at that time, that he might receive from the hands of the Emperor's miniſter there the order of the golden fleece) at which he and his two ſons were preſent. They are good fine boys, eſpecially 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 aukward, of a moſt unpromiſing countenance, a good deal reſembling King James the Second, and has extremely the air and look of an idiot, particularly 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 manages every thing, and two or three of the Preſton Scotch Lords, who 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 bal⯑cony. He followed the Hoſt to the church of St. Clara, where high maſs was celebrated to a glorious 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.

[97] We are ſettled here with Mr. Mann in a charming apartment; the river Arno runs under our windows, which we can fiſh 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 nightgown without any danger; and the marble bridge is the reſort of every body, where they hear muſic, eat iced fruits, and ſup by moon-light; though as yet (the ſeaſon being extremely back⯑ward every where) theſe amuſements are not begun. You ſee we are now coming northward again, though in no great haſte; the Venetian and Milaneſe territories, and either Germany or the South of France, (according to the turn the war may take) are all that remain for us, that we have not yet ſeen; as to Lo⯑retto, and that part of Italy, we have given over all thoughts of it.

LETTER XXIV.

Mr. WEST to Mr. GRAY.

I Lived at the Temple till I was ſick of it: I have juſt left it, and find myſelf as much a lawyer as I was when I was in it. It is certain, at leaſt, I may ſtudy the law here as well as I could there. My being in chambers did not ſignify to me a pinch of ſnuff. They tell me my father was a lawyer, and, as you know, eminent in the profeſſion; and ſuch a circumſtance muſt be of advantage to me. My uncle too makes ſome figure in Weſtminſter hall; and there's another advantage: Then my [98] grandfather's name would get me many friends. Is it not ſtrange that a young fellow, that might enter the world with ſo many advantages, will not know his own intereſt? &c. &c.—What ſhall I ſay in anſwer to all this? For money, I neither doat 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 diſagreeable thing to force one's inclination, eſpecially when one's young? not to mention 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 yet 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 weathercock.—I could ſay much more upon this ſubject; but there is no talking tête-à-tête croſs the Alps. O the folly of young men, that never know their own intereſt! they never grow wiſe till they are ruined! and then nobody pities them, nor helps them. 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 ſentiments of thoſe they converſe with; ſo they can chat about trifles, they never care whether your heart aches or no. Are you one of theſe? 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 from you? Yes, Gray, I hope we have; 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 ſome⯑thing about your further intentions abroad? Where do you [99] propoſe going next? an in Apuliam? nam illò ſi adveneris, tan⯑quam Ulyſſes, cognoſces tuorum neminem. Vale. So Cicero propheſies in the end of one of his letters^*—and there I end.

LETTER XXV.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. WEST.

YOU do yourſelf and me juſtice, in imagining that you me⯑rit, 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. My vanity perhaps might make me more reſerved towards you, if you were one of the heroic race, ſuperior to all human failings; but as mutual wants are the ties of general ſociety, ſo are mutual weakneſſes of private friend⯑ſhips, ſuppoſing them mixt with ſome proportion of good qua⯑lities; for where one may not ſometimes blame, one does not much care ever to praiſe. All this has the air of an in⯑troduction deſigned to ſoften a very harſh reproof that is to fol⯑low; but it is no ſuch matter: I only meant to aſk, Why did [100] you change your lodging? Was the air bad, or the ſituation melancholy? If ſo, you are quite in the right. Only, is it not putting yourſelf a little out of the way of a people, with whom it ſeems neceſſary to keep up ſome ſort of intercourſe and con⯑verſation, though but little for your pleaſure or entertainment, (yet there are, I believe, ſuch among them as might give you both) at leaſt for your information in that ſtudy, which, when I left you, you thought of applying to? for that there is a cer⯑tain ſtudy neceſſary to be followed, if we mean to be of any uſe in the world, I take for granted; diſagreeable enough (as moſt neceſſities are) but, I am afraid, unavoidable. Into how many branches theſe ſtudies are divided in England, every body knows; and between that which you and I had pitched upon, and the other two, it was impoſſible to balance long. Exam⯑ples ſhew one that it is not abſolutely neceſſary to be a block⯑head to ſucceed in this profeſſion. The labour is long, and the elements dry and unentertaining; nor was ever any body (eſpe⯑cially thoſe that afterwards made a figure in it) amuſed, or even not diſguſted in the beginning; yet, upon a further ac⯑quaintance, 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 deliberation, and that not of dull men, but the contrary; and have ſo cloſe a connexion with hiſtory, nay, with philoſophy itſelf, that they muſt partake a little of what they are related to ſo nearly. Beſides, tell me, Have you ever made the attempt? Was not you frighted merely with the diſ⯑tant proſpect? Had the Gothic character and bulkineſs of thoſe volumes (a tenth part of which perhaps it will be no further neceſſary to conſult, than as one does a dictionary) no ill effect [101] upon your eye? Are you ſure, if Coke had been printed by El⯑zevir, and bound in twenty neat pocket volumes, inſtead of one folio, you ſhould never have taken him up 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 Chancellorſhip, and think it a much more probable 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 re⯑ſolution determine them, and ſupport under many difficulties. To me there hardly appears to be any medium between a pub⯑lic life and a private one; he who prefers the firſt, muſt put himſelf in a way of being ſerviceable to the reſt of mankind, if he has a mind to be of any conſequence among them: Nay, he muſt not refuſe being in a certain degree even dependent 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, his ambition 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. Such a private happineſs (ſuppoſing a ſmall competence of fortune) is almoſt always in one's power, and the proper enjoyment of age, as the other is the employ⯑ment of youth. You are yet young, have ſome advantages and opportunities, and an undoubted capacity, which you have never yet put to the trial. Set apart a few hours, ſee how the firſt year will agree 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 give you [102] cauſe of repentance. If your inclination be not fixed upon any thing elſe, it is a ſymptom that you are not abſolutely deter⯑mined againſt this, and warns you not to miſtake mere indo⯑lence 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 I ſpeak. Alas! it is not ſo; but I do not act what I think, and I had rather be the object of your pity, than that you ſhould be that of mine; and, be aſſured, the advantage I may receive from it, does not di⯑miniſh my concern in hearing you want ſomebody to con⯑verſe with freely, whoſe advice might be of more weight, and always at hand. We have ſome time ſince come to the 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 Baiae, 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 under⯑ground, (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 I have fre⯑quently wondered you ſhould never mention a certain imitation of Spencer, publiſhed laſt year by a ^†nameſake of yours, with which we are all enraptured and enmarvailed.

LETTER XXVI.

Mr. GRAY to his MOTHER.

IT is ſome time ſince I have had the pleaſure of writing to you, having been upon a little excurſion croſs the moun⯑tains to Bologna. We ſet out from hence at ſunſet, paſſed the Apennines by moon-light, travelling inceſſantly 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 mortification of being within four days journey of Rome, and not ſeeing his coronation, the heats being violent, and the in⯑fectious 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 ſuddenly 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 remain here, and muſt be ſatisfied with the accounts other people give us of the matter. The new Pope is called Benedict XIV. being created Cardinal by Bene⯑dict XIII. the laſt Pope but one. His name is Lambertini, a noble Bologneſe, and Archbiſhop of that city. When I was firſt there, I remember to have ſeen 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 other virtues; and, [104] they ſay, wants neither knowledge 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 diſpoſal of his purſe and family. He is reported 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 Bologneſe of dif⯑ferent characters, but all equally proper for the Popedom. If it be your pleaſures, to pitch upon a Saint, there is Cardinal Gotti; if upon a Politician, there is Aldrovandi; if upon a Booby, here am I."’ The Italian is much more expreſſive, and, indeed, not to be tranſlated; wherefore, if you meet with any body that underſtands it, you may ſhew them what he ſaid in the language he ſpoke it. ‘"Emin^ſſimi. Sigrⁱ. Ci ſiamo tré, diverſi si, mà tutti idonei al Papato. Se vi piace un Santo, c' è l'Gotti; ſe volete una teſta ſcaltra, e Politica, c' è l'Al⯑drovandé; ſe un Coglione, eccomi!"’ Cardinal Coſcia is reſtored to his liberty, and, it is ſaid, will be to all his benefices. 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 villa⯑nous practices. The Pretender, they ſay, has reſigned 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 laſt article; becauſe, if he does, it is neceſſary he ſhould take the eccleſiaſtical habit, and it will ſound mighty odd to be called his Majeſty the Chancellor.—So ends my Gazette.

LETTER XXVII.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. WEST.

WHAT I ſend you now, as long as it is, is but a piece of a poem. It has the advantage of all fragments, to need neither introduction nor concluſion: Beſides, if you do not like it, it is but imagining that which went before, and came after, to be infinitely better. Look in Sandy's Travels for the hiſtory of Monte Barbaro, and Monte Nuovo.^*

There was a certain little ode^* ſet out from Rome, in a letter of recommendation to you, but poſſibly fell into the enemies' hands, for I never heard of its arrival. It is a little imperti⯑nent to inquire after its welfare; but you, that are a father, will excuſe a parent's fooliſh fondneſs. Laſt poſt I received a very diminutive letter: It made excuſes for its unentertaining⯑neſs, very little 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 agrémens, the garniſhing of the diſh. P. Bougeant, in his Langage des Bêtes, fancies that your birds, who continually repeat the ſame note, ſay only in plain terms, ‘"Je vous aime, ma chere; ma chere, je vous aime;"’ and that thoſe of greater genius indeed, with various trills, run diviſions upon the ſubject; but that the fond, from whence it all proceeds, is ‘"toujours je vous aime."’ Now you may, as you find yourſelf dull or in humour, either take me for a [109] chaffinch or nightingale; ſing your plain ſong, or ſhow your ſkill in muſic, but in the bottom let there be, toujours, tou⯑jours de l'Amitié.

As to what you call my ſerious letter; be aſſured, that your future ſtate is to me entirely indifferent. Do not be angry, but hear me; I mean with reſpect to myſelf. For whether you be at the top of Fame, or entirely unknown to mankind; at the Council-table, or at Dick's coffee-houſe; ſick and ſim⯑ple, or well and wife; whatever alteration mere accident works in you, (ſuppoſing it utterly impoſſible for it to make any change in your ſincerity and honeſty, ſince theſe are condi⯑tions ſine quâ non) I do not ſee any likelihood of my not being yours ever.

LETTER XXVIII.

Mr. GRAY to his FATHER.

THE beginning of next ſpring is the time determined for our return at furtheſt; poſſibly it may be before that time. How the interim will be employed, or what route we ſhall take, is not ſo certain. If we remain friends with France, upon leaving this country we ſhall croſs over to Venice, and ſo return through the cities north of the Po to Genoa; from thence take a felucca to Marſeilles, and come back through Paris. If the contrary fall out, which ſeems not unlikely, we muſt make the Milaneſe, and thoſe parts of Italy, in our way to Ve⯑nice; [110] from thence paſs through the Tirol into Germany, and come home by the Low-Countries. As for Florence, it has been gayer than ordinary for this laſt month, being one round of balls and entertainments, occaſioned 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 magnifi⯑cence: The more remarkable, as in their ordinary courſe of life they are parſimonious, even to a degree of naſtineſs. I ſaw in one of the vaſteſt palaces in Rome (that of Prince Pam⯑filio) the apartment which he himſelf inhabited, a bed that moſt ſervants in England would diſdain to lie in, and furni⯑ture much like that of a ſoph at Cambridge, for conveni⯑ence and neatneſs. This man is worth 30,000 l. ſterling 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 ex⯑pence of their table; and you may imagine they are ſtill leſs ex⯑travagant 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 having 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 (10 s.) a meal. The applauſe which all he ſays and does meets with, is enough to encourage him really to deſerve fame. They ſay he is an able and honeſt man; he is reckoned a wit 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, [111] 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 yet ſo much as learned ill manners."’ ***

LETTER XXIX.

Mr. GRAY to his FATHER.

WE ſtill continue conſtant at Florence, at preſent one of the dulleſt cities in Italy. Though it is the middle of the Carnival there are no public diverſions; nor is maſquerading permitted as yet. The Emperor's obſequies are to be celebra⯑ted publickly the 16th of this month; and after that, it is ima⯑gined every thing will go on in its uſual courſe. In the mean time, to employ the minds of the populace, the Government has thought fit to bring into the city in a ſolemn manner, and at a great expence, a famous ſtatue of the Virgin called the Madonna dell'Impruneta, 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 inundation, which it was feared might cauſe ſome epidemical diſtemper. It was introduced a [112] fortnight ago in proceſſion, attended by the Council of Regen⯑cy, 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 concourſe of people from all the country round. Among the reſt I paid my devotions almoſt every day, and ſaw numbers of people poſſeſſed with the devil, who were brought to be exorciſed. It was indeed in the even⯑ing, and the church-doors were always ſhut before the ceremo⯑nies were finiſhed, ſo that I could not be eye-witneſs of the event; but that they were all cured is certain, for one never heard any more of them the next morning. I am to-night juſt returned from ſeeing our Lady make her exit with the ſame ſo⯑lemnities ſhe entered. The ſhow had a finer effect than before; for it was dark; and every body (even thoſe of the mob that could afford it) bore a white-wax flambeau. I believe there were at leaſt five 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 figure in bas-relief upon it. I ſay ſuppoſed, becauſe ſince the time it was found (for it was found in the earth in ploughing) only two people have ſeen it; the one was, by good-luck, a ſaint; the other was ſtruck blind for his preſumption. Ever ſince ſhe has been covered with ſeven veils; nevertheleſs, 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 which ſhe firmly believes, and ten thouſand beſide.

[113] 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 cer⯑tain he has aſked the Pope's leave for his troops to paſs through his country. The Tuſcans in general are much diſcontented, and fooliſh enough to wiſh for a Spaniſh government, or any rather than this. ****

LETTER XXX.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. WEST.

I Know not what degree of ſatisfaction 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 pleaſure 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 ſomebody, 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 circum⯑ſtances excepted, which I hope I need not particularize to you); you muſt add then, to your former idea, two years of age, a reaſonable quantity of dullneſs, a great deal of ſilence, and ſomething that rather reſembles, than is, thinking; a con⯑fuſed notion of many ſtrange and fine things that have ſwum before my eyes for ſome time, a want of love for general ſocie⯑ty, [114] indeed an inability to it. On the good ſide you may add a ſenſibility for what others feel, and indulgence for their faults or weakneſſes, a love of truth, and deteſtation of every thing elſe. Then you are to deduct a little impertinence, a little laughter, a great deal of pride, and ſome ſpirits. Theſe are all the alte⯑rations 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, Expe⯑rience. One has little merit in learning her leſſons, for one cannot well help it; but they are more uſeful than others, and imprint themſelves in the very heart. I find I have been ha⯑ranguing in the ſtyle of the Son of Sirach, ſo ſhall finiſh here, and tell you that our route is ſettled as follows: Firſt to Bo⯑logna 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 wo⯑men; one has nothing but maſquing, gaming, and ſinging. If you love operas, there will be the moſt ſplendid in Italy, four tip-top voices, a new theatre, the Duke and Dutcheſs in all their pomps and vanities. Does not this ſound magnificent? Yet is the city of Reggio but one ſtep above Old Brentford. Well; next to Venice by the 11th of May, there to ſee the old Doge wed the Adriatic Whore. Then to Verona, ſo to Milan, ſo to Marſeilles, ſo to Lyons, ſo to Paris, ſo to Weſt, &c. in ſaecula ſaeculorum. Amen.

Eleven months, at different times, have I paſſed at Florence; and yet (God help me) know not either people or language. [115] Yet the place and the charming proſpects demand a poetical farewell, and here it is.

I will ſend you, too, a pretty little Sonnet of a Sig^r. Abbate Buondelmonte, with my imitation of it.

[116] Here comes a letter from you.—I muſt defer giving my opi⯑nion 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 juſt you ſhould have your revenge; and therefore I ſend you the begin⯑ning not of an Epic Poem, but of ^†a Metaphyſic one. Poems and Metaphyſics (ſay you, with your ſpectacles on) are incon⯑ſiſtent things. A metaphyſical poem is a contradiction in terms. It is true, but I will go on. It is Latin too to increaſe the abſurdity. It will, I ſuppoſe, put you in mind of the man who wrote a treatiſe of Canon Law in Hexameters. Pray help me to the deſcription of a mixt mode, and a little Epiſode about Space.

LETTER I.^*

Mr. WEST to Mr. GRAY.

I Write to make you write, for I have not much to tell you. I have recovered no ſpirits as yet; but, as I am not diſ⯑pleaſed [122] with my company, I ſit purring by the fire-ſide in my arm-chair with no ſmall ſatisfaction. I read too ſometimes, and have begun Tacitus, but have not yet read enough to judge of him; only his Pannonian ſedition in the firſt book of his annals, which is juſt as far as I have got, ſeemed to me a little tedious. I have no more to ſay, but to deſire you will write letters of a handſome length, and always anſwer me within a reaſonable ſpace of time, which I leave to your diſcretion.

Popes, March 28, 1742.

P.S. The new Dunciad! qu'en penſez vous?

LETTER II.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. WEST.

I Truſt to the country, and that eaſy indolence 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 fire-ſide, you will (like all other things) be the better for his influence. He is my old friend, and an excellent nurſe, I aſſure you. Had it not been for him, life had often been to me intolerable. Pray do not imagine that Tacitus, of all au⯑thors in the world, can be tedious. An annaliſt, you know, is by no means maſter of his ſubject; and I think one may venture to ſay, that if thoſe Pannonian affairs are tedious 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 ſententiouſ⯑neſs [123] peculiar to that age, with the truth and gravity of better times, and the deep reflection and good ſenſe of the beſt mo⯑derns, cannot chooſe but have ſomething to ſtrike you. Yet what I admire in him above all this, is his deteſtation of tyran⯑ny, 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 admi⯑red for ſaying much in a little compaſs. He ſpeaks of Domi⯑tian, who upon ſeeing the laſt will of that General, where he had made him Coheir with his Wife and Daughter, ‘"Satis conſtabat laetatum eum, velut honore, judicioque: tam caeca & corrupta mens aſſiduis adulationibus erat, ut neſciret a bono patre non ſcribi haeredem, niſi malum principem."’

As to the Dunciad it is greatly admired: The Genii of Ope⯑ras and Schools, with their attendants, the pleas of the Virtu⯑oſos and Floriſts, and the yawn of dullneſs in the end, are as fine as any 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. Aceronia, you may remember, had been giving quiet counſels. I fancy, if it ever be finiſhed, it will be in the nature of Nat. Lee's Bedlam Tragedy, which had twenty-five acts and ſome odd ſcenes.

LETTER III.

Mr. WEST to Mr. GRAY.

I Own in general 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 another opinion; he no where gives you the phraſes of Ronſard: His language is the language 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 up⯑on Cato, than upon Shakeſpear. One may imitate (if one can) Shakeſpear's manner, his ſurprizing ſtrokes of true nature, his expreſſive force in painting characters, and all his other beauties; preſerving at the ſame time our own language. Were Shake⯑ſpear alive now, he would write a different ſtyle from what he did. Theſe are my ſentiments upon theſe matters: Perhaps I am wrong, for I am neither a Tarpa, nor am I quite an Ariſtar⯑chus. You ſee I write freely both of you and Shakeſpear; but it is as good as writing not freely, where you know it is accept⯑able.

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 [137] after cough, ſhaking and tearing me for half an hour together; and then it leaves me in a great ſweat, as much fatigued as if I had been labouring at the plough. All this deſcription of my cough in proſe, is only to introduce 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.—

Do not miſtake me, I do not condemn Tacitus: 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 maſterly. Your New Dunciad I have no conception of. I ſhall be too late for our dinner if I write any more.

LETTER IV.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. WEST.

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 (when ſhe had a cough) ever ſung ſo ſweetly. I 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 ex⯑erciſe; which I hope you will not omit as the ſeaſon advances. Whatever low ſpirits and indolence, the effect of them, may adviſe to the 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 you had ſeen it; if you have not, do you chooſe I ſhould get and ſend it to you? I have myſelf, upon your recommendation, been reading Joſeph Andrews. The incidents 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. Slipſlop, and the ſtory of Wilſon; and throughout he ſhews himſelf well read in Stage-Coaches, Coun⯑try Squires, Inns, and Inns of Court. His reflections upon high people and low people, and miſſes and maſters, are very good. However the exaltedneſs of ſome minds (or rather as I [139] ſhrewdly ſuſpect their inſipidity and want of feeling or obſerva⯑tion) may make them inſenſible to theſe light things, (I mean ſuch as characterize and paint nature) yet ſurely they are as weighty and much more uſeful than your grave diſcourſes upon the mind^*, the paſſions, and what not. Now as the paradi⯑ſaical pleaſures ^† of the Mahometans conſiſt in playing upon the flute and lying with Houris, be mine to read eternal new romances of Marivaux and Crebillon.

You are very good in giving yourſelf the trouble to read and find fault 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 otherwiſe; which, whatever compliment it might be to my vanity, would be making a very ill one to my underſtanding. As to matter of ſtile, I have this to ſay: The language of the age ^‡ is never the language of poetry; except among the French, whoſe verſe, where the thought or image does not ſupport it, differs in nothing from proſe. Our poetry, [140] on the contrary, has a language peculiar to itſelf; to which al⯑moſt every one, that has written, has added ſomething by en⯑riching it with foreign idioms and derivatives: Nay ſometimes words of their own compoſition or invention. Shakeſpear and Milton have been great creators this way; and no one more li⯑centious than Pope or Dryden, who perpetually borrow ex⯑preſſions from the former. Let me give you ſome inſtances from Dryden, whom every body reckons a great maſter of our poetical tongue.—Full of muſeful mopeings—unlike the trim of love—a pleaſant beverage—a roundelay of love—ſtood ſilent in his mood—with knots and knares deformed—his ireful mood—in proud array—his boon was granted—and diſarray and ſhame⯑ful rout—wayward but wiſe—furbiſhed for the field—the foiled dodderd oaks—diſherited—ſmouldring flames—retchleſs of laws—crones old and ugly—the beldam at his ſide—the grandam-hag—villanize his father's fame.—But they are infinite: And our language not being a ſettled thing (like the French) has an un⯑doubted right to words of an hundred years old, provided an⯑tiquity have not rendered them unintelligible. In truth, Shake⯑ſpear's language is one of his principal beauties; and he has no leſs advantage over your Addiſons and Rows in this, than in thoſe other great excellencies you mention. Every word in him is a picture. Pray put me the following lines into the tongue of our modern Dramatics:

And what follows. To me they appear untranſlatable; and if this be the caſe, our language is greatly degenerated. How⯑ever, the affectation of imitating Shakeſpear may doubtleſs be carried too far; and is no ſort of excuſe for ſentiments ill-ſuit⯑ed, or ſpeeches ill-timed, which I believe is a little the caſe with me. I gueſs the moſt faulty expreſſions may be theſe—ſilken ſon of dalliance—drowſier pretenſions—wrinkled beldams—arched the hearer's brow and riveted 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 misfortune 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 un⯑ravelling my web. I am a ſort of ſpider; and have little elſe to do but ſpin it over again, or creep to ſome other place and ſpin there. Alas! for one who has nothing to do but amuſe him⯑ſelf, I believe my amuſements are as little amuſing as moſt folks. But no matter; it makes the hours paſs, and is better than [...].

Adieu.

LETTER V.

Mr. WEST to Mr. GRAY.

TO begin with the concluſion of your letter, which is Greek, I deſire that you will quarrel no more with your manner of paſſing your time. In my opinion it is irreproach⯑able, 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 unravel⯑ling of your web, dear Sir! only purſue it a little further, and then one ſhall be able to judge of it a little better. You know the criſis of a play is in the firſt act; its damnation or ſalvation wholly reſts there. But till that firſt act is over, every body ſuſpends his vote; ſo how do you think I can form, as yet, any juſt idea of the ſpeeches in regard to their length or ſhortneſs? The connection and ſymmetry of ſuch little parts with one another muſt naturally eſcape me, as not having the plan of the whole in my head; neither can I decide about 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 ſenti⯑ment: For you ſay the affectation of imitating Shakeſpear 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 Shakeſpear as a dunghill in the leaſt: On the contrary, he is a mine of antient ore, where all our great modern poets have found their [143] advantage. I 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 compoſition; in the ſame manner as Pouſſin gave a beauty to his pictures by his know⯑ledge in the antient proportions: But ſhould he, or any other painter, carry the imitation too far, and neglect that beſt of models Nature, I am afraid it would prove a very flat perfor⯑mance. To finiſh this long criticiſm: I have this further no⯑tion about old words revived, (is not this a pretty way of finiſhing?) I think them of excellent uſe in tales; they add a certain drollery to the comic, and a romantic gravity to the ſe⯑rious, 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 poetry. Tragedy is deſigned for public repreſentation, and what is deſigned for that ſhould be certainly moſt intelligible. I believe half the audi⯑ence that come to Shakeſpear's plays do not underſtand the half of what they hear.—But finiſſons enfin.—Yet one word more.—You think the ten or twelve firſt lines the beſt, now I [144] am for the fourteen laſt^*; add, that they contain not one word of antientry.

I rejoice you found amuſement in Joſeph Andrews. But then I think your conceptions of Paradiſe a little upon the Bergerac. Les Lettres du Seraphim R. a Madame la Cherubi⯑neſſe de Q. What a piece of extravagance would there be!

And now you muſt know that my body continues weak and enervate. And for my animal ſpirits, they are in perpetual fluctuation: Some whole days I have no reliſh, no attention for any thing; at other times I revive, and am capable of writing a long letter, as you ſee; and though I do not write ſpeeches, yet I tranſlate them. When you underſtand what ſpeech, you will own that it is a bold and perhaps a dull attempt. In three words, it is proſe, it is from Tacitus, it is of Germanicus. Peruſe, perpend, pronounce^†.

LETTER VI.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. WEST.

I Should not have failed to anſwer your Letter immediately, but I went out of town for a little while, which hindered me. Its length (beſides the pleaſure naturally accompanying a long letter from you) affords 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 ſum⯑mer; ſo bid her good night. I think you have tranſlated Ta⯑citus very juſtly, that is, freely; and accommodated his thoughts to the turn and genius of our language; which, though I com⯑mend your judgment, is no commendation of the Engliſh [146] tongue, which is too diffuſe, and daily grows more and more enervate. One ſhall never be more ſenſible of this, than in turning an Author like Tacitus. I have been trying it in ſome parts of Thucydides, (who has a little reſemblance of him in his conciſeneſs) 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 Italy; and will ſend you the ſame ſpeech you ſent me; that is, if you care for it. In the meantime accept of ^†Propertius. ***

LETTER VII.

Mr. WEST to Mr. GRAY.

WITHOUT any preface I come to your verſes, which I read over and over with exceſſive pleaſure, and which are at leaſt as good as Propertius. I am only ſorry you follow the blunders of Broukhuſius, all whoſe inſertions 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 repeating I long to ſhew you ſome little errors you are fallen into by following Broukhuſius^‡. *** Were I with [147] you now, and Propertius with your verſes lay upon the table between us, I could diſcuſs this point in a moment; but there is nothing ſo tireſome as ſpinning out a criticiſm in a letter; doubts ariſe, and explanations 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 between Pope and Cromwell in proof of this; they diſ⯑pute without end. Are you aware now that I have an intereſt all this while in baniſhing Criticiſm from our correſpondence? Indeed I 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.

LETTER VIII.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. WEST.

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 I can⯑not; [149] however I will try. The firſt ſtanza (if what you ſay to me in it did not make me think it the beſt) I ſhould call the worſt of the five (except the fourth line). The two next are very pictureſque, Miltonic, and muſical; her bed is ſo ſoft and ſo ſnug that I long to lie with her. But thoſe two lines, ‘"Great Nature"’ are my favourites. The exclamation of the flowers is a little ſtep too far. The laſt ſtanza is full as good as the ſecond and third; the laſt line bold, but I think not too bold. Now, as to myſelf and my tranſlation, pray do not call names. I never ſaw Broukhuſius in my life. It is Scaliger who attempted to range Propertius in order; who was, and ſtill is, in ſad condition^|***. You ſee, by what I ſent you, that I converſe, as uſual, with none but the dead: They are my old friends, and almoſt make me long to be with them. You 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 ſheep with Theocritus. Beſides, to quit my figure, (becauſe it is fooliſh) I have run over Pliny's Epiſtles and Martial [...]; not to mention Pe⯑trarch, who, by the way, is ſometimes very tender and natural. I muſt needs tell you three lines in Anacreon, where the expreſ⯑ſion ſeems to me inimitable. He is deſcribing hair as he would have it painted.

[150] Gueſs, too, where this is about a dimple.

LETTER IX.

Mr. WEST to Mr. GRAY.

YOUR fragment is in Aulus Gellius; and both it and your Greek delicious. But why are you 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; I converſe with them too, though not indeed 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 Catullus, ‘"Alphene immemor, atque unanimis falſe ſo⯑dalibus!"’ But to turn an accuſation thus upon another, is un⯑generous; ſo I will take my leave of you for the preſent with a ‘"Vale et vive pauliſper cum vivis."’

LETTER X.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. WEST.

MINE, you are to know, is a white Melancholy, 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 ça 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 faith, Credo quia im⯑poſſibile eſt; for it believes, nay, is ſure of every thing that is unlikely, ſo it be but frightful; and, on the other hand, ex⯑cludes and ſhuts its eyes to the moſt poſſible hopes, and every thing that is pleaſurable; from this the Lord deliver us! for none but he and ſunſhiny weather can do it. In hopes of en⯑joying this 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, Pou⯑lets en Ragôut, Poulets en Hâchis, Poulets en Fricaſées."’ Read⯑ing here, Reading there; nothing but books with different ſauces. Do not let me loſe my deſert 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.

[152] I ſhall ſee Mr. ** and his Wife, nay, and his Child too, for he has got a Boy. Is it not odd to conſider one's Cotempora⯑ries in the grave light of Huſband and Father? There is my Lords ** and ***, they are Stateſmen: Do not you re⯑member them dirty boys playing at cricket? As for me, I am never a bit the older, nor the bigger, nor the wiſer than I was then: No, not for 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 confines of Mount Cithoeron, 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.

Here follows alſo the beginning of an Heroic Epiſtle; but you muſt give me leave to tell my own ſtory firſt, becauſe Hiſ⯑torians differ. Maſſiniſſa was the ſon of Gala King of the Maſ⯑ſyli; and, when very young at the head of his father's army, gave a moſt ſignal overthrow to Syphax, King of the Maſae⯑ſylians, then an ally of the Romans. Soon after Aſdrubal, ſon of Giſgo the Carthaginian General, gave the beautiful Sopho⯑niſba, [153] his daughter, in marriage to the young prince. But this marriage was not conſummated on account of Maſſiniſſa's be⯑ing obliged to haſten into Spain, there to command his father's troops, who were auxiliaries of the Carthaginians. Their af⯑fairs 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 Syphax. (It is probable their ingratitude to Maſſiniſſa 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 family had uſurped the throne.) Sophoniſba was accord⯑ingly married to Syphax; and Maſſiniſſa, enraged at the af⯑front, became a friend to the Romans. They drove the Car⯑thaginians 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 Laelius and Maſſiniſſa. The reſt of the affair, the marriage, and the ſending of poi⯑ſon, every body knows. This is partly taken from Livy, and partly from Appian.

LETTER I.

Mr. GRAY to ^*Dr. WHARTON.

I Ought to have returned you my thanks a long time ago for the pleaſure, I ſhould ſay Prodigy, of your Letter; for ſuch a [174] thing has not happened above twice within this laſt age to mor⯑tal man, and no one here can conceive what it may portend. You have heard, I ſuppoſe, how I have been employed a part of the time; how, by my own indefatigable application for theſe ten years paſt, and by the care and vigilance of that worthy magiſtrate the Man in Blue^†, (who, I aſſure you, has not ſpa⯑red his labour, nor could have done more for his own Son) I am got half way to the top of Juriſprudence^*, and bid as fair as an⯑other body to open a caſe of impotency with all decency and circumſpection. You ſee my ambition. I 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 you, if your diſtemper and you can but agree about go⯑ing to London, I may reaſonably expect in a much ſhorter time to ſee you in your three-cornered villa, doing the honours of a well-furniſhed table with as much dignity, as rich a mien, and as capacious a belly, as Dr. Mead. Methinks I ſee Dr. **, at the lower end of it, loſt in admiration 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 Aſthma too much with ſuch a proſpect, I ſhould think you might be almoſt as happy and as great as this even in the country. But you know beſt, and I ſhould be ſorry to ſay any thing that might ſtop you in the career of Glory; far be it from me to hamper the wheels of your gilded chariot. Go on, Sir Thomas; and when you die, (for even Phyſicians muſt die) [175] may the faculty in Warwick-lane erect your ſtatue in the very niche of Sir John Cutler's.

I was going to tell you how ſorry I am for your illneſs, but I hope it is too late now: I can only ſay that I really was very ſorry. May you live a hundred Chriſtmaſſes, and eat as many collars of brawn ſtuck with roſemary. Adieu, &c.

LETTER II.

Mr. GRAY to Dr. WHARTON.

YOU write ſo feelingly to Mr. Brown, and repreſent your abandoned condition in terms ſo touching, that what gra⯑titude could not effect in ſeveral months, compaſſion has brought about in a few days; and broke that ſtrong attach⯑ment, or rather allegiance, which I and all here owe to our ſovereign Lady and Miſtreſs, the Preſident of Preſidents and Head of Heads, (if I may be permitted to pronounce her name, that ineffable Octogrammaton) the power of Lazineſs. You muſt know ſhe had been pleaſed to appoint me (in preference to ſo many old ſervants of her's 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 with⯑out [178] the profit; but as they are both things of very great ho⯑nour in this country, I conſidered with myſelf the load of Envy attending ſuch great charges; and beſides (between you and me) I found myſelf unable to ſupport the fatigue of keep⯑ing up the appearance that perſons of ſuch dignity muſt do, ſo I thought proper to decline it, and excuſed myſelf as well as I could. However, 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 I have not anſwered your Letter be⯑fore.

You deſire to know, it ſeems, what Character the Poem of your young friend bears here^†. I wonder that you aſk the opinion of a Nation, where thoſe, who pretend to judge, do not judge at all; and the reſt (the wiſer part) wait to catch the judgment 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 ſhew 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 middling; and now and then, for a little while, riſes even to the beſt, par⯑ticularly in deſcription. It is often obſcure, and even unin⯑telligible; [179] 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, ‘"à là mode du Temple,"’ I have very pertly diſpatched 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 you, 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 enquire 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. Trollope and I are in a courſe of Tar-Water; he for his preſent, and I for my future diſtempers. If you think it will kill me, ſend away a man and horſe directly; for I drink like a Fiſh.

LETTER III.

Mr. GRAY to Dr. WHARTON.

I Would make you an excuſe, (as indeed I ought) if they were a ſort of thing I ever gave any credit to myſelf in theſe caſes; but I know they are never true. Nothing ſo ſilly as In⯑dolence when it hopes to diſguiſe itſelf: every one knows it by its ſaunter, as they do his Majeſty (God bleſs him) at a Maſ⯑querade, by the firmneſs of his tread and the elevation of his chin. However, ſomewhat I had to ſay that has a little ſha⯑dow of reaſon in it. I have been in Town (I ſuppoſe you know) flaunting about at all kind of public places with two friends lately returned from abroad. The world itſelf has ſome attractions in it to a ſolitary of ſix years ſtanding; and agree⯑able well-meaning people of ſenſe (thank Heaven there are ſo few of them) are my peculiar Magnet. It is no wonder then if I felt ſome reluctance at parting with them ſo ſoon; or if my ſpirits, when I returned back to my cell, ſhould ſink for a time, not indeed to ſtorm and tempeſt, but a good deal below change⯑able. Beſides, Seneca ſays (and my pitch of philoſophy does not pretend to be much above Seneca) ‘"Nunquam mores, quos extuli, refero. Aliquid ex eo quod compoſui, turbatur: ali⯑quid ex his, quae fugavi, redit."’ And it will happen to ſuch [181] as us, mere imps of Science. Well it may, when Wiſdom herſelf is forced often

It is a fooliſh thing that without Money one cannot either live as one pleaſes, or where and with whom one pleaſes. Swift ſomewhere ſays, that Money is Liberty; and I fear Mo⯑ney is Friendſhip too and Society, and almoſt every external bleſſing. It is a great, though an ill-natured, Comfort, to ſee moſt of thoſe who have it in plenty, without Pleaſure, without Liberty, and without Friends.

I am not altogether of your opinion as to your hiſtorical con⯑ſolation in time of trouble: A calm Melancholy it may produce, a ſtiller ſort of deſpair (and that only in ſome circumſtances, and on ſome conſtitutions); but I doubt no real comfort or content can ever ariſe in the human mind, but from Hope.

I take it very ill you ſhould have been in the twentieth year of the War^*, and yet ſay nothing of the retreat before Syracuſe: Is it, or is it not, the fineſt thing you ever read in your life? And how does Xenophon or Plutarch agree with you? For my part I read Ariſtotle, his Poetics, Politics, and Morals; though I do not well know which is which. In the firſt place, he is the hardeſt author by far I ever meddled with. Then he has a dry conciſeneſs, that makes one imagine one is peruſing a table of contents rather than a book: it taſtes for all the world [182] like chop'd hay, or rather like chop'd logic; for he has a violent affection to that art, being in ſome ſort his own invention; ſo that he often loſes himſelf in little trifling diſtinctions and verbal niceties; and, what is worſe, leaves you to extricate him as well as you can. Thirdly, he has ſuffered vaſtly from the tranſcribblers, as all authors of great brevity neceſſarily muſt. Fourthly and laſtly, he has abundance of fine uncommon things, which make him well worth the pains he gives one. You ſee what you are to expect from him.

LETTER IV.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. WALPOLE.

I Had been abſent from this place a few days, and at my return found Cibber's book^* upon my table: I return you my thanks for it, and have already run over a conſiderable part; for who could reſiſt Mrs. Letitia Pilkington's recom⯑mendation? (By the way, is there any ſuch gentlewoman^†? or has ſomebody put on the ſtyle of a ſcribbling woman's panegyric to deceive and laugh at Colley?) He ſeems to me full as pert and as dull as uſual. There are whole pages of common⯑place ſtuff, that for ſtupidity might have been wrote by Dr. Waterland, or any other grave divine, did not the flirting ſaucy phraſe give them at a diſtance an air of youth and gaiety: It is [183] very true, he is often in the right with regard to Tully's weak⯑neſſes; but was there any one that did not ſee them? Thoſe, I imagine, that would find a man after God's own heart, are no more likely to truſt the Doctor's recommendation than the Player's; and as to Reaſon and Truth, would they know their own faces, do you think, if they looked in the glaſs, and ſaw themſelves ſo bedizened in tattered fringe and tarniſhed lace, in French jewels, and dirty furbelows, the frippery of a ſtroller's wardrobe?

Literature, to take it in its moſt comprehenſive ſenſe, and include every thing that requires invention or judgment, or barely application and induſtry, ſeems indeed drawing apace to its diſſolution, and remarkably 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 I do not recollect one ſyllable; but only in general, that they were the beſt bred ſort of men in the world, juſt the kind of frinds one would wiſh to meet in a fine ſum⯑mer's evening, if one wiſhed to meet any 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 [184] hear there is ſuch a crowd of dramatical performances coming upon the ſtage. Agrippina can ſtay very well, ſhe thanks you, and be damned at leiſure: I hope in God you have not men⯑tioned, or ſhewed to any body that ſcene (for truſting in its badneſs, I forgot to caution 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 know, I am ſure. The employment you propoſe to me much better ſuits my incli⯑nation; but I much fear our joint-ſtock would hardly com⯑poſe 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 or⯑dinary run of Readers might think my affection for him, pro⯑vided thoſe few, that ever loved any body, or judged of any thing rightly, might, from ſuch little remains, be moved to conſider what he would have been; and to wiſh that heaven had granted him a longer life and a mind more at eaſe.

[185] I ſend you a few lines, tho' Latin, which you do not like, for the ſake of the ſubject^*; it makes part of a large deſign, and is the beginning of the fourth book, which was intended to treat of the paſſions. Excuſe the three firſt verſes; you know vanity, with the Romans, is a poetical licenſe.

LETTER V.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. WALPOLE.

I Have abundance of thanks to return you for the entertain⯑ment Mr. Spence's book has given me, which I have al⯑moſt 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 pre⯑vailed 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 corrupted me.

There is one fundamental fault, from whence moſt of the little faults throughout the whole ariſe. He profeſſes to ne⯑glect the Greek writers, who could have given him more in⯑ſtruction on the very heads he profeſſes to treat, than all the others put together; who does not know, that upon the Latin, the Sabine, and Hetruſcan mythology (which probably might themſelves, at a remoter period of time, owe their origin to Greece too) the Romans ingrafted almoſt the whole religion of Greece to make what is called their own? It would be hard [186] to find any one circumſtance that is properly of their invention. In the ruder days of the republic, the pictureſque part of their religion (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 people, may be well ſuppoſed, and indeed are known, to have had the arts flouriſhing in a conſiderable degree among them. What could inform him here, but Dio. Halicarnaſſus (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 and public building in Rome was peopled with imported deities and heroes, and when all the artiſts of reputation they made uſe of were Greeks, what wonder, if their eyes grew familiariſed to Grecian forms and habits (eſpecially in a matter of this kind, where ſo much de⯑pends upon the imagination); and if thoſe figures introduced with them a belief of ſuch fables, as firſt gave them being, and dreſſed them out in their various attributes, it was natu⯑ral 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 converſant in thoſe books and that language; for he rarely quotes any but Lucian, an author that falls in every body's way, and who lived at the very ex⯑tremity of that period he has ſet to his enquiries, 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 [187] wrong end: For if any body ſhould finiſh it by enquiring 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 diſ⯑courſe about orange-trees, occaſioned by Virgil's ‘"inter ode⯑ratum lauri nemus,"’ where he fancies the Roman Laurus to be our Laurel; tho' undoubtedly the bay-tree, which is odora⯑tum, and (I believe) ſtill called Lauro, or Alloro, at Rome; and that the ‘"Malum Medicum"’ in the Georgick is the orange; tho' Theophraſtus, whence Virgil borrowed it, or even Pliny whom he himſelf quotes, might convince him it is the cedrato which he 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 151, in a note, he ſays, the old Romans did not regard Fortune as a Deity; tho' Servius Tullius (whom ſhe was ſaid to be in love with; nay, there was ac⯑tually an affair between them) founded her temple in Foro Boario. By the way, her worſhip was Greek, and this king was educated in the family of Tarquinius Priſcus, whoſe father was a Corinthian; ſo it is eaſy to conceive how early the reli⯑gion of Rome might be mixed with that of Greece, &c. &c.

Dr. Middleton has ſent me to-day a book on the Roman Senate, the ſubſtance of a diſpute between Lord Hervey and him, tho' it never interrupted their friendſhip, he ſays, and I dare ſay not.

LETTER VI.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. WALPOLE.

AS one ought to be particularly careful to avoid blunders in a compliment of condolence, it would be a ſenſible ſatisfaction to me (before I teſtify my ſorrow, and the ſincere part I take in your misfortune) to know for certain, who it is I lament. I knew Zara and Selima, (Selima, was it? or Fati⯑ma) or rather I knew them both together; for I cannot juſtly ſay which was which. Then as to your handſome Cat, the name you diſtinguiſh her by, I am no leſs at a loſs, as well knowing one's handſome cat is always the cat one likes beſt; or, if one be alive 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 ſurviver: Oh no! I would rather 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 be⯑gin to cry:

Which interval is the more convenient, as it gives time to re⯑joice with you on your new honors^*. This is only a beginning; I reckon next week we ſhall hear you are a Free-Maſon, or a Gormogon at leaſt—Heigh ho! 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, feuë Mademoiſelle Selime, whom I am about to im⯑mortalize [189] for one week or fortnight, as follows * * * * *^**. There's a Poem for you, it is rather too long for an Epitaph.

LETTER VII.

Mr. GRAY to Dr. WHARTON.

YOUR friendſhip has intereſted itſelf in my affairs ſo naturally, that I cannot help troubling you a little with a detail of them^†. ********* And now, my dear Wharton, 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 ſatiſ⯑faction I can pretend to, is that of hearing from you, and par⯑ticularly at this time when I was bid to expect the good news of an increaſe of your family. Your opinion of Diodorus is doubtleſs right; but there are things in him very curious, got out of better authorities now loſt. Do you remember the [190] Aegyptian hiſtory, and particularly the account of the gold mines? My own readings have been cruelly interrupted: 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 altogether in two little volumes, they are collected by the Dutch bookſellers, and conſequently contain ſome traſh; but then there are the Ver-vert, the Epiſtle to P. Bougeant, the Chartreuſe, that to his ſiſter, 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 Thompſon, called the Caſtle of Indolence, with ſome good ſtanzas in it. Mr. Maſon is my acquaintance; I liked that Ode^* much, but have found no one elſe that did. He has much fancy, little judgment, and a good deal of mo⯑deſty; I 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 com⯑pliments to Mrs. Wharton and your family: Does that name include any body I am not yet acquainted with?

LETTER VIII.

Mr. GRAY to Dr. WHARTON.

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 example:

But good lines will make any thing rather than a good play: However you are to conſider this is 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 Lutrin 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.

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 Eſſay; what name to give it I know not; but the ſubject is the Alliance of Education and Govern⯑ment: I mean to ſhew that they muſt both concur to produce great and uſeful men. I deſire your judgment upon it before I proceed any further.

LETTER IX.

Mr. GRAY to Dr. WHARTON.

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 vol. 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 ſhews how [202] from theſe are deduced the laws and cuſtoms by which they are guided and maintained; 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 perfectly new, generally admirable as they are juſt, ſometimes a little too re⯑fined. In ſhort, there are faults, but ſuch as an ordinary man could never have committed. The ſtyle very lively and conciſe (conſequently ſometimes obſcure); it is the gravity of Tacitus, [203] whom he admires, tempered with the gaiety and fire of a Frenchman. The time of night will not ſuffer me to go on; but I will write again in a week.

LETTER X.

Mr. GRAY to Dr. WHARTON.

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 firſt, 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 I feel that diſcontent with myſelf, that ennui, that ever accompanies it in its beginnings. Time will ſettle my conſcience; time will reconcile me to this languid com⯑panion: We ſhall ſmoke, we ſhall tipple, we ſhall doze toge⯑ther: 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 died the Reverend Mr. John Gray, Se⯑nior Fellow of Clare-Hall, a facetious companion, and well reſpected by all that knew him. His death is ſuppoſed to have been occaſioned by a fit of an apoplexy, being found fallen out of bed with his head in the chamber-pot."’

In the meanwhile, to go on with my account of new books. Monteſquieu's work, which I mentioned before, is now pub⯑liſhing anew in 2 vols. octavo. Have you ſeen old Crebillion's Catalina, a Tragedy, which has had a prodigious run at Paris? Hiſtorical truth is too much perverted in it, which is ridiculous in a ſtory ſo generally known; but if you can get over this, the [205] ſentiments and verſification are fine, and moſt of the characters (particularly the principal one) painted 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 negotiations with Henry IV. of France, the Earl of Monmouth's odd account of Queen Elizabeth's death, ſeveral peculiarities of James I. and Prince Henry, &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 there. This, I think, is all new 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 my chronology. It was begun, as I told you, almoſt two years ago, when I was in the midſt of Diogenes Laertius 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 compare 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, Dod⯑well, and Bentley.

[206] I have ſince that read Pauſanias and Athenaeus all through, and Aeſchylus again. I am now in Pindar and Lyſias; for I take verſe and proſe together like bread and cheeſe.

LETTER XI.

Mr. GRAY to Dr. WHARTON.

I Promiſed Dr. Keene long ſince to give you an account of our magnificences here^†; but the news papers and he him⯑ſelf in perſon, have got the ſtart of my indolence, ſo that by this time you are well acquainted with all the events that adorn⯑ed 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 deſcription. 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 to 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 confuſion; 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 univer⯑ſity, who ever wait for the judgment of their betters, ſtruck into it with an admirable harmony: for the reſt of the perfor⯑mances, [207] 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 ſentiments; for doubtleſs you have ſeen it. The author of it grows apace into my good graces, as I know him more; he is very ingenious, with great good nature and ſimplicity; 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 ſincere and ſo undiſguiſed, that no mind, with a ſpark of gene⯑roſity, would ever think of hurting him, he lies ſo open to injury; but ſo indolent, that if he cannot overcome this habit, all his good qualities will ſignify nothing at all. After all, I like him ſo well, I could wiſh you knew him.

LETTER XII.

Mr. GRAY to his MOTHER.

THE unhappy news I have juſt received from you equal⯑ly ſurpriſes and afflicts me^*. I have loſt a perſon I loved very much, and have been uſed to from my infancy; but [208] 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 conſo⯑lation that no one can give, except He who has preſerved her to you ſo many years, and at laſt, when it was his 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 conti⯑nual increaſe of pain, and totally helpleſs; ſhe might have long wiſhed to end her miſery without being able to attain it; or perhaps even loſt all ſenſe, and yet continued 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 I may know it, for there is nothing to hinder me, and I am in very good health.

LETTER XIII.

Mr. GRAY to Dr. WHARTON.

ARISTOTLE ſays (one may write Greek to you with⯑out ſcandal) that [...]

But Ariſtotle may ſay whatever he pleaſes, I do not find myſelf at all the worſe for it. I could indeed wiſh to refreſh my [...] 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 continued 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 body and mind: I hope the latter is able to keep you chearful and eaſy in ſpite of the frailties of its companion. As to my own, it can nei⯑ther do one nor the other; and I have the mortification to find my ſpiritual 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 in at Cambridge: For my part I find a friend ſo uncommon a thing, that I cannot help regretting even an old acquaintance, which is an indifferent likeneſs of it; and though I do not approve [210] the ſpirit of his books, methinks 'tis pity the world ſhould loſe ſo rare a thing as a good writer^*.

My ſtudies cannot furniſh a recommendation of many new books to you. There is a defence ‘"de l'Eſprit des Loix,"’ by Monteſquieu himſelf; it has ſome lively things in it, but is very ſhort, and his adverſary appears to be ſo mean a bigot that he deſerved no anſwer. There are 3 vols. in 4to of ‘"Hiſtoire du Cabinet du Roy, by Meſſrs. Buffons and d'Aubenton;"’ 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 natural 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 entirely grounded upon experiments, and which has nothing to do with ^†vivacity of imagination. However I cannot help commending the ge⯑neral 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 Abbé de Mongon, in 5 vols. are highly commended, but I have not ſeen them. He was engaged in ſeveral embaſſies to Germany, England, &c. during the courſe of the late war. The Preſi⯑dent Henault's ‘"Abregè Chronologique de l'Hiſtoire de France,"’ I believe I have before mentioned to you as a very good book of its kind.

LETTER XIV.

Mr. GRAY to Dr. WHARTON.

OF my houſe I cannot ſay much^†, I wiſh 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 counte⯑nance, were written merely to divert Lady Cobham and her family, and ſucceeded accordingly; but being ſhewed about in town are not liked there at all. Mrs. *, a very faſhionable per⯑ſonage, told Mr. Walpole 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 other hand, the ſtanzas^‡ which I now incloſe to you have had the misfortune, 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 ap⯑plauded, 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 ſuper⯑lative 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 ambition on this head amply. I 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 future excurſion to Durham for fear of a diſa⯑pointment, but at preſent it is my full intention.

LETTER XV.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. WALPOLE.

AS you have brought me into a little ſort of diſtreſs, you muſt aſſiſt me, I believe, to get out of it as well as I can. Yeſterday I had the misfortune of receiving a letter from certain gentlemen (as their bookſeller expreſſes it), who have taken the Magazine of Magazines into their hands: They tell me that an ingenious Poem, called Reflections in a Country Church-Yard, has been communicated to them, which they are printing forthwith; that they are informed that the excellent author of it is I by name, and that they beg not only his in⯑dulgence, but the honour of his correſpondence, &c. As I am not at all diſpoſed to be either ſo indulgent, or ſo correſpondent, 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 immediately (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 would add a line or two to ſay it came into his hands by ac⯑cident, I ſhould like it better. 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 imme⯑diately, he may as well let it alone.

LETTER XVI.

Mr. GRAY to Dr. WHARTON.

HAVE you read Madame de Maintenon's letters? They are undoubtedly genuine; they begin very early in her life, before ſhe married Scarron, and continue after the king's death to within a little while of her own: they bear all the marks of a noble ſpirit (in her adverſity particularly) of virtue and unaffected devotion; inſomuch, that I am almoſt perſuaded ſhe was actually married to Lewis the 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 too good for a court. Miſ⯑fortunes in the beginning of her life had formed her mind (naturally lively and impatient) to reflection and a habit of piety. She was always miſerable while ſhe had the care of Madame de Monteſpan's children; timid and very cautious of making uſe of that unlimited power ſhe roſe to afterwards, for fear of treſpaſſing on the king's friendſhip for her; and after his death not at all afraid of meeting her own.

I do not know what to ſay to you with regard to Racine; it ſounds to me as if any body ſhould fall upon Shakeſpear, who indeed lies infinitely 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.

[224] Biſhop Hall's ſatires, called Virgidemiae, are lately republiſh⯑ed. 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 Elizabeth's time.

You do not ſay whether you have read the Crito^*. I only recommend the dramatic part of the Phaedo to you, not the argumentative. The ſubject of the Eraſtae is good; it treats of that peculiar character and turn of mind which belongs to a true philoſopher, but it is ſhorter than one would wiſh. The Euthyphro I would not read at all.

LETTER XVII.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. WALPOLE.

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 have found her alive; but when I 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 ſurprized at the print^†, which far ſurpaſſes my idea of London [225] graving: The drawing itſelf was ſo finiſhed, that I ſuppoſe it did not require all the art I 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 accompanied 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 infallibly put me out of mine. I conjure you immediately to put a ſtop to any ſuch deſign. Who is at the expence of engraving it, I know not; but if it be Dodſley, I will make up the loſs to him. The thing as it was, I know, will make me ridiculous enough; but to appear in proper perſon, at the head of my works, con⯑ſiſting 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 be⯑lieve 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.

[226] I had written to Dodſley if I had not received yours, to tell him how little I liked the title which he meant to prefix; but your letter has put all that out of my head. If you think it neceſſary to print theſe explanations^* 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 debt for a long letter; but I cannot think of any thing elſe till you have ſet me at eaſe on this matter.

LETTER XVIII.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. MASON.

A Little while before I received your melancholy 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 before-hand; and that your Father ſuffered but little pain, the only thing that makes death terrible. Af⯑ter I have ſaid this, I cannot help expreſſing my ſurprize at the diſpoſition he has made of his affairs. I muſt (if you will ſuf⯑fer me to ſay ſo) call it great weakneſs; and yet perhaps your [230] affliction 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 greatly injurious to ourſelves.—Let me deſire you not to expoſe your⯑ſelf 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 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 ſincerely do on the new loſs you have had of a good and friendly man, whoſe memory I honour. I have ſeen the ſcene you deſcribe, and know how dreadful it is: I 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 impreſſion laſts; the deeper it is engraved the better.

LETTER XIX.

Mr. GRAY to Dr. WHARTON.

I Am glad you enter into the ſpirit of Strawberry Caſtle; it has a purity and propriety of Gothiciſm in it (with very few exceptions) that I have not ſeen elſewhere. My Lord Radnor's vagaries I ſee did not keep you from doing juſtice to his ſituation, which far ſurpaſſes every thing near it; and I do [231] not 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 Gothic than they are Chineſe. The Egyp⯑tian ſtyle (ſee Dr. Pococke, not his diſcourſes, but his prints) was apparently the mother of the Greek; and there is ſuch a ſimilitude 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, he has a great authority to ſupport 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, which is in the Ara⯑beſque manner: And the houſes of Barbary you 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 corruptions of the Greek architecture, broke into little parts indeed, and covered with little ornaments, but in a taſte very diſtinguiſhable from that which we call Gothic. There is one thing that runs through the Mooriſh buildings that an imitator would certainly have been firſt ſtruck with, and would have tried to copy; and that is the cupolas which cover every thing, baths, apartments, and even kitchens; yet who ever ſaw a Gothic cupola? It is a thing plainly of Greek original. I do not ſee any thing but the ſlender ſpires that ſerve for ſteeples, which may perhaps be borrowed from the Saracen minarets on their moſques.

[232] I take it ill you ſhould ſay any thing againſt the Mole, it is a reflexion I ſee caſt at the Thames. Do you think that rivers, which have lived in London and its neighbourhood all their days, will run roaring and tumbling about like your tramon⯑tane torrents in the North? No, they only glide and whiſper.

LETTER XX.

Mr. GRAY to Dr. WHARTON.

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 ſhewing ſo much ſenſibility 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 black-berries in the world, I could be very well content to go without any at all. I dare ſay that Maſon, though ſome years younger than I, was as little elevated with the approbation of Lord * and Lord *, as I am mortified by their ſilence.

With regard to publiſhing, I am not ſo much againſt the thing itſelf, as of publiſhing this Ode alone^†. I have two or three ideas more in my head; what is to come of them? Muſt they too come out in the ſhape of little ſixpenny flams, drop⯑ping one after another till Mr. Dodſley thinks fit to collect them with Mr. This's Song, and Mr. Tother's Epigram, into a pretty volume? I am ſure Maſon muſt be ſenſible of this, and [233] therefore cannot mean what he ſays; neither am I quite of your opinion with regard to ſtrophe and antiſtrophe^*; ſetting aſide the difficulty of execution, methinks it has little or no effect on the ear, which ſcarce perceives the regular return of metres at ſo great a diſtance from one another: to make it ſucceed, I am perſuaded the ſtanzas muſt not conſiſt of above nine lines each at the moſt. Pindar has ſeveral ſuch Odes.

LETTER XXI.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. STONHEWER.^*

I Thank you for your intelligence about Herculaneum, which was the firſt news I received of it. I have ſince turned over Monſignor Baiardi's book^†, where I have learned how many grains of modern wheat the Roman Congius, in the Ca⯑pitol, holds, and how many thouſandth parts of an inch the Greek foot conſiſted of more (or leſs, for I forget 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 Herculaneum; but nevertheleſs, that he can ſhew 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 the me⯑moirs 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 edified without doubt.

[241] I am much obliged to you alſo for Voltaire'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 excellent, and every where above mediocrity. As you have the politeneſs to pretend im⯑patience, 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.

LETTER XXII.

Mr. GRAY to Dr. WHARTON.

THOUGH I had no reaſonable excuſe for myſelf before I received your laſt Letter, yet ſince that time I have had a pretty good one; having been taken up in quarrelling with Peter-houſe^‡, and in removing myſelf from thence to Pembroke. [242] This may be looked upon as a ſort of aera in a life ſo barren of events as mine; yet I ſhall treat it in Voltaire's manner, and only tell you that I left my Lodgings becauſe the rooms were noiſy, and the people of the houſe uncivil. This is all I would chuſe to have ſaid about it; but if you in private ſhould be curious enough to enter into a particular detail of facts and minute circumſtances, 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 Grand Chartreuſe; and that every body (even Dr. Long himſelf) are as civil as they could be to ^*Mary of Valens in perſon.

With regard to any advice I can give you about your being Phyſician to the Hoſpital, I frankly own it ought to give way to a much better judge, eſpecially ſo diſintereſted a one as Dr. Heberden. I love refuſals no more than you do. But as to your fears of Effluvia, I maintain that one ſick rich patient has more of peſtilence and putrefaction about him than a whole ward of ſick poor.

The ſimilitude between the Italian Republics and thoſe of Antient Greece has often ſtruck me, as it does you. I do not wonder that Sully's Memoirs have highly entertained you; but [243] cannot agree with you in thinking Him or his Maſter two of the beſt men in the world. The King was indeed one of the beſt-natured men that ever lived; but it is owing only to chance that his intended marriage with Madame d'Eſtreés, or with the Marquiſe de Verneuil, did not involve him and the king⯑dom in the moſt inextricable confuſion; and his deſign upon the Princeſs of Condé (in his old age) was worſe ſtill. As to the Miniſter, his baſe application to Concini, after the murder of Henry, has quite ruined him in my eſteem, and deſtroyed all the merit of that honeſt ſurly pride for which I honoured him before; 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 Preſent^* 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 do 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.

LETTER XXIII.

Mr. GRAY to Dr. WHARTON.

THOUGH I allow abundance for your kindneſs and partiality to me, I am yet much pleaſed with the good opinion you ſeem to have of the Bard: I have not, however, done a word more than the little you have ſeen, having been in a very liſtleſs, unpleaſant, 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 confirmed Pthiſis.

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 re⯑lating to Anne of Auſtria and Cardinal Mazarine. The other is in two ſmall volumes, ‘"Memoirs 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 Dutcheſs of Maine, and impriſoned a long time on her account during the regency.

I ought before now to have thanked you for your kind offer, which I mean ſoon to accept, for a reaſon which to be ſure can be none to you and Mrs. Wharton; and therefore I 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 chuſe to [245] be in a dirty inconvenient lodging, where, perhaps, my nurſe might ſtifle 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 excuſe and ſave yourſelves this trouble. You are not however to imagine my illneſs is in eſſe; no, it is only in poſſe; otherwiſe I ſhould be ſcrupulous of bring⯑ing it home to you. I think I ſhall be with you in about a fortnight.

LETTER XXIV.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. MASON.

I Feel a contrition for my long ſilence; and yet perhaps it is the laſt thing you trouble 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 people who go a viſiting. I would forgive you this, if you could poſſibly ſuſpect I 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 I am at Stoke, hearing, ſeeing, doing abſolutely nothing. Not ſuch a nothing as you do at Tunbridge, chequered and diverſiſied with a ſucceſſion of fleet⯑ing [246] colours; but heavy, lifeleſs, without form and void; ſome⯑times 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 will not expect therefore I ſhould give you any account of my Verve, 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 enquire after yours, and why it is off 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-Midwives and Preſbyterian Parſons^† that ever were born. Pray give me leave to aſk you, 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 ſwallow: I mean not only we that write, but all the we's 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 fantaſies in you.^‡ I ſee, methinks, as I ſit on Snowdon, ſome glimpſe of Mona and [247] her haunted ſhades, and hope we ſhall be very good neighbours. Any Druidical anecdotes that I can meet with, I will be ſure to ſend you when I return to Cambridge; but I cannot pretend to be learned without books, or to know the Druids from modern Biſhops at this diſtance. I can only tell you not to go and take Mona for the Iſle of Man: it is Angleſey, a tract of plain country, very fertile, but pictureſque only from the view it has of Caernarvonſhire, from which it is ſeparated by the Menaï, a narrow arm of the ſea. Forgive me for ſuppoſing in you ſuch a want of erudition.

I congratulate you on our glorious ſucceſſes in the Mediter⯑ranean. Shall we go in time, and hire a houſe together in Switzerland? It is a fine poetical country to look at, and no body there will underſtand a word we ſay or write.

LETTER XXV.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. MASON.

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: there is no faith in man, no not in a Welchman; and yet Mr. Parry^* has been here, and ſcratched out ſuch raviſhing blind harmony, ſuch tunes of a thouſand years old, with names [248] enough to choak you, as have ſet all this learned Body a dan⯑cing, and inſpired them with due reverence for my old Bard his countryman, whenever 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 encloſed; namely, the breaſt and merry-thought, and rump too of the chicken which I 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 alte⯑rations of a few words, partly for improvement, and partly to avoid repetitions 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 delibe⯑ration, but forthwith. Mr. Hurd himſelf allows that Lyon port is not too bold for Queen Elizabeth.

I have got the old Scotch Ballad on which Douglas^* was founded; it is divine, and as long as from hence to Aſton. [249] Have you never ſeen it? Ariſtotle's beſt rules are obſerved in it, in a manner that ſhews the Author had never read Ariſtotle. It begins in the fifth 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.

LETTER XXVI.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. HURD.

I Do not know why you ſhould thank me for what you had a right and title to^*; but 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 do⯑ing 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 them ſeven or eight times; and 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 King Charles the Firſt and Oliver Cromwell. Even my friends tell me they do not ſucceed, and write me moving [250] topics of conſolation on that head. In ſhort, I have heard of no body but an Actor and a Doctor of Divinity that profeſs their eſteem for them^†. Oh yes, a Lady of quality, (a friend of Maſon's) who is a great reader. She knew there was a compliment to Dryden, but never ſuſpected there was any thing ſaid about Shakeſpear 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 name you may think, per⯑haps, we are great correſpondents. 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 private, but for yours too, for to be employed is to be happy. This principle of mine (and I am convinced of its truth) has, as uſual, no influence on my practice. I am alone, and ennuyé to the laſt degree, yet do nothing. Indeed I have one excuſe; my health (which you have ſo kindly enqui⯑red after) is not extraordinary, ever ſince I came hither. It is [251] 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.

LETTER XXVII.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. MASON.

I Have (as I deſired Mr. Stonhewer to tell you) read over Ca⯑ractacus 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 dra⯑matic part^* of your Elfrida, 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 [252] there merely to ſing and dance, but bear throughout a principal part in the action; and have (beſide the Coſtume, which is ex⯑cellent) 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 reſolve to confront the Roman General, and ſpit in his face. But now I am going to tell you what touches me moſt from the beginning. The firſt opening is greatly improved: the curioſity of Didius is now a very natu⯑ral reaſon for dwelling on each particular of the ſcene before him; nor is the deſcription at all too long. I am glad to find the two young men are Cartiſmandua's ſons. They intereſt me far more. I love people of condition. They were men before that no body 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 chiefly the abſtract idea perſoni⯑fied (to uſe the words of a Critic) at the end of it. That of Caractacus, Would ſave my Queen, &c. and ſtill more that, I know it, reverend Fathers; 'tis Heav'n's high will, &c. to I've done, begin the rites! This latter is exemplary for the ex⯑preſſion (always the great point with me); I do not mean by expreſſion the mere choice of words, but the whole dreſs, fa⯑ſhion, and arrangement of a thought. Here, in particular, it is the brokenneſs, the ungrammatical poſition, the total ſub⯑verſion of the period that charms me. All that uſhers in the incantation from Try we yet, what holineſs can do, I am delight⯑ed with in quite another way; for this is pure poetry, as it ought to be, forming the proper tranſition, and leading on the mind to that ſtill purer poetry that follows it.

[253] 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 ſleep with the unſun'd ſilver, which is an example of a dramatic ſimile. The ſudden appearance 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 particularly that, 'Tis meet thou ſhould'ſt, thou art a King, &c. and Mark me, Prince, the time will come, when Deſtiny, &c. are well, and happily imagined. A-propos of the laſt ſtriking paſſage I have mentioned, I am going to make a digreſſion.

When we treat a ſubject, where the manners are almoſt loſt in antiquity, our ſtock of ideas muſt needs be ſmall; and nothing betrays our poverty more, than the returning to, and harping frequently on, one image. It was therefore I thought you ſhould omit ſome lines before, though good in themſelves, about the ſcythed car, that the paſſage 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 I would diſcard to make way for the reſt.

But the ſubjects I ſpeak of to compenſate (and more than compenſate) that unavoidable poverty, have one great advan⯑tage when they fall into good hands. They leave an unbound⯑ed liberty to pure imagination and fiction, (our favourite pro⯑vinces) where no Critic can moleſt, or Antiquary gainſay us; and yet (to pleaſe me) theſe fictions muſt have ſome affinity, ſome ſeeming connexion, with that little we really know of the [254] character and cuſtoms of the people. For example, I never heard in my days that Midnight and the Moon were Siſters; that they carried rods of ebony and gold, or met to whiſper on the top of a mountain: but now I 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 Mythology, has too Greek an air to give me perfect ſatisfaction.

Now I proceed. The preparation to the Chorus, though ſo much akin to that in the former act, is excellent. The re⯑marks of Evelina and her ſuſpicions of the Brothers, mixed with a ſecret inclination to the younger of them, (though, I think, her part throughout wants retouching) yet pleaſe me much, and the contrivance of the following ſcene much more. Ma⯑ſters of Wiſdom, no, &c. I always admired; as I do the rock⯑ing ſtone, and the diſtreſs of Elidurus. Evelina's examination of his is a well-invented ſcene, and will be, with a little pains, a very touching one: but the introduction of Arviragus is ſuperlative. I am not ſure whether thoſe few lines of his ſhort narrative, My ſtrength repair'd, it boots not, that I tell, &c. do not pleaſe me as much as any thing in the whole Drama. The ſullen bravery of Elidurus, the menaces of the Chorus, that Think not, Religion, &c. the Trumpet of the Druids, that I'll follow him, tho' in my chains, &c. Haſt thou a Brother, no, [255] &c. the placability of the Chorus, when they ſee the motives of Elidurus's obſtinacy, give me great contentment: ſo do the reflections of the Druid on the neceſſity of luſtration, and the reaſons for Vellinus's eaſy eſcape; but I would not have him ſeize on a ſpear, nor iſſue haſty thro' the cavern's mouth. Why ſhould he not ſteal away, unaſked and unmiſſed, till the hurry of paſſions in thoſe, that ſhould have guarded him, was a little abated? But I chiefly admire the two ſpeeches of Eli⯑durus; Ah, Vellinus, is this then, &c. and, Ye do gaze on me, Fathers, &c. the manner 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 better.

Now for the laſt 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 Bri⯑tons, the addreſs of Caractacus to the Roman Victims, Eveli⯑na's diſcovery of the ambuſh, the miſtake of the Roman fires for the riſing ſun, the death of Arviragus, the interview be⯑tween Didius and Caractacus, his mourning over his dead Son, his parting ſpeech, (in which you have made all the uſe of Ta⯑citus that your plan would admit) every thing, in ſhort, but that little diſpute between Didius and him; 'Tis well; and therefore to encreaſe that reverence, &c. down to, Give me a mo⯑ment (which muſt be omitted, or put in the mouth of the Druids) I approve in the higheſt degree. If I ſhould find any fault with the laſt act, it could only be with trifles and little expreſſions. If you make any alterations, I fear it will never improve it; I mean as to the plan. I ſend you back the two [256] laſt ſheets, becauſe you bid me. I reſerve my nibblings and minutiae for another day.

LETTER XXVIII.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. MASON.

A Life ſpent out of the world has its hours of deſpondence, its inconveniencies, its ſufferings, 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 can⯑not return you more of this aſſiſtance than I have received from you; and can only tell you, that one who has far more reaſon than you, I hope, ever will have to look on life with ſome⯑thing worſe than indifference, is yet no enemy to it; but can look backward on many bitter moments, partly with ſatisfac⯑tion, and partly with patience; and forward too, on a ſcene not very promiſing, with ſome hope, and ſome expectations of a better day. The cauſe, however, which occaſioned your re⯑flection, (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 conſequence 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.

[257] As to myſelf, I cannot boaſt, at preſent, either of my ſpirits, my ſituation, my employments, 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 leave ſome traces of their journey behind them, and have ſtrength enough to adviſe you to do ſo while you can. I expect to ſee Caractacus compleated, and therefore I ſend you the books you wanted. I do not know whether they will furniſh you with any 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, without entering too minutely on par⯑ticulars: but, if I did ſo, I would make each image ſo clear, that it might 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. How⯑ever, on ſecond thoughts, I think it would be ſtill better to graft any wild pictureſque fable, abſolutely of one's own inven⯑tion, on the Druid-ſtock; I mean on thoſe half dozen of old fan⯑cies that are known to be a part of their ſyſtem. This will give you more freedom and latitude, 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 to refuſe, therefore you ſhould not call them ſevere. You know I do not love, much leſs pique myſelf on Criticiſm; 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 of [258] thinking); the diſpoſition of the whole too is natural and ele⯑giac; as to the expreſſion, I would venture to ſay (did not you forbid me) that it is ſometimes too eaſy. The laſt line I pro⯑teſt againſt (this, you will ſay, is worſe than blotting out rhymes); the deſcriptive part is excellent.

Pray, when did I 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, that your Elegy muſt not end with the worſt line in it^†. It is flat; it is proſe; where⯑as 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. Now, I deſire you would neither think me ſevere, nor at all regard what I ſay further, than as it co⯑incides with your own judgment; for the child deſerves your partiality; it is a healthy well-made boy with an ingenuous countenance, and promiſes to live long. I would only waſh its face, dreſs it a little, make it walk upright and ſtrong, and keep it from learning paw words.

I hope you couched my refuſal^* to Lord John Cavendiſh in as reſpectful terms as poſſible, and with all due acknowledg⯑ments [259] to the Duke. If you hear who it is to be given to, pray let me know; for I intereſt myſelf a little in the hiſtory of it, and rather wiſh ſomebody may accept it that will retrieve the credit of the thing, if it be retrievable, or ever had any credit. Rowe was, I think, the laſt man of character that had it; Euſden was a perſon of great hopes in his youth, though at laſt he turned out a drunken parſon; Dryden was as diſgraceful to the office, from his character, as the pooreſt ſcribbler could have been from his verſes.

LETTER XXIX.

Mr. GRAY to Dr. WHARTON.

WOULD you know what I am doing? I doubt you 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 with⯑in reach that may be worth ſeeing, whether it be building, ruin, park, garden, proſpect, picture, or monument; to whom it does or has belonged, and what has been the characte⯑riſtic and taſte of different ages. You will ſay this is the ob⯑ject 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 [260] whenever my liſt^* is finiſhed you will approve it, and 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. Cibber'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.

LETTER XXX.

Mr. GRAY to Dr. WHARTON.

IT is indeed for want of ſpirits, as you ſuſpect, that my ſtu⯑dies lie among the Cathedrals, and the Tombs, and the Ruins. To think, though to little purpoſe, has been the chief amuſement of my days; and when I would not, or cannot think, I dream. At preſent I feel myſelf able to write a Cata⯑logue, or to read the Peerage book, or Miller's Gardening Dic⯑tionary, and am thankful that there are ſuch employments and ſuch authors in the world. Some people, who hold me cheap for this, are doing perhaps what is not half ſo well worth [261] while. As to poſterity, I may aſk (with ſomebody whom I have forgot) what has it ever done to oblige me?

To make a tranſition from myſelf to as poor a ſubject, the Tragedy of Agis; I cry to think that it ſhould be by the Au⯑thor of Douglas: Why, it is all modern Greek; the ſtory is an antique ſtatue painted white and red, frized, and dreſſed in a negligée made by a Yorkſhire mantua-maker. Then here is the Miſcellany (Mr. Dodſley has ſent me the whole ſet gilt and lettered, I thank him). Why, the two laſt volumes are worſe than the four firſt; particularly Dr. Akenſide is in a deplorable way^*. What ſignifies Learning and the Antients, (Maſon will ſay triumphantly) why ſhould people read Greek to loſe their imagination, their ear, and their mother tongue? But then there is Mr. Shenſtone, who truſts to nature and ſimple ſentiment, why does he do no better? 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 diſappointed^†. There is no⯑thing of the negotiations that I have not ſeen better in M. de [262] Torcy before. The manner is careleſs, and has little to diſtin⯑guiſh 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.

LETTER XXXI.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. STONHEWER.

I Am as ſorry as you ſeem to be, that our acquaintance harped ſo much on the ſubject of materialiſm, 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 proof 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 ſtruggles againſt the force and biaſs of that mechaniſm, commands its motion, and, by frequent practice, reduces it to that ready obedience which we call Habit; and all this in conformity to a preconceived opinion (no matter whether right or wrong) to that leaſt material of all agents, a Thought. I have known many in his caſe who, while they thought they were conquering an old prejudice, did not perceive they were under the influence of one far more dangerous; one that fur⯑niſhes 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 naturally ſhould have been), their indignation to [263] ſuch as offended them, their deſire of revenge on any body that hurt them was nothing mitigated: In ſhort, the truth is, they wiſhed to be perſuaded of that opinion for the ſake of its con⯑venience, 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 honour by diſcourſing ſo feelingly on the miſeries of our condition, that fifty of his audience went home and hanged themſelves; yet he lived him⯑ſelf (I ſuppoſe) many years after in very good plight.

You ſay you cannot conceive how Lord Shafteſbury came to be a Philoſopher in vogue; I will tell you: Firſt, he was a Lord; 2dly, he was as vain as any of his readers; 3dly, men are very prone to believe what they do not underſtand; 4thly, they will believe any thing at all, provided they are under no obli⯑gation to believe it; 5thly, they love to take a new road, even when that road leads no where; 6thly, he was reckoned a fine writer, and ſeemed always to mean more than he ſaid. Would you have any more reaſons? An interval of above forty years has pretty well deſtroyed the charm. A dead Lord ranks but with Commoners: Vanity is no longer intereſted in the matter, for the new road is become an old one. The mode of free⯑thinking is like that of Ruffs and Farthingales, 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: primneſs [264] and affectation of ſtyle, like the good breeding of Queen Ann's Court, has turned to hoydening and rude familiarity.

LETTER XXXII.

Mr. GRAY to Dr. WHARTON.

I Am equally ſenſible of your affliction^*, and of your kindneſs, that made you think of me at ſuch a moment; would to God I could leſſen the one, or requite the other with that con⯑ſolation 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, indeed, is all human conſolation? Can it efface every little amiable word or action of an object we loved, from our memory? Can it con⯑vince us, that all the hopes we had entertained, the plans of future ſatisfaction 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 arrive at an age to fulfil 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 only ſupport; and then by ſome unforeſeen and deplorable accident, or ſome painful lingering diſtemper, you might have loſt him. Such has been the fate of many an unhappy father! I know [270] 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 every method of avocation and amuſement, whether you 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 even 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 de⯑ſpair; and (I know you will forgive me, if I tell you) you are often a little too haſty in both, perhaps from conſtitution; it is ſure we have great power over our own minds, when we chuſe 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 more 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 you more upon this ſubject till I hear you are both well; for that is the grand point, and with⯑out 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 I cannot flatter my⯑ſelf ſo far, and know how little qualified I am at preſent to give any ſatisfaction to myſelf on this head, and in this way, much leſs to you. I by no means pretend to inſpiration; but [271] yet I affirm, that the faculty, in queſtion, is by no means vo⯑luntary; it is the reſult (I ſuppoſe) of a certain diſpoſition of mind, which does not depend of one's ſelf, and which I have not felt this long time. You that are a witneſs how ſeldom this ſpirit has moved me in my life, may eaſily give credit to what I ſay.

LETTER XXXIII.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. PALGRAVE.^*

I Do not know how to make you amends, 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 wallnut-tree with three mole-hills under it, ſtuck with honey-ſuckles round a baſon of gold-fiſhes, and you ſhall be ſatisfied; they ſhall come by the Edinburgh coach.

In the mean time I congratulate you on your new acquaint⯑ance with the ſavage, the rude, and the tremendous. Pray, tell me, is it any thing like what you had read in your book, or ſeen in two-ſhilling prints? Do not you think a man may be the 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 [272] people ſeem to think, if you will but furniſh the apartments? I almoſt envy your laſt month, being in a very inſipid ſituation myſelf; and deſire you would not fail to ſend me ſome furniture for my Gothic apartment, which is 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 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 would produce it to any body, we are forced to ſupply its defects with a few ſtrokes of our own imagination^*. God forgive me, I ſuppoſe 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 ſay) than it is here? Has the ſinging of birds, the bleating of ſheep, the lowing of herds, deafened you at Rainton? Did the vaſt old oaks and thick groves in Northumberland keep off the ſun too much from you? I am too civil to extend my enquiries beyond Berwick. Every thing, doubtleſs, muſt im⯑prove upon you as you advanced northward. You muſt tell me, though, about Melroſs, Roſslin Chapel, 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.

LETTER XXXIV.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. MASON.

I Should have told you that Caradoc came ſafe to hand^†; but my critical faculties have been ſo taken up in dividing no⯑thing with an old woman^*, that they are not yet compoſed enough for a better and more tranquil employment: ſhortly, however, I will make them obey me. But am I to ſend this copy to Mr. Hurd, or return it to you? Methinks I do not love this travelling to and again of manuſcripts by the poſt. While I am writing, your ſecond packet is juſt arrived. I can only tell you in groſs, that there ſeem to me certain paſſages altered which might as well have been let alone; and that I ſhall not be eaſily reconciled to Mador's own ſong^‡. I muſt not have my fancy raiſed to that agreeable pitch of heatheniſm and wild magical enthuſiaſm, and then have you let me drop into moral philoſophy and cold good ſenſe. I remember you inſulted me when I ſaw you laſt, and affected to call that which delighted my imagination, nonſenſe: Now I inſiſt that ſenſe is nothing in poetry, but accord⯑ing to the dreſs ſhe wears, and the ſcene ſhe appears in. If you ſhould lead me into a ſuperb Gothic building with a thouſand cluſtered pillars, each of them half a mile high, the walls all [274] covered with fretwork, and the windows full of red and blue ſaints that had neither head nor tail; and I ſhould find the Venus of Medici in perſon, perked up in a long niche over the high altar, do you think it would raiſe or damp my devotions? I ſay that Mador muſt be entirely a Briton; and that his pre-eminence among his companions muſt be ſhewn by ſuperior wildneſs, more barbaric fancy, and a more ſtriking and deeper harmony both of words and numbers: if Britiſh antiquity be too narrow, this is the place for invention; and if it be pure invention, ſo much the clearer muſt the expreſſion be, and ſo much the ſtronger and richer the imagery. There's for you now!

LETTER XXXV.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. PALGRAVE.

I Am now ſettled in my new territories commanding Bedford gardens, and all the fields as far as Highgate and Hamp⯑ſtead, with ſuch a concourſe of moving pictures as would aſtoniſh you; ſo rus-in-urbe-iſh, that I believe I ſhall ſtay here, except little excurſions and vagaries, for a year to come. What tho' I am ſeparated from the faſhionable world by broad St. Giles's, and many a dirty court and alley, yet here is air, and ſunſhine, and quiet, however, to comfort you: I ſhall confeſs that I am baſking with heat all the ſummer, and I ſuppoſe ſhall be blowed down all the winter, beſides being robbed every night; I truſt, however, that the Muſaeum, with all its manuſcripts [275] and rarities by the cart-load, will make ample amends for all the aforeſaid inconveniencies.

I this day paſt through the jaws of a great leviathan into the den of Dr. Templeman, ſuperintendant of the reading-room, who congratulated himſelf on the ſight of ſo much good com⯑pany. We were, firſt, a man that writes for Lord Royſton; 2dly, a man that writes for Dr. Burton, of York; 3dly, a man that writes for the Emperor of Germany, or Dr. Pocock, for he ſpeaks the worſt Engliſh I ever heard; 4thly, Dr. Stukely, who writes for himſelf, the very worſt perſon he could write for; and, laſtly, I, who only read to know if there be any thing worth writing, and that not without ſome difficulty. I find that they printed 1000 copies of the Harleian Catalogue, and have ſold only fourſcore; that they have 900l. a year income, and ſpend 1300, and are building apartments for the under⯑keepers; ſo I expect in winter to ſee the collection advertiſed and ſet to auction.

Have you read Lord Clarendon's Continuation of his Hiſtory? Do you remember Mr. **'s account of it before it came out? How well he recollected all the faults, and how utterly he for⯑got all the beauties: Surely the groſſeſt taſte is better than ſuch a ſort of delicacy.

LETTER XXXVI.

Mr. GRAY to Dr. WHARTON.

I Am not ſorry to hear you are exceeding buſy, except as it has deprived me of the pleaſure I ſhould have in hearing often from you; and as it has been occaſioned by a little vexa⯑tion and diſappointment. To find one's ſelf buſineſs, I am per⯑ſuaded, is the great art of life; I am never ſo angry, as when I hear my acquaintance wiſhing they had been bred to ſome poking profeſſion, or employed in ſome office of drudgery, as if it were pleaſanter to be at the command of other people than at one's own; and as if they could not go unleſs they were wound up: yet I know and feel what they mean by this com⯑plaint; it proves that ſome ſpirit, ſomething of genius (more than common) is required to teach a man how to employ him⯑ſelf: I ſay a man; for women, commonly ſpeaking, never feel this diſtemper, they have always ſomething to do; time hangs not on their hands (unleſs they be fine Ladies); a variety of ſmall inventions and occupations fill up the void, and their eyes are never open in vain.

As to myſelf, I have again found reſt for the ſole of my gouty foot in your old dining-room^*, and hope that you will find at leaſt an equal ſatisfaction at Old Park; if your bog prove as comfortable as my oven, I ſhall ſee no occaſion to pity you, and only wiſh you may brew no worſe than I bake.

[277] You totally miſtake my talents, when you impute to me any magical ſkill in planting roſes: I know I am no conjurer in theſe things; when they are done I can find fault, and that is all. Now this is the very reverſe of genius, and I feel my own littleneſs. Reaſonable people know themſelves better than is commonly imagined; and therefore (though I never ſaw any inſtance of it) I believe Maſon when he tells me that he un⯑derſtands theſe things. The prophetic eye of taſte (as Mr. Pitt called it) ſees all the beauties, that a place is ſuſceptible of, long before they are born; and when it plants a ſeedling, already ſits under the ſhadow of it, and enjoys the effect it will have from every point of view that lies in proſpect. You muſt there⯑fore invoke Caractacus, and he will ſend his ſpirits from the top of Snowdon to Croſs-fell or Warden-law.

I am much obliged to you for your antique news. Froiſſard is a favourite book of mine (though I have not attentively read him, but only dipped here and there); and it is ſtrange to me that people, who would give thouſands for a dozen portraits (originals of that time) to furniſh a gallery, ſhould never caſt an eye on ſo many moving pictures of the life, actions, manners, and thoughts of their anceſtors, done on the ſpot, and in ſtrong, though ſimple colours. In the ſucceeding century Froiſſard, I find, was read with great ſatisfaction by every body that could read; and on the ſame footing with King Arthur, Sir Triſtram, and Archbiſhop Turpin: not becauſe they thought him a fabu⯑lous writer, but becauſe they took them all for true and au⯑thentic hiſtorians; to ſo little purpoſe was it in that age for a man to be at the pains of writing truth. Pray, are you come to the four Iriſh Kings that went to ſchool to King Richard [278] the Second's Maſter of the Ceremonies, and the man who in⯑formed Froiſſard of all he had ſeen in St. Patrick's Purgatory?

The town are reading the King of Pruſſia's Poetry (Le Phi⯑loſophe ſans Souci), and I have done like the town; they do not ſeem ſo ſick of it as I am: It is all the ſcum of Voltaire and Lord Bolingbroke, the Crambe-recocta of our worſt Free⯑thinkers, toſſed up in German-French rhyme. Triſtram Shan⯑dy is ſtill a greater object of admiration, the man as well as the book; one is invited to dinner, where he dines, a fortnight be⯑fore: As to the volumes yet publiſhed, there is much good fun in them, and humour ſometimes hit and ſometimes miſſed. Have you read his ſermons, with his own comic figure, from a painting by Reynolds, at the head of them? They are in the ſtyle I think moſt proper for the pulpit^*, and ſhew a ſtrong imagination and a ſenſible heart; but you ſee him often totter⯑ing on the verge of laughter, and ready to throw his periwig in the face of the audience.

LETTER XXXVII.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. STONHEWER.

THOUGH you have had but a melancholy employment, it is worthy of envy, and (I hope) will have all the ſuc⯑ceſs it deſerves^*. It was the beſt and moſt natural method of cure, and ſuch as could not have been adminiſtered 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 the Letter to Rouſſeau is like himſelf; and the Diſcourſes on Elocution, and on the Liberty of Muſic, are divine. He has added to his tranſlations from Tacitus; and (what is remarkable) though that Author's manner more nearly reſembles the beſt French Writers of the preſent age, than any thing, he totally fails in the attempt. Is it his fault, or that of the language?

I have received another Scotch packet^† with a third ſpeci⯑men, inferior in kind, (becauſe it is merely deſcription) but yet [280] full of nature and noble wild imagination. Five Bards paſs the night at the Caſtle of a Chief (himſelf a principal Bard); each goes out in his turn to obſerve the face of things, and returns with an extempore 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 contrivance, and a preparation of ideas, that you would not expect. The oddeſt thing is, that every one of them 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

[281] Did you never obſerve (while rocking winds 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 Aeolian harp? I do aſſure you there is nothing in the world ſo like the voice of a ſpirit. Thomſon had an ear ſometimes: he was not deaf to this; and has deſcribed it gloriouſly, but given it an⯑other different turn, and of more horrour. 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 intervals.

LETTER XXXVIII.

Mr. GRAY to Dr. CLARKE^*.

NOT knowing whether you are yet returned 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, racketing about from morning to night, are occupations, I find, that wear out my ſpirits; eſpecially in a ſituation where one might ſit ſtill, and be alone with pleaſure; for the place was a hill^† like Clifden, opening to a very extenſive and diverſified landſcape, with the Thames, which is navigable, running at its foot.

I would wiſh to continue here (in a very different ſcene, it muſt be confeſſed) till Michaelmas; but I fear I 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, if 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 hurry. [283] 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 all the week; but after this ſixth fiſh he never held up his head more, and a violent looſeneſs 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 already ſeen are the beſt; though there are ſome others that are excellent too.

LETTER XXXIX.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. MASON.

I Have ſent Muſaeus^* back as you deſired me, ſcratched here and there. And with it alſo a bloody Satire^†, written againſt no leſs perſons than you and I by name. I concluded at firſt it was Mr. ***, becauſe he is your friend and my humble ſer⯑vant; but then I thought he knew the world too well to call [284] us the favorite Minions of Taſte and of Faſhion, eſpecially as to Odes. For to them his ridicule is confined; ſo it is not him, but Mr. Colman, nephew to Lady Bath, author of the Con⯑noiſſeur, a member of one of the inns of court, and a parti⯑cular acquaintance of Mr. Garrick. What have you done to him? for I never heard his name before; he makes very to⯑lerable fun with me where I underſtand him (which is not every where); but ſeems more angry with you. Leſt people ſhould not underſtand the humour of the thing (which indeed to do they muſt have our Lyriciſms at their finger ends) letters come out in Lloyd's Evening-Poſt to tell them who and what it was that he meant, and ſays it is like to produce a great combuſtion in the Literary World. So if you have any mind to combuſtle about it well and good; for me, I am neither ſo literary nor ſo combuſtible^*. The Monthly Review, I ſee, juſt now has much ſtuff about us on this occaſion. It ſays one of us at leaſt has always borne his faculties meekly. I leave you to gueſs which of us that is; I think I know. You ſimpleton you! you muſt be meek, muſt you? and ſee what you get by it.

I do not like your improvements at Aſton, it looks ſo like ſettling; if I come I will ſet fire to it. I will never believe the B**s and the C**s are dead, though I ſmelt them; that ſort of people always live to a good old age. I dare ſwear they are only gone to Ireland, and we ſhall ſoon hear they are Biſhops.

[285] The Erſe Fragments have been publiſhed five weeks ago in Scotland, though I had them not (by a miſtake) till the other day. As you tell me new things do not reach you ſoon at Aſton, I incloſe what I can; the reſt ſhall follow, when you tell me whether you have not got the pamphlet already. I ſend the two to Mr. Wood which I had before, becauſe he has not the affectation of not admiring ^*. I have another from Mr. Macpherſon, which he has not printed; it is mere deſcrip⯑tion, but excellent too in its kind. If you are good and will learn to admire, I will tranſcribe and ſend it.

As to their authenticity, I have made many enquiries, and have lately procured a letter from Mr. David Hume, (the hi⯑ſtorian) which is more ſatisfactory than any thing I have yet met with on that ſubject. He ſays,

‘"Certain it is that theſe poems are in every body's mouth in the Highlands, have been handed down from Father to Son, and are of an age beyond all memory and tradition. Adam Smith, the celebrated Profeſſor in Glaſgow, told me, that the Piper of the Argyleſhire Militia repeated to him all thoſe which Mr. Macpherſon had tranſlated, and many more of equal beauty. Major Mackay (Lord Rae's brother) told me that he remembers them perfectly well; as likewiſe did the Laird of Macfarline, (the greateſt Antiquarian we have in [286] this country) and who inſiſts ſtrongly on the hiſtorical truth, as well as the poetical beauty of theſe productions. I could add the Laird and Lady Macleod, with many more, that live in different parts of the Highlands, very remote from each other, and could only be acquainted with what had become (in a manner) national works^*. There is a country Surgeon in Lochaber, who has by heart the entire Epic Poem men⯑tioned by Mr. Macpherſon in his preface; and, as he is old, is perhaps the only perſon living that knows it all, and has never committed it to writing, we are in the more haſte to recover a monument, which will certainly be regarded as a curioſity in the Republic of Letters: we have therefore ſet about a ſubſcription of a guinea or two guineas a piece, in order to enable Mr. Macpherſon to undertake a miſſion into the Highlands to recover this poem, and other fragments of antiquity."’ He adds too, that the names of Fingal, Oſſian, Oſcar, &c. are ſtill given in the Highlands to large Maſtiffs, as we give to ours the names of Caeſar, Pompey, Hector, &c.

LETTER XL.

Mr. GRAY to Dr. WHARTON.

I Rejoice to find that you not only grow reconciled to your northern ſcene, but diſcover beauties round you that once were deformities: I am perſuaded the whole matter is to have always ſomething going forward. Happy they that can create a roſe-tree, or erect a honey-ſuckle; that can watch the brood of a hen, or ſee a fleet of their own ducklings launch into the water: It is with a ſentiment of envy I ſpeak it, who never ſhall have even a thatched roof of my own, nor gather a ſtraw⯑berry but in Covent-Garden. I will not, however, believe in the vocality of Old Park till next ſummer, when perhaps I may truſt to my own ears.

The Nouvelle Heloiſe cruelly diſappointed me, but it has its partiſans, amongſt which are Maſon and Mr. Hurd; for me, I admire nothing but Fingal^* (I conclude you have ſeen it, if not Stonhewer can lend it you); yet I remain ſtill in doubt about [288] the authenticity of theſe poems, though inclining rather to be⯑lieve them genuine in ſpite of the world; whether they are the inventions of antiquity, or of a modern Scotchman, either caſe is to me alike unaccountable; je m'y perd.

I ſend you a Swediſh and Engliſh Calendar^*; the firſt column is by Berger, a diſciple of Linnaeus; the ſecond by Mr. Stilling⯑fleet; the third (very imperfect indeed) by me. You are to obſerve, as you tend your plantations and take your walks, how the ſpring advances in the north, and whether Old Park moſt reſembles Upſal or Stratton. The latter has on one ſide a bar⯑ren black heath, on the other a light ſandy loam, all the coun⯑try about it is a dead flat; you ſee it is neceſſary you ſhould know the ſituation (I do not mean any reflection upon any body's place); and this is the deſcription Mr. Stillingfleet gives of his friend Mr. Marſham's ſeat, to which he retires in the ſummer and botanizes. I have lately made an acquaintance with this Philoſopher, who lives in a garret here in the winter, that he may ſupport ſome near relations who depend upon him; he is always employed, conſequently (according to my old maxim) always happy, always chearful, and ſeems to me a very worthy honeſt man: his preſent ſcheme is to ſend ſome perſons properly qualified to reſide a year or two in Attica, to make themſelves acquainted with the climate, productions, and natural hiſtory of the country, that we may underſtand Ariſtotle, Theophra⯑ſtus, &c. who have been Heathen Greek to us for ſo many ages; and this he has got propoſed to Lord Bute, no unlikely perſon to put it into execution, as he is himſelf a botaniſt.

LETTER XLI.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. MASON.

I Cannot pity you; au contraire, I wiſh I had been at Aſton, when I was fooliſh enough to go through the ſix volumes of the Nouvelle Héloiſe. All I can ſay for myſelf is, that I was confined for three weeks at home by a ſevere cold, and had no⯑thing better to do: There is no one event in it that might not happen any day of the week (ſeparately taken) in any private family; yet theſe events are ſo put together, that the ſeries of them is more abſurd and more improbable than Amadis de Gaul. The dramatis perſonae (as the author ſays) are all of them good characters; I am ſorry to hear it: for had they been all hanged at the end of the third volume, nobody (I believe) would have cared. In ſhort, I went on and on, in hopes of finding ſome wonderful denouement that would ſet all right, and bring ſomething like nature and intereſt out of abſurdity and inſipi⯑dity: no ſuch thing, it grows worſe and worſe; and (if it be Rouſſeau's, which is not doubted) is the ſtrongeſt inſtance I ever ſaw, that a very extraordinary man may entirely miſtake his own talents. By the motto and preface, it appears to be his own ſtory, or ſomething ſimilar to it.^*

[290] The Opera-Houſe is crouded this year like any ordinary Theatre. Eliſi is finer than any thing that has been here in your memory: yet, as I ſuſpect, has been finer than he is: he appears to be near forty, a little pot-bellied and thick-ſhouldered, otherwiſe no bad figure; his action proper, and not ungraceful. We have heard nothing, ſince I remember Operas, but eternal paſſages, diviſions, and flights of execution: of theſe he has abſolutely none; whether merely from judgment, or a little from age, I will not affirm; his point is expreſſion, and to that all the graces and ornaments he inſerts (which are few and ſhort) are evidently directed: He goes higher (they ſay) than Farinelli; but then this celeſtial note you do not hear above once in a whole Opera; and he falls from this altitude at once to the melloweſt, ſofteſt, ſtrongeſt tones (about the middle of his compaſs) that can be heard. The Mattei, I aſſure you, is much improved by his example, and by her great ſucceſs this winter; but then the Burlettas, and the Paganina, I have not been ſo pleaſed with any thing theſe many years: She too is fat, and above forty, yet handſome withal, and has a face that ſpeaks the language of all nations: She has not the invention, the fire, and the variety of action that the Spiletta had; yet ſhe is light, agile, ever in motion, and above all graceful; but then her voice, her ear, her taſte in ſinging: Good God—as Mr. Richardſon the painter ſays. Pray, aſk Lord *; for I think I have ſeen him there once or twice, as much pleaſed as I was.

LETTER XLII.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. MASON.

BE aſſured your York Canon never will die; ſo the better the thing is in value, the worſe for you^*. The true way to immortality is to get you nominated one's ſucceſſor: Age and Diſeaſes vaniſh at your name; Fevers turn to radical heat, and Fiſtulas to iſſues: it is a judgment that waits on your inſa⯑tiable avarice. You could not let the poor old man die at his eaſe, when he was about it; and all his family (I ſuppoſe) are curſing you for it.

I wrote to Lord **** on his recovery; and he anſwers me very chearfully, as if his illneſs had been but ſlight, and the pleuriſy were no more than a hole in one's ſtocking. He got it (he ſays) not by ſcampering, racketing, and riding poſt, as I had ſuppoſed; but by going with Ladies to Vauxhall. He is the picture (and pray ſo tell him, if you ſee him) of an old Alderman that I knew, who, after liv⯑ing forty years on the fat of the land, (not milk and honey, but arrack punch and veniſon) and loſing his great toe with a mortification, ſaid to the laſt, that he owed it to two grapes, which he eat one day after dinner. He felt them lie cold at his ſtomach the minute they were down.

[292] Mr. Montagu (as I gueſs, at your inſtigation) has earneſtly deſired me to write ſome lines to be put on a monument, which he means to erect at Belliſle^†. It is a taſk I do not love, knowing Sir William Williams ſo ſlightly as I did: but he is ſo friendly a perſon, and his affliction ſeemed to me ſo real, that I could not refuſe him. I have ſent him the following verſes, which I neither like myſelf, nor will he, I doubt: however, I have ſhewed him that I wiſhed to oblige him. Tell me your real opinion.

LETTER XLIII.

Mr. GRAY to Dr. WHARTON.

I Feel very ungrateful every day that I continue ſilent; and yet now that I take my pen in hand I have only time to tell you, that of all the places which I ſaw in my return from you, Hardwicke pleaſed me the moſt^*. One would think that Mary, Queen of Scots, was but juſt walked down into the park with her guard for half an hour; her gallery, her room of [...]dience, her antichamber, with the very canopies, chair of ſtate, footſtool, lit de repos, oratory, carpets, and hang⯑ings, juſt as ſhe left them: a little tattered indeed, but the more venerable, and all preſerved with religious care, and pa⯑pered up in winter.

[293] When I arrived in London I found Profeſſor Turner^† had been dead above a fortnight; and being cockered and ſpirited up by ſome friends (though it was rather the lateſt) I got my name ſuggeſted to Lord Bute. You may eaſily imagine who undertook it, and indeed he did it with zeal^‡. I received my anſwer very ſoon, which was what you may eaſily imagine, but joined with great profeſſions of his deſire to ſerve me on future occaſions, and many more fine words that I paſs over, not out of modeſty, but for another reaſon: ſo you ſee I have made my fortune like Sir Francis Wronghead. This nothing is a profound ſecret, and no one here ſuſpects it even now. To-day I hear Mr. E. Delaval^* has got it, but we are not yet certain; next to myſelf I wiſhed for him.

You ſee we have made a peace. I ſhall be ſilent about it, becauſe if I ſay any thing anti-miniſterial, you will tell me you know the reaſon; and if I approve it, you will think I have my expectations ſtill. All I know is, that the Duke of New⯑caſtle and Lord Hardwick both ſay it is an excellent peace, and only Mr. Pitt calls it inglorious and inſidious.

LETTER XLIV.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. MASON.

DOctiſſime Domine, anne tibi arrident complimenta? ^* If ſo, I hope your vanity is tickled with the verghe d'oro of Count Algarotti, and the intended tranſlation of Sig^r. Ago⯑ſtino Paradiſi: for my part, I am raviſhed (for I too have my ſhare). Are you upon the road to ſee all theſe wonders, and ſnuff up the incenſe of Piſa; or has Mr. Brown abated your ardour by ſending you the originals? I am waiting with impa⯑tience for your coming.

I am obliged to you for your Drawing and very learned diſ⯑ſertation annexed^†. You have made out your point with a [295] great degree of probability, (for tho' the nimis adhoeſit might ſtartle one, yet the ſale of the tithes and chapel to Webſter ſeems to ſet all right again) and I do believe the building in queſtion was the chapel of St. Sepulchre. But then, that the ruin now ſtanding was the individual chapel as erected by Archbiſhop Roger, I can by no means think: I found myſelf merely on the ſtyle and taſte of architecture. The vaults under the choir are ſtill in being, and were undoubtedly built by this very Arch⯑biſhop: they are truly Saxon; only that the arches are pointed, though very obtuſely. It is the ſouth tranſept (not the north) that is the oldeſt part of the minſter now above ground: it is ſaid to have been begun by Geffrey Plantagenet, who died about thirty years after Roger, and left it unfiniſhed. His ſucceſſor, Walter Grey, compleated it; ſo we do not exactly know to which of theſe two prelates we are to aſcribe any certain part of it. Grey lived a long time, and was Archbiſhop from 1216 to 1255 (39 Henry III.); and in this reign it was, that the beauty of the Gothic architecture began to appear. The chap⯑ter-houſe is in all probability his work, and (I ſhould ſuppoſe) built in his latter days; whereas what he did of the ſouth tran⯑ſept might be performed ſoon after his acceſſion. It is in the ſecond order of this building, that the round arches appear in⯑cluding a row of pointed ones, (which you mention, and which I alſo obſerved) ſimilar to thoſe in St. Sepulchre's chapel, tho' far inferior in the proportions and neatneſs of workmanſhip. The ſame thing is repeated in the north tranſept; but this is only an imitation of the other, done for the ſake of regularity; for this part of the building is no older than Archbiſhop Ro⯑maine, who came to the ſee in 1285, and died 1295.

[296] All the buildings of Henry the Second's time (under whom Roger lived and died, 1185) are of a clumſy and heavy pro⯑portion, with a few rude and aukward ornaments; and this ſtyle continues to the beginning of Henry the Third's reign, though with a little improvement, as in the nave of Fountain's abbey, &c. then all at once come in the tall picked arches, the light cluſtered columns, the capitals of curling foliage, the fretted tabernacles and vaultings, and a profuſion of ſtatues, &c. that conſtitute the good Gothic ſtyle; together with decreaſing and flying buttreſſes, and pinnacles, on the outſide. Nor muſt you conclude any thing from Roger's own tomb, which has (I remember) a wide ſurbaſed arch with ſcalloped ornaments, &c. for this can be no older than the nave itſelf, which was built by Archbiſhop Melton after the year 1315, one hundred and thirty years after Roger's death.

I have compared Helvetius and Elfrida, as you deſired me^*, and find thirteen parallel paſſages; five of which, at leaſt, are [297] ſo direct and cloſe as to leave no ſhadow of a doubt, and there⯑fore confirm all the reſt. It is a phaenomenon that you will be in the right to inform yourſelf about, and which I long to underſtand. [298] Another phaenomenon is, that I read it without finding it out: all I remember is, that I thought it not at all Engliſh, and did not much like it; and the reaſon is plain, for [299] the lyric flights and choral flowers ſuited not in the leaſt with the circumſtances or character of the ſpeaker, as he had con⯑trived it.

LETTER XLV.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. BROWN.^*

YOU will make my beſt acknowledgments to Mr. Howe; who, not content to rank me in the number of his friends, is ſo polite as to make excuſes for having done me that honour.

[301] 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 years, or in philoſophy, as not to feel the warmth of his ap⯑probation. The Odes in queſtion, as their motto ſhews, were meant to be vocal to the intelligent alone. How few they were in my own country, Mr. Howe can teſtify; and yet my ambi⯑tion was terminated by that ſmall circle. I have good reaſon to be proud, if my voice has reached the ear and apprehenſion of a ſtranger, diſtinguiſhed as one of the beſt judges in Europe.

I am equally pleaſed with the juſt applauſe he beſtows on Mr. Maſon; and particularly on his Caractacus, which is the work of a Man: whereas Elfrida is only that of a Boy, a pro⯑miſing boy indeed, and of no common genius: yet this is the popular performance, and the other little known in compa⯑riſon.

Neither Count Algarotti nor Mr. Howe (I believe) have heard of Oſſian, the Son of Fingal. If Mr. Howe 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 (I believe) is, that, without any reſpect of climates, ſhe reigns in all naſcent ſocie⯑ties of men, where the neceſſities of life force every one to think and act much for himſelf.

LETTER XLVI.

Count ALGAROTTI to Mr. GRAY.

SONO ſtato lungo tempo in dubbio ſe un dilettante quale io ſono, dovea mandare alcune ſue coſerelle a un Profeſſore quale è V. S. Illuſ^mo, a un arbitro di ogni poetica eleganza. Nè ci volea meno che l'autorità del valoriſſimo Sig^r. How per per⯑ſuadermi a ciò fare. V. S. Ill^mo accolga queſte mie coſerelle con quella medeſima bontà con cui ha voluto accogliere quella lettera che dice pur poco delle tante coſe, che fanno ſentire alle anime armoniche di ammirabili ſuoi verſi. Io ſaro per quanto io porrô, Praeco laudum tuarum, e quella mia lettera ſi ſtamperà in un nuovo Giornale, che ſi fa in Venezia, intitolato la Minerva, perche ſappia la Italia che la Inghilterra, ricca di un ^*Omero, di uno ^†Archimede, di un ^‡Demoſtene, non manca del ſuo Pindaro. Al Sig^r. How le non ſaprei dire quanti obblighi io abbia, ma ſi maggiore è certamente quello di avermi preſentato alla ſua Muſa, e di avermi procurato la occaſione di poterla aſſi⯑curare della perfetta ed altiſſima ſtima, con cui io ho l'honore di ſotteſcrivermi,

LETTER XLVII.

Mr. GRAY to Dr. WHARTON.

YOU may well wonder at my long taciturnity. I wonder too, and know not what cauſe to 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 towards 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, tho' we preſerve thoſe of former days, by way of Hortus 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: for tho' it abounds with his uſual glorious abſurdity, tho' his general ſcheme of education be an impracticable chimera, yet there are a thouſand lights ſtruck out, a thouſand important truths bet⯑ter expreſſed than ever they were before, that may be of ſer⯑vice 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 nought, and wiſh they had been omit⯑ted^*.

LETTER XLVIII.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. PALGRAVE.^*

MY inſtructions, of which you are ſo deſirous, are two⯑fold: the firſt part relates to what is paſt, and that will be rather diffuſe: the ſecond, to what is to come; and that we ſhall treat more ſuccinctly, and with all due brevity.

Firſt, when you come to Paris you will not fail to viſit the cloiſter of the Chartreuſe, where Le Sueur (in the hiſtory of St. Bruno) has almoſt equalled Raphael. Then your Gothic inclinations will naturally lead you to the Sainte Chapelle built by St. Louis: in the treaſury is preſerved one of the nobleſt gems of the Auguſtan age. When you take a trip into the country, there is a fine old chapel at Vincennes with [305] admirable painted windows; and at Fontainbleau, the remains of Francis the Firſt's magnificence might give you ſome plea⯑ſure. In your way to Lyons you will take notice of the view over the Saone, from about Tournus and Macon. Fail not to walk a few miles along the banks of the Rhone, down the river. I would certainly make a little journey to the Grande Chartreuſe, up the mountains: at your return out of Italy this will have little effect. At Turin you will viſit the Capuchins' convent juſt without the city, and the Superga at no great diſtance, for the ſake of the views. At Genoa obſerve the Terreno of the Palace Brignoli, as a model of an apartment elegantly diſpoſed in a hot climate. At Parma you will adore the great Madonna and St. Jerom, once at St. Antonio Abbate, but now (I am told) in the Ducal Palace. In the Madonna della Steccata obſerve the Moſes breaking the tables, a chiaro⯑ſcuro figure of the Parmeggiano at too great a height, and ill lighted, but immenſe. At the Capuchins, the great Pietá of Annib. Caracci; in the Villa Ducale, the room painted by Carlo Cignani; and the laſt works of Agoſtino Caracci at Mo⯑dena^*. I know not what remains now, the flower of the col⯑lection [306] is gone to Dreſden. Bologna is too vaſt a 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 [307] have brought you to Florence, where to be ſure there is no⯑thing worth ſeeing. Secondly,

• 1. Vide, quodcunque videndum eſt.
• 2. Quodcunque ego non vidi, id tu vide.
• 3. Quodcunque videris, ſcribe & deſcribe; memoriae ne fide.
• 4. Scribendo nil admirare; & cum pictor non ſis, verbis omnia depinge.
• 5. Tritam viatorum compitam calca, & cum poteris, deſere.
• 6. Eme, quodcunque emendum eſt; I do not mean pictures, [308] medals, gems, drawings, &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 compliments to Mr. Weddell.^* I 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 ſee a little of the country, throw yourſelves into the boſom of the Appennine, ſurvey the horrid lake of Am⯑ſanctus (look in Cluver's Italy), catch the breezes on the coaſt of Taranto and Salerno, expatiate to the very toe of the conti⯑nent, perhaps ſtrike over the Faro of Meſſina, and having meaſured the gigantic columns of Girgenti, and the tremen⯑dous caverns of Syracuſa, refreſh yourſelves amidſt the fragrant vale of Enna. Oh! che bel ripoſo! Addio.

LETTER XLIX.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. BEATTIE.^†

A Little journey I have been making to Arbroath, has been the cauſe that I did not anſwer your very obliging ſetter ſo ſoon as I ought to have done. A man of merit, that ho⯑nours me with his eſteem, and has the frankneſs to tell me ſo, doubtleſs can need no excuſes: his apology is made, and we are already acquainted, however diſtant from each other.

[309] I fear I cannot (as I would wiſh) do myſelf the pleaſure of waiting on you at Aberdeen, being under an engagement to go to-morrow to Taymouth, 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 northwards. 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 ex⯑tremely 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.

LETTER L.

Mr. GRAY to Dr. WHARTON.

I Deferred writing to you till I had ſeen a little more of this country than you yourſelf had ſeen; and now being juſt re⯑turned from an excurſion, which I and Major Lyon have been making, into the Highlands, I ſit down 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 partly that there was not a great deal worth re⯑marking. The firſt night we paſſed at Tweedmouth (77 miles); the next at Edinburgh (53 miles); where Lord Strathmore left the Major and me, to go to Lenox-Love, (Lord Blantyre's) [310] 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, &c. and am not ſorry to have ſeen that moſt pic⯑tureſque (at a diſtance), 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 wiſh 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 Edin⯑burgh) 67 miles, which makes in all (from Hetton) 197 miles. The caſtle^* ſtands in Strathmore (i. e. the Great Valley) which winds about from Stonehaven on the eaſt coaſt of Kincardine⯑ſhire, obliquely, as far as Stirling, near 100 miles in length, and from ſeven to ten miles in breadth, cultivated every where to the foot of the hills, on either hand, with oats or bere, a ſpecies of barley, except where the ſoil is mere peat-earth, (black as a coal) or barren ſand covered only with broom and heath, or a ſhort graſs fit for ſheep. Here and there appear, juſt above ground, the huts of the inhabitants, which they call Towns, built of, and covered with, turf; and among them, at great diſtances, the gentlemen's houſes, with incloſures and a few trees round them.

Amidſt theſe the Caſtle of Glames diſtinguiſhes 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 [311] top. You deſcend to it gradually 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, the firs change to limes, and an⯑other oblique avenue goes off on either hand towards the offices. Theſe, as well as all the incloſures that ſurround 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, and walled gardens, of Earl Patrick's plant⯑ing, full of broad-leaved elms, oaks, birch, black cherry-trees, laburnums, &c. all of great ſtature and ſize, which have not till this week begun to ſhew the leaſt ſenſe of morning froſts. The third gate delivers you into a court with a broad pavement, and graſs-plats adorned with ſtatues of the four Stuart Kings, bordered with old ſilver firs 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 ſin⯑gular and ſtriking appearance, like nothing I ever ſaw. You will comprehend ſomething of its ſhape from the plan of the ſecond floor, which I incloſe. 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 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 form adja⯑cent to it, both covered with woods of tall fir. Beyond them, [312] 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 approach 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 farmer in this neigh⯑bourhood, is from break of day to dark night among his huſ⯑bandmen and labourers: he has near 2000 acres of land in his own hands, and is at preſent employed 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 compleating, and muſt be three miles in length. All the Highlanders that can be got are employed in it; many of them know no Engliſh, and I 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 perform a certain por⯑tion 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, [313] as not only fertilize his own grounds, but are diſpoſed 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 unequal, will have a very park-like appearance: they are already full 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, thro' which it runs murmuring 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 ſycamore, 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 its way, and forms a caſcade of ten 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 windows open an hour after ſun-ſet: now and then a ſhower has come, and ſometimes ſudden guſts of wind deſcend from the moun⯑tains, that finiſh as ſuddenly as they aroſe; but to-day it blows a hurricane. Upon the whole, I have been exceeding lucky in [314] my weather, and particularly 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 by ſtaned horſes for nae gade that ſhe did; ſo the women there told me, I aſſure you) thro' Cowper of Angus: over the river Ila; 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 gentleman's houſe or two ſeated on them in little groves, contraſted with the black deſert in which they were inchaſed. 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 we ſaw far below us the river Tay come ſweeping along at the bottom of a precipice, 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 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 re⯑poſed. 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 en⯑tire: a little beyond 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 flung arches of communication acroſs them, that add to the ſcenery of the place, which of itſelf is built of good white [315] 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 Taymouth, 27 miles farther weſt; the road winding through beautiful woods, with the Tay almoſt always in full view 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 harveſt; on either hand a vaſt chain of rocky mountains that changed their face and opened ſomething new every hundred yards, as the way turned, or the 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; but now Taymouth, improperly enough; for here it is that the river iſſues out of Loch-Tay, a glorious lake 15 miles long and one mile and a half broad, ſurrounded with prodigious mountains; there on its north-eaſtern brink, impending over it, is the vaſt hill of Lawers; to the eaſt is that enormous creature, She-khallian (i. e. the maiden's pap) ſpiring above the clouds: directly weſt, beyond the end of the lake, Beni-More, the great mountain riſes to a moſt awful height, and looks down on the tomb of Fingal. Lord Breadalbane's policy (ſo they call here all ſuch ground as is laid out for pleaſure) takes in about 2000 acres, of which his houſe, offices, and a deer-park, about three miles round, occupy the plain or bottom, which is little above a mile in [316] breadth; through it winds the Tay, which, by means of a bridge, I found here to be 156 feet over: his plantations and woods riſe with the ground, on either ſide the vale, to the very ſummit of the enormous crags that over-hang it: along them, on the mountain's ſide, runs a terraſs 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 peninſula 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 in the road, as you enter the park, of vaſt bulk and height; one beach tree I meaſured that was 16 feet 7 inches in the girth, and, I gueſs, near 80 feet in height. The gardener preſented us with peaches, nectarines, and plums 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 alſo golden 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, handſomely furniſhed and well kept, very comfortable 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 ſituations that Man cannot ſpoil: it is however certain, that he has built an inn and a town juſt where his principal walks ſhould [317] have been, and in the moſt wonderful ſpot of ground that per⯑haps belongs to him. In this inn however we lay; and next day returning down the river four miles, we paſſed it over a fine bridge, built at the expence of the government, and continued our way to Logie-Rait, juſt below which, in a moſt charming ſcene, the Tummel, which is here the larger river of the two, falls into the Tay. We ferried over the Tummel in 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 directly under us at the bottom of a preci⯑pice 200 feet deep, ſometimes maſked indeed by wood that finds means to grow where I could 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 country, which the beauty of the weather ſet off to the greateſt advantage: as evening came on, we approached the paſs of Gillikrankie, where, in the year 1745, the Heſſians, with their prince at their head, ſtopped ſhort, and refuſed to march a foot farther.

Veſtibulum ante ipſum, primiſque in faucibus Orci ſtands the ſolitary manſion of Mr. Robertſon, of Faſcley; cloſe by it riſes a hill covered with oak, with groteſque maſſes of rock ſtaring from among their trunks, like the ſullen countenances of Fin⯑gal 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 Tummel, 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 [318] nothing of the paſs itſelf, the black river Garry, the Blair of Athol, Mount Beni-Gloe, my return by another road to Dun⯑keld, the Hermitage, the Stra-Bram, and the Rumbling Brig: in ſhort, ſince I ſaw the Alps, I 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.

LETTER LI.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. BEATTIE.

I Muſt beg you would preſent my moſt grateful acknowledg⯑ments 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 par⯑don 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 there; ſince that time, tho' long qualified by my ſtanding, I have always neglected to finiſh my courſe, and claim my Doctor's degree: Judge, therefore, whether it will not look like a ſlight, and ſome ſort of contempt, [319] if I receive the ſame degree from a Siſter Univerſity. I cer⯑tainly 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 retain in my memory the obligations you have laid me under, and be proud of my connection 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 literally, 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 deſire 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 ſup⯑preſſed, there may remain in the mind of one, ‘"ingenti percul⯑ſus amore"’, (and ſuch I take you to be) incitements of a bet⯑ter ſort, ſtrong enough to make him write verſe all his life, both for his own pleaſure and that of all poſterity.

I am ſorry for the trouble you have had to gratify my curio⯑ſity and love of ſuperſtition^*; yet I heartily thank you. On Monday, Sir, I ſet forward on my way to England; where if I can be of any little uſe to you, or ſhould ever have the good fortune to ſee you, it will be a particular ſatisfaction to me. [320] Lord Strathmore and the family here deſire me to make their compliments to you.

P.S. Remember Dryden, and be blind to all his faults.^*

LETTER LII.

Mr. GRAY to Dr. WHARTON.

I Am amazed at myſelf when I think I have never wrote to you; to be ſure it is the ſin of witchcraft, or ſomething worſe. Had I 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 all parts, make me ſuppoſe you buried in the ſnow like the old Queen of Denmark. As [321] ſoon as you are dug out, I ſhould 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 flimſy 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 nu⯑merous people. The Life of Petrarch has entertained me; it is not well written, but very curious, and laid together from his own letters, and the original writings of the fourteenth cen⯑tury: ſo that he takes in much of the hiſtory of thoſe obſcure times, and the characters of many remarkable perſons. There are two volumes quarto; and another, unpubliſhed yet, will compleat it.

Mr. Walpole writes me now and then a long and lively letter from Paris; to which place he went laſt year with 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 very much in faſhion. He ſays he ſunk like Queen Eleanor at Charing-Croſs, and has riſen again at Paris. He returns in April. I ſaw the Lady you enquire 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 bullfinch 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 I them.

LETTER LIII.

Mr. GRAY to Dr. WHARTON.

WHatever my pen may do, I am ſure my thoughts expa⯑tiate 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, whether her name were in my letter or not, ſhe was as preſent to my memory as the reſt of the whole family; and I deſire you would preſent her with two kiſſes in my name, and one a-piece to all the others; for I ſhall take the liberty to kiſs them all, (great and ſmall) as you are to be my proxy.^*

In ſpite of the rain, which I think continued, with very ſhort intervals, till the beginning of this month, and quite effaced the ſummer from the year, I made a ſhift to paſs May and June not diſagreeably in Kent. I was ſurprized 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 garden; orchards, cherry-grounds, hop-gardens, intermixed with corn and frequent villages; gentle riſings covered with wood, and every where the Thames and Medway breaking in upon the landſcape with all their navigation. 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 [323] left the country. My reſidence was eight miles eaſt of Canter⯑bury, in a little quiet valley on the ſkirts of Barham-Down.^* 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 opportunity of three or four days fine 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 they are noble and pictureſque, and the oppoſite coaſts of France begin to bound your view, which 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 motion: and take notice, (except in the Iſle, which is all corn-fields, and has very little incloſure) there are in all places hedge-rows, and tall trees even within a few yards of the beach. Particularly, Hithe ſtands on an emi⯑nence 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 unto⯑ward year that ever I remember.

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 converſion, I doubt, you will paſte down, as a certain Yorkſhire Baronet did before he carried it to his daughters: yet I remember you all read Crazy Tales without paſting. Buffon's [324] firſt collection of Monkies is come out, (it makes the 14th vo⯑lume) 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 I ſhould affront any body.

LETTER LIV.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. MASON.

I Break in upon you at a moment, when we leaſt of all are permitted to diſturb our friends, only to ſay, that you are daily and hourly preſent to my thoughts. If the worſt^* be not yet paſt, you will neglect and pardon me: but if the laſt ſtruggle be over; if the poor object of your long anxieties be no longer ſenſible to your kindneſs, or to her own ſufferings, allow me (at leaſt in idea, for what could I do, were I preſent, more than this?) to ſit by you in ſilence, and pity from my heart not her, who is at reſt, but you, who loſe her. May He, who made us, the Maſter of our pleaſures and of our pains, preſerve and ſupport you! Adieu.

I have long underſtood how little you had to hope.

LETTER LV.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. BEATTIE.

I Received from Mr. Williamſon that very obliging mark you were pleaſed to give me of your remembrance: Had I not entertained ſome flight hopes of reviſiting Scotland this ſummer, and conſequently of ſeeing you at Aberdeen, I had ſooner ac⯑knowledged, by letter, the favour you have done me. Thoſe hopes are now at an end; but I do not therefore deſpair of ſee⯑ing 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 were ſo good to ſend me, I think excellent; the ſentiments are ſuch as a melancholy imagination naturally ſug⯑geſts in ſolitude and ſilence, and that (though light and buſineſs may ſuſpend or baniſh them at times) return with but ſo much the greater force upon a feeling heart: the diction is elegant and unconſtrained; not loaded with epithets and figures, nor flagging into proſe; the verſification is eaſy and harmonious. My only objection is * * * * *^†

You ſee, Sir, I take the liberty you indulged 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.

[326] I have read over (but too haſtily) Mr. Ferguſon's book. There are uncommon ſtrains of eloquence in it; and I was ſur⯑prized to find not one ſingle idiom of his country (I think) in the whole work. He has not the fault you mention^*: his ap⯑plication to the heart is frequent, and often ſucceſsful. His love of Monteſquieu and Tacitus 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 govern⯑ment, would have avoided.

I know no pretence that I have to the honour Lord Gray is pleaſed to do me^†: but if his Lordſhip chuſes to own me, it certainly is not my buſineſs to deny it. I ſay not this merely on account of his quality, but becauſe he is a very worthy and accompliſhed perſon. I am truly ſorry for the great loſs he has had ſince I left Scotland. If you ſhould chance to ſee him, I will beg you to preſent my reſpectful humble ſervice to his Lordſhip.

[327] I gave Mr. Williamſon all the information I was able in the ſhort time he ſtaid with me. He ſeemed to anſwer well the character you gave me of him: but what I chiefly envied in him, was his ability of walking all the way from Aberdeen to Cambridge, and back again; which if I poſſeſſed, you would ſoon ſee your obliged, &c.

LETTER LVI.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. BEATTIE.

SINCE I had the pleaſure of receiving your laſt letter, which did not reach me till I 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 tractable 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 Aberdeen. But, alas! 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 printing at Glaſgow what little I have ever written, does me honour. I leave my re⯑putation in that part of the kingdom to your care; and only deſire you would not let your partiality to me and mine miſ⯑lead [328] you. If you 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 my leave to reprint, in a ſmaller form, all I ever pub⯑liſhed; to which I conſented: and added, that I would ſend him a few explanatory notes; and if he would omit entirely the Long 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 intelligible 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 I had rather ſee them print⯑ed at Glaſgow (eſpecially as you will condeſcend to reviſe the preſs) than at London; but I know not how to retract my pro⯑miſe to Dodſley. By the way, you perhaps may imagine that I have ſome kind of intereſt in this publication; but the truth is, I have none whatever. The expence is his, and ſo is the profit, if there be any. I therefore told him the other day, in general terms, that I heard there would be an edition put out in Scotland by a friend of mine, whom I could not refuſe; and that, if ſo, I would ſend thither a copy of the ſame notes and additions that I had promiſed to ſend to him. This did not ſeem at all to cool his courage; Mr. Foulis muſt therefore judge for himſelf, whether he thinks it worth while to print what is going to be printed alſo at London. If he does, I will ſend him (in a packet to you) the ſame things I ſhall ſend to Dodſ⯑ley. They are imitations of two pieces of old Norwegian poe⯑try, in which there was a wild ſpirit that ſtruck me: but for my paraphraſes I cannot ſay much; you will judge. The reſt are nothing but a few parallel paſſages, and ſmall notes juſt to [329] explain what people ſaid at the time was wrapped in total darkneſs. You will pleaſe to tell me, as ſoon as you can con⯑veniently, what Mr. Foulis ſays on this head; that (if he drops the deſign) I may ſave myſelf and you the trouble of this packet. I 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 I have uſed) on Lord Hay's birth-day. Though I do not love pane⯑gyric, I cannot but applaud this, for there is nothing mean in it. The diction is eaſy and noble, the texture 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.

LETTER LVII.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. BEATTIE.

I Am almoſt ſorry to have raiſed any degree of impatience in you, becauſe I can by no means ſatisfy it. The ſole reaſon I have to publiſh theſe few additions now, is to make up (in both) for the omiſſion of that Long Story; and as to the notes, I do it out of ſpite, becauſe the public did not underſtand the [330] two Odes (which I have called Pindaric); though the firſt was not very dark, and the ſecond alluded to a few common facts to be found in any ſixpenny hiſtory of England, by way of queſtion and anſwer, for the uſe of children. The parallel paſſages I inſert out of juſtice to thoſe writers from whom I happened to take the hint of any line, as far as I can recollect.

I rejoice to be in the hands of Mr. Foulis, who has the laud⯑able ambition of ſurpaſſing his predeceſſors, the Etiennes and the Elzevirs, as well in literature, as in the proper art of his profeſſion: He ſurpriſes me in mentioning a Lady, after whom I have been enquiring theſe fourteen years in vain. When the two Odes were firſt publiſhed, I ſent them to her; but as I was forced to direct them very much at random, pro⯑bably they never came to her hands. When the preſent edi⯑tion comes out, I beg of Mr. Foulis to offer her a copy, in my name, with my reſpects and grateful remembrances; he will ſend another to you, Sir, and a third to Lord Gray, if he will do me the honour of accepting it. Theſe are all the preſents I pretend to make (for I would have it conſidered only as a new edition of an old book); after this if he pleaſes to ſend me one or two, I ſhall think myſelf obliged to him. I cannot adviſe him to print a great number; eſpecially as Dodſley has it in his power to print as many as he pleaſes, though I deſire him not to do ſo.

You are very good to me in taking this trouble upon you: All I can ſay is, that I ſhall be happy to return it in kind, whenever you will give me the opportunity.

LETTER LVIII.^*

Mr. GRAY to the Duke of GRAFTON.

YOUR Grace has dealt nobly with me; and the ſame deli⯑cacy of mind that induced you to confer this favour on me, unſolicited and unexpected, may perhaps make you averſe to receive my ſincereſt thanks and grateful acknowledgments. Yet your Grace muſt excuſe me, they will have their way: they are indeed but words; yet I know and feel they come from my heart, and therefore are not wholly unworthy of your Grace's acceptance. 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 compleat the hap⯑pineſs of,

LETTER LIX.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. NICHOLLS.^*

THAT Mr. Brocket has broken his neck, by a fall from his horſe, you will have ſeen in the News papers; and alſo that I, your humble ſervant, have kiſſed the King's hand for his ſucceſſion: they are both true, but the manner how you know not; only I can aſſure 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 following his Grace the Duke of Grafton wrote me a very polite letter to ſay, that his Ma⯑jeſty 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. I 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.

LETTER LX.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. BEATTIE.

IT is ſome time ſince I received from Mr. Foulis two copies of my poems, one by the hands of Mr. T. Pitt, the other by Mr. Merrill, a bookſeller of this town: it is indeed a moſt beautiful edition, and muſt certainly do credit both to him and to me: but I fear it will be of no other advantage to him, as Dodſley has contrived to glut the town already with two edi⯑tions 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 thro' you I muſt deſire leave to convey my acknowledgments to Mr. Foulis, for the pains and expence he has been at in this publication.

We live at ſo great a diſtance, that, perhaps, you may not yet have learned, what, I flatter myſelf, you will not be diſ⯑pleaſed to hear: the middle of laſt ſummer his Majeſty was pleaſed to appoint me Regius Profeſſor of Modern Hiſtory in this Univerſity; it is the beſt thing the Crown has to beſtow (on a layman) here; the ſalary is 400 l. per ann. 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 following the Duke of Grafton wrote me a letter to ſay, that the King offered me this office, [334] with many additional expreſſions of kindneſs on his Grace's part, to whom I am but little known, and whom I have not ſeen either before or ſince he did me this favour. Inſtances of a benefit 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 I lived here before from choice, I ſhall now continue to do ſo from obligation: if buſineſs or curioſity ſhould call you ſouthwards, you will find few friends that will ſee you with more cordial ſatisfaction, than, dear Sir, &c.

LETTER I.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. NICHOLLS.

I Was abſent from College, and did not receive your melan⯑choly letter till my return hither yeſterday; ſo you muſt not attribute this delay to me but to accident: to ſympathize with you in ſuch a loſs^* is an eaſy taſk for me, but to comfort you not ſo eaſy; can I wiſh to ſee you unaffected with the ſad ſcene now before your eyes, or with the loſs of a perſon that, [344] 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 ſerious reflection, to our duty, and to him⯑ſelf; nor need we haſten to get rid of theſe impreſſions; time (by appointment of the ſame Power) will cure the ſmart, and in ſome hearts ſoon blot out all the traces of ſorrow: 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 fortify my mind, ſo as to ſupport them with chearfulneſs 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 not dwell on this ſubject at preſent. To be obliged to thoſe we love and eſteem is a pleaſure; but to ſerve and oblige them is a ſtill greater; and this, with independance, (no vulgar bleſſing) are what a pro⯑feſſion at your age may reaſonably promiſe; without it they are hardly attainable. Remember I 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 as it does to you. You well know the tenour of my converſation (urged at times perhaps a little farther than [345] 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 laeta paupertas."’ I ſee it with reſpect, and ſo will every one, whoſe poverty 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, who have not the ſame reſources to ſupport them. You have youth: you have many kind well-intentioned people belonging to you; many acquaint⯑ance 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 your happineſs.

P.S. I have juſt heard that a friend of mine is ſtruck with a paralytick diſorder, in which ſtate it is likely he may live incapable of aſſiſting himſelf, in the hands of ſervants or rela⯑tions that only gape after his ſpoils, perhaps for years to come: think how many things may befal a man far worſe than poverty or death.^†

LETTER II.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. NICHOLLS.

AND ſo you have a garden of your own^*, and you plant and tranſplant, and are dirty and amuſed! Are not you aſhamed of yourſelf? Why, I have no ſuch thing, you monſter, nor ever ſhall be either dirty or amuſed 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 Camomile-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 garding, and ſit on a bench in the open air, with a fountain and leaden ſtatue, and a rolling ſtone, and an arbour: have a care of ſore 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 four⯑ſcore pounds a year for my old Aunt, and a twenty pound prize [347] 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, and every thing hand⯑ſome about him, and in a few days ſhall have new window curtains: Are you avized of that? Ay, and a new mattraſs 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 Glou⯑ceſter muſic meeting, great names there, and all well verſed in Judas Maccabaeus. I wiſh it were once over; for then I im⯑mediately 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 Landes' 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 always wiſhing for mo⯑ney, for fame, and other diſtinctions; and his whole philoſophy conſiſted in living againſt his will in retirement, and in a place which his taſte had adorned; but which he only enjoyed when people of note came to ſee and commend it: his correſpondence is about nothing elſe but this place and his own writings, with two or three neighbouring Clergymen who wrote verſes too.

[348] I have juſt found the beginning of a letter, which ſomebody had dropped: I ſhould rather call it firſt-thoughts for the be⯑ginning of a letter; for there are many ſcratches and correc⯑tions. As I cannot uſe it myſelf, (having got a beginning al⯑ready of my own) I ſend it for your uſe on ſome great occaſion.

LETTER III.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. BEATTIE.

THE late ceremony of the Duke of Grafton's inſtallation has hindered me from acknowledging ſooner the ſatiſ⯑faction 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 [349] this occaſion^*. I do not think them worth ſending you, becauſe they are by nature doomed to live but a ſingle day; or, if their exiſtence is prolonged beyond that date, it is only by means of news-paper parodies, and witleſs criticiſms. This ſort of abuſe I had reaſon to expect, but did not think it worth while to avoid.

Mr. Foulis is magnificent in his gratitude^†: I cannot figure to myſelf how it can be worth his while to offer me ſuch a preſent. You can judge better of it than I; and if he does not hurt himſelf by it, I would accept his Homer with many thanks. I have not got or even ſeen it.

I could wiſh to ſubſcribe to his new edition 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.

[350] You have taught me to long for a ſecond letter, and particu⯑larly for what you ſay will make the contents of it^*. I have nothing to requite it with but plain and friendly truth, and that you ſhall have, joined to a zeal for your fame, and a plea⯑ſure 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 have time to viſit a few places, and a few friends.

LETTER IV.

Mr. GRAY to Dr. WHARTON.

I Hope you got ſafe and well home after that troubleſome night^†. I long to hear you ſay ſo. For me I have con⯑tinued well, been ſo favoured by the weather, that my walks have never once been hindered till yeſterday (that is a fortnight [351] and three or four days, and a journey of more than 300 miles.) I am now at Aſton for two days. To-morrow I go to Cam⯑bridge. 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 gentleman's houſe peeping forth from a grove of old trees. On a nearer approach appeared myriads of cattle and horſes in the road it⯑ſelf, 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, Eſquires 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 hills, on whoſe tops the miſts were yet hanging, ſerved as a contraſt to this gay and moving ſcene, which continued for near two miles [352] more along the road, and the croud (coming towards it) reach⯑ed on as far as Appleby. On the aſcent of the hill above Appleby the thick hanging wood, and the long reaches of the Eden, clear, rapid, and full as ever, winding below, with views of the caſtle and town, gave much employment to the mirror^*; but now the ſun was wanting, and the ſky overcaſt. Oats and barley cut every where, but not carried in. Paſſed Kirbythore, Sir William Dalſton's houſe at Acorn-Bank, Whinfield Park, Harthorn Oaks, Counteſs-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 Doctor well remembers, Whin⯑field and Lowther 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 grey autumnal day, the air perfectly calm and mild, went to ſee Ulſwater, five miles diſtant; ſoon left the Keſwick-road, and turned to the left through ſhady lanes along the vale of Eeman, which runs rapidly on near the way, rip⯑ling [353] over the ſtones; to the right is Delmaine, a large fabrick 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 caſtle-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 ſpungy mea⯑dow or two, and began to mount the hill through a broad ſtraight green alley among the trees, and with ſome toil gained the ſummit. From hence ſaw the lake opening directly at my feet, majeſtic in its calmneſs, clear and ſmooth as a blue mir⯑ror, with winding ſhores and low points of land covered with green incloſures, 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 perpendicular, and came to Barton-bridge over the Eeman; 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 weſtern ſhore cloſe to the water, and generally on a [354] level with it. Saw a cormorant flying over it and fiſhing. The figure of the lake nothing reſembles that laid down in our 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 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 by the root of Helvellyn, a lofty and very rugged mountain, and ſpreading again turns off to ſouth⯑eaſt, and is loſt among the deep receſſes of the hills. To this ſecond turning I purſued my way about four miles along its bor⯑ders beyond 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 thick⯑en, and the valley to grow more deſolate, and evening drawing on, I returned by the way I came to Penrith.

Oct. 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 ſur⯑rowed ſides were gilt by the noon-day ſun, whilſt its brow appeared of a ſad purple from the ſhadow of the clouds as they ſailed ſlowly by it. The broad and green valley of Gardies and Lowſide, with a ſwift ſtream glittering among the cottages and meadows lay to the left, and the much finer but narrower valley of St. John's opening into it: Hill-top, the large though low manſion of the Gaſkarths, 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 [355] its cub called Latter-rig; and ſaw from an eminence, at two miles diſtance, the vale of Elyſium in all its verdure; the 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 bluiſh 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) and Caſtle-hill, a loftier and more rugged hill behind me, and drew near the foot of Walla⯑crag, whoſe bare and rocky brow cut perpendicularly down above 400 feet (as I gueſs, though the people called 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 be⯑held; 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 behind mountain, rolled in con⯑fuſion; beneath you and ſtretching far away to the right, the ſhining purity of the lake reflecting rocks, woods, fields, and in⯑verted tops of hills, juſt ruffled by the breeze, enough to ſhew it is alive, with the white buildings of Keſwick, Croſthwaite church, and Skiddaw for a back ground at a diſtance. Behind [356] you the magnificent heights of Walla-crag: here the glaſs play⯑ed its part divinely, the place is called Carf-cloſe-reeds; and I choſe to ſet down theſe barbarous names, that any body may enquire on the place, and eaſily find the particular ſtation that I mean. This ſcene continues to Barrow-gate; and a little farther, paſſing a brook called Barrow-beck, we entered Bor⯑rowdale: the crags named Lawdoor-banks begin now to im⯑pend 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 di⯑rections: 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 cliffs (this lay all in ſhade and darkneſs): on the other hand a rounder broader projecting hill ſhagged with wood, and illuminated by the ſun, which glanced ſideways on the upper part of the cataract. The force of the water wearing a deep channel in the ground, hurries away to join the lake. We deſcended again and paſſed the ſtream 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 perpendicularly, by [357] the rains, hanging looſe and nodding forwards, ſeem juſt ſtart⯑ing from their baſe in ſhivers. The whole way down, and the road on both ſides is ſtrewed with piles of the fragments ſtrange⯑ly thrown acroſs each other, and of a dreadful bulk; the place reminds 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 caravan. I took their counſel here and haſtened on in ſilence.

The hills here are cloathed all up their ſteep ſides with Oak, Aſh, Birch, Holly, &c. 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 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 village 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 ſhewing under its bridge every trout that paſſes. Beſide the village riſes a round eminence of rock covered intirely 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 traces of a fort ſaid to be Ro⯑man. By the ſide of this hill, which almoſt blocks up the way, the 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 [358] loftier to the eye, and of more fantaſtic forms; among them ap⯑pear Eagle's-cliff, Dove's-neſt, Whitedale-pike, &c. celebrated names in the annals of Keſwick. The dale opens about four miles higher till you come to Sea-whaite (where lies the way mounting the hills to the right that leads to the Wadd-mines); all farther acceſs is here barred to 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 I learned that this dreadful road, dividing again, leads one branch to Ravenglas, and the other to Hawkſhead.

For me I went no farther than the farmer'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 carried a cold tongue thither with us. Our farmer was himſelf the man, that laſt year plundered 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 built, the people above ſhout⯑ing and hollowing to fright the old birds, which flew ſcream⯑ing 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 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 always found a mate (pro⯑bably [359] in Ireland) and they breed near the old place. By his deſcription I learn, that this ſpecies is the Erne the Vulture Albicilla of Linnaeus, in his laſt edition, (but in yours Falco Al⯑bicilla) ſo conſult him and Pennant about it.

We returned leiſurely home the way 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 intirely changed; take notice this was the beſt, or perhaps the only day for going up Skiddaw, but I thought it better em⯑ployed; 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 ſunſet, 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 water-falls, not audible in the day-time; I wiſhed for the moon, but ſhe was dark to me and ſilent,

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 ſingle tree had remained, this would have been an unparallel'd 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 [360] 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-fir, &c. all which thrive wonder⯑fully. There is an eaſy aſcent to the top, and the view far pre⯑ferable 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 diminutive^*. While I was here a little ſhower fell, red clouds came marching up the hills from the eaſt, and part of a bright rainbow ſeemed to riſe along the ſide of Caſtle-hill.

From hence I got to the Parſonage a little before ſunſet, and ſaw in my glaſs a picture, that if I could tranſmit to you, and fix it in all the ſoftneſs of its living colours, would fairly ſell for a thouſand pounds. This is the ſweeteſt ſcene I 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 croſſing it went up How-hill; it looks along Baſſinthwait-water, and ſees at the ſame time the courſe of the river, and a part of the upper-lake, with a full view of Skid⯑daw: [361] 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 crumbling 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-hill, the town, the road to Penrith, Skiddaw, and Saddleback. Returning, met a briſk and cold north-eaſtern blaſt 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 diameter, the biggeſt not eight feet high, but moſt of them ſtill erect; they are fifty in number^*. The valley of St. John's appeared in fight, and the ſummits of Catchidecam (called by Camden, Caſticand) and Helvellyn, 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 road in ſome part made and very good, the reſt ſlippery and dangerous cart-road, or narrow rugged lanes, but no precipices; it runs directly along the foot of Skiddaw: oppoſite to Widhope⯑brows, cloathed 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 [362] the foot of it, a few paces from the brink, gently ſloping upward, ſtands Armathwate in a thick grove of Scotch firs, commanding a noble view directly up the lake: at a ſmall di⯑ſtance 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 Devil's chamber-pot, and pronounce the name of Skiddaw-fell, which terminates here, with a ſort of terror and averſion. Armathwate houſe is a modern fabrick, not large, and built of dark-red ſtone, belonging to Mr. Spedding, whoſe grandfather was ſtew⯑ard to old Sir James Lowther, and bought this eſtate of the Himers. The ſky was overcaſt and the wind cool; ſo, after dining at a publick-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 turnpike is finiſhed from Cockermouth hither, five miles, and is carrying on to Penrith: ſeveral 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 I mean to bid farewel to Keſwick.

Botany might be ſtudied here to great advantage at another ſeaſon, becauſe of the great variety of ſoils and elevations, all lying within a ſmall compaſs. I obſerved nothing but ſeveral [363] curious lichens, and plenty of gale or Dutch myrtle perfuming the borders of the lake. This year the Wadd-mine had been opened, which is done once in five years; it is taken out in lumps ſometimes as big as a man's fiſt, and will undergo no preparation by fire, not being fuſible; when it is pure, ſoft, black, and cloſe-grained, it is worth ſometimes thirty ſhillings a pound. There are no charr ever taken in theſe lakes, but plenty in Butter-mere-water, which lies a little way north of Borrowdale, 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. Ex⯑cellent pike and perch, here called Baſs; trout is out of ſeaſon; partridge in great plenty.

Oct. 8. I left Keſwick and took the Ambleſide road in a gloomy morning; and about two miles from the town mounted an eminence called Caſtle-rigg, and the ſun breaking out, diſ⯑covered 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 compleated, yet good country road, through ſound but narrow and ſtony lanes, very ſafe in broad day-light. This is the caſe about Cauſeway⯑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, [364] and ſee not the ſun by two hours in a day ſo long as at Keſ⯑wick. 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 deſcending 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 overſhadow 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 congregation were then iſſuing; ſoon after a beck near Dunmeil-raiſe, when I entered Weſtmoreland a ſecond time; and now began to ſee Holm-crag, diſtinguiſhed from its rugged neighbours, not ſo much by its height as by the ſtrange broken outlines of its top, like ſome gigantick building demoliſhed, and the ſtones that compoſed it flung croſs each other in wild confuſion. Juſt beyond it opens one of the ſweet⯑eſt landſcapes that art ever attempted to imitate. The boſom of the mountains ſpreading here into a broad baſon 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 village with the pariſh church riſing in the midſt of it: hanging incloſures, corn-fields, and meadows green as an emerald, with their trees and hedges, and [365] 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 unſuſpected paradiſe; but all is peace, ruſticity, and happy poverty in its neateſt moſt becoming attire.

The road winds here over Graſmere-hill, whoſe rocks ſoon conceal the water from your ſight; yet it is continued along behind them, and, contracting itſelf to a river, communicates with Ridale-water, another ſmall lake, but of inferior ſize and beauty; it ſeems ſhallow too, for large patches of reeds appear pretty far within 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 fabrick, ſur⯑rounded 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, called 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-cham⯑ber, dark and damp as a cellar, grew delicate, gave up Wy⯑nander-mere in deſpair, and reſolved I would go on to Kendal [366] directly, fourteen miles farther^*. The road in general fine turnpike, but ſome parts (about three miles in all) not made, yet without danger.

For this determination I was unexpectedly well rewarded: for the afternoon was fine, 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 in length, and at moſt a mile over, reſembling the courſe of ſome vaſt and magnificent river; but no flat marſhy grounds, no oſier⯑beds, or patches of ſcrubby plantations on its banks: at the head two vallies 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 [367] into it (but with a gentle declivity) in their own dark and na⯑tural 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 far⯑ther, for the duſk of evening 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 promiſed ſadly, having two wooden galleries, like Scotland, in front of it: it was indeed an old ill-contrived houſe, but kept by civil ſenſible people; ſo I ſtayed two nights with 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). I went up the caſtle-hill; the town conſiſts chiefly 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 handſome houſe of Col. Wilſon's, and [368] adjoining to it the church, a very large gothick fabrick, with a ſquare tower; it has no particular 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 ex⯑tinct. There is an altar-tomb of one of 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-tomb, not belonging to the family: on the ſide of it a feſs dancetty between ten billets deincourt. In the Parr's chapel is a third altar-tomb in the corner, no figure or inſcription, but on the ſide, cut in ſtone, an eſcutcheon of Roos of Kendal, (three water-budgets) quartering Parr (two bars in a bordure engrail⯑ed); 2dly, an eſcutcheon, vaire, a feſs for marmion; 3dly, an eſcutcheon, three chevronels braced, and a chief (which I take for Fitzhugh): at the foot is an eſcutcheon, ſurrounded with the garter, bearing Roos and Parr quarterly, quartering the other two before-mentioned. I have no books to look in, therefore cannot ſay whether this is the Lord Parr of Kendal, Queen Catharine's father, or her brother the Marquis of Northamp⯑ton: perhaps it is a cenotaph for the latter 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 incloſure of the walls remains, with four towers, two ſquare and two round, but their upper part and embattlements are demoliſhed: it is of rough ſtone and cement, without any ornament or arms, round, incloſing 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 [369] of the town and river, with a fertile open valley through which it winds.

After dinner I went along the Milthrop 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 Catholick 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 calmneſs and bright⯑neſs 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 by the light of their own fires: the iron is brought in pigs to Milthrop by ſea from Scotland, &c. and is here beat into bars and plates. Two miles further, at Levens, is the ſeat of Lord Suffolk, where he ſometimes paſſes the ſum⯑mer: it was a favourite place of his late Counteſs; but this I did not ſee.

Oct. 10. I proceeded by Burton to Lancaſter, twenty-two miles; very good country, well incloſed and wooded, with ſome common interſperſed. Paſſed at the foot of Farlton-knot, a high fell four miles north of Lancaſter; on a riſing ground called Boulton (pronounced Bouton) we had a full view of Cartmell⯑ſands, with here and there a paſſenger riding over them (it [370] being low water); the points of Furneſs ſhooting far into the ſea, and lofty mountains, partly covered with clouds, extending north of them. Lancaſter alſo appeared very conſpicuous and fine; for its moſt diſtinguiſhed features, the caſtle and church, mounted on a green eminence, were all that could be ſeen. Woe 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.

In a fine afternoon I aſcended the caſtle-hill; it takes up the higher top of the eminence on which it ſtands, and is irregu⯑larly round, encompaſſed with a deep moat: in front, towards the town, is a magnificent gothic gateway, lofty and huge; the overhanging battlements are ſupported by a triple range of corbels, the intervals pierced through, and ſhewing the day from above. On its top riſe light watch-towers of ſmall height. It opens below with a grand pointed arch; over this is a wrought tabernacle, doubtleſs once containing its founder's figure; on one ſide a ſhield of France ſemy-quartered with England; on the other the ſame, with a label, ermine, for John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaſter. This opens to a court within, which I did not much care to enter, being the county-gaol, and full of pri⯑ſoners, both criminals and debtors. From this gateway the walls continue and join it to a vaſt ſquare tower of great height, the lower part at leaſt of remote antiquity; for it has ſmall round-headed lights with plain ſhort pillars on each ſide of them: there is a third tower, alſo ſquare and of leſs dimenſions. This is all the caſtle. Near it, and but little lower, ſtands the church, a large and plain gothic fabrick; the high ſquare tower [371] at the weſt-end has been rebuilt of late years, but nearly in the ſame ſtyle: there are no ornaments of arms, &c. any where to be ſeen; within, it is lightſome and ſpacious, but not one mo⯑nument 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 filled the river) and beſides the greateſt part of Furneſs, I could diſtinguiſh Peel-caſtle on the iſle of Fowdrey, which lies off its ſouthern extremity. The town is built on the ſlope, and at the foot of the caſtle-hill, more than twice the bigneſs of Aukland, with many neat build⯑ings of white ſtone, but a little diſorderly in their poſition, and ‘"ad libitum"’, like Kendal: many alſo extend 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 over the Lune, that runs, when the tide is out, in two ſtreams divided by a bed of gravel, 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 diſ⯑tance to ſouth-weſt.

Oct. 11. I croſſed the river and walked over a peninſula, three miles, to the village of Pooton, which ſtands on the beach. An old fiſherman mending his nets (while I enquired about the danger of paſſing thoſe ſands) told me, in his dialect, a moving ſtory; how a brother of the trade, a Cockler, as he ſtyled him, driving a little cart with two daughters (women grown) in it, and his wife on horſeback following, ſet out one day to paſs the ſeven-mile ſands, as they had frequently been uſed to do; (for nobody in the village knew them better than the old man [372] did) when they were about half-way over, a thick fog roſe, and as they advanced they found the water much deeper than they expected: the old man was puzzled; he ſtopped, and ſaid he would go a little way to find ſome mark he was acquainted with; they ſtaid a while 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; ſhe wandered about forlorn and amazed; ſhe would not quit her horſe and get into the cart with them: they determi⯑ned, after much time waſted, to turn back, and give themſelves up to the guidance of their horſes. The old woman was ſoon waſhed off, and periſhed; the poor girls clung cloſe to their cart, and the horſe, ſometimes wading and ſometimes ſwim⯑ming, brought them back to land alive, but ſenſeleſs with terror and diſtreſs, and unable for many days to give any ac⯑count of themſelves. The bodies of their parents were found next ebb; that of the father a very few paces diſtant 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 incloſed country, di⯑verſified with frequent villages and churches, very unequal ground; and on the left the river Lune winding in a deep val⯑ley, its hanging banks cloathed with fine woods, thro' which you catch long reaches of the water, as the road winds about at a conſiderable height above it. In the moſt pictureſque part of the way, I paſſed the park belonging to the Hon. Mr. Clif⯑ford, [373] a Catholick. The grounds between him and the river are indeed charming^*; the houſe is 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 Gentleman's houſe, and behind it riſes the ancient Keep, built by Edward Stanley, Lord Monteagle. He died about 1529, in King Henry the Eighth's time. It is now only a ſhell, the rafters are laid within it as for flooring. I went up a winding ſtone-ſtair-caſe in one corner to the leads, and at the angle is a ſingle hexagon 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 Wemys, brother to the Lord Elcho, and grandſon to Col. Charteris, whoſe name he bears.

From the leads of the tower there is a fine view of the coun⯑try round, and much wood near the caſtle. Ingleborough, which I had ſeen before diſtinctly at Lancaſter to north-eaſt, [374] was now 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 be⯑gun gradually to mount towards the Apennine, the trees grow⯑ing leſs and thinner of leaves, till we came to Ingleton, eigh⯑teen miles; it is a pretty village, 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 handſome arches. The nipping air, tho' the afternoon was growing very 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 incloſed 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 chearful valley (though thin of trees) to Giggleſwick, a village with a ſmall piece of 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 Ribble 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 porticos 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 directly over a fell, and as the wea⯑ther 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 [375] thirteen miles, half of it ſuch a road! but I got ſafe over it, ſo there's an end, and came to Malham, (pronounced Maum) a village in the boſom of the mountains, ſeated in a wild and dreary valley. From thence I 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 I would not have ſtood ſtock-ſtill

As I advanced, the crags ſeemed to cloſe in, but diſcovered a narrow entrance turning to the left between them: I 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 perpendicular, with ſtub⯑bed 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 horror of the place. From its very baſe it begins to ſlope forwards over you in one block or ſolid maſs without any crevice in its ſurface, and overſhadows half the area below with its dreadful canopy; when I ſtood at (I 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 threaten viſibly ſome idle ſpectator with inſtant 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 [376] can ſtir. The gloomy uncomfortable 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 alehouſe where I dined in Malham, Vivares, the landſcape-painter, had lodged for a week or more; Smith and Bellers had alſo been there, and two prints of Gordale have been engraved by them.

Oct. 14. Leaving my comfortable inn, to which I had re⯑turned 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, Penigent, and Pendle; the firſt is eſteemed the higheſt, and their features not to be deſcribed, but by the pencil.^*

[377] Craven, after all, is an unpleaſing country when ſeen from a height; its valleys are chiefly wide, and either marſhy or in⯑cloſed 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 Gar⯑grave, 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 buildings^*, 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 [378] with the ſleet, and a fooliſh diſpute about chaiſes, that delayed me, I did not ſee the inſide 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 road goes on a level along the brow of this high hill over Rumbald-moor, till it gently deſcends into Wharldale, ſo they call the vale of the Wharf, and a beautiful vale it is, well-wooded, well-culti⯑vated, well-inhabited, but with high crags at a diſtance, that border the green country on either hand; thro' 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 channel without water, I cannot tell you. I paſſed through Long⯑Addingham, Ilkeley (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 Mid⯑dleton-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; Farnley (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 ruſ⯑tic buildings, and a bridge over the Wharf; I went into its ſpacious Gothic church, which has been new-roofed, with a flat ſtucco-ceiling; in a corner of it is the monument of Tho⯑mas Lord Fairfax, and Helen Aſke, his Lady, deſcended from the Cliffords and Latimers, as her epitaph ſays; the figures, not [379] ill-cut (particularly his in armour, but bare-headed) lie on the tomb. I take them to be the parents of the famous Sir Tho⯑mas Fairfax.

LETTER V.

Mr. GRAY to Dr. WHARTON.

I Have utterly forgot where my Journal left off, but I 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 Kirſtall abbey, three miles from Leeds ****^†. Kirſtall 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, the roof excepted, ſeated in a delicious quiet valley, on the banks of the river Aire, and preſerved with religious reve⯑rence by the Duke of Montagu. Adjoining to the church, be⯑tween that and the river, are variety of chapels and remnants of the abbey, ſhattered by the encroachments of the ivy, and ſur⯑rounded by many a ſturdy tree, whoſe twiſted roots break thro' the fret of the vaulting, and hang ſtreaming from the roofs. The gloom of theſe antient 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 [380] 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 Maſon's (tho' 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 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 receive us like Princes in grain.

LETTER VI.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. NICHOLLS.^*

I Received your letter at Southampton; and as I would wiſh to treat every body, according to their own rule and mea⯑ſure of good breeding, 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 [381] not take this as an excuſe, accept it at leaſt as a well-turned period, which is always my principal concern.

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 October and November; no ſnow has been ſeen to lie there for theſe thirty years paſt; the myrtles grow in the ground againſt the houſes, and Guernſey lilies bloom in every window: the town, clean and well built, ſurrounded by its old ſtone walls, with their towers and gate⯑ways, ſtands at the point of a peninſula, and opens full ſouth to an arm of the ſea, which, 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 grounds, cloathed with thick wood, and directly croſs its mouth riſe the high lands of the Iſle of Wight at diſtance, but diſtinct⯑ly ſeen. In the boſom of the woods (concealed from prophane eyes) lie hid the ruins of Nettely 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 meadow, under the ſhade of thoſe old trees that bend into a half circle about it, he is walking ſlowly (good man!) and bidding his beads for the ſouls of his benefactors, interred in that venerable pile that lies beneath him. Beyond it (the meadow ſtill deſcending) nods a thicket of oaks that maſk the building, and have exclu⯑ded 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 [382] him that had thrown that diſtraction in his way? I ſhould tell you that the ferryman who rowed me, a luſty young fellow, 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 went to Saliſbury, Wilton, and Stonhenge: But of theſe things I 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 gradually to right and left, rolling over one another in great ſmoky wreathes, and the tide (as it flowed gently in upon the ſands) firſt whitening, then ſlightly tinged with gold and blue; and all at once a little line of inſuf⯑ferable brightneſs that (before I can write theſe five 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 endure. I wonder whether any body ever ſaw it before? I hardly believe it.

LETTER VII.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. BEATTIE.

I Rejoice to hear that you are reſtored to better ſtate of health, to your books, and to your muſe once again. That forced diſſipation and exerciſe we are obliged to fly to as a remedy, when this frail machine goes wrong, is often almoſt as bad as the diſtemper we would cure; yet I too have been conſtrained of late to purſue a like regimen, on account of certain pains in the head, (a ſenſation unknown to me before) and of great de⯑jection of ſpirits. This, Sir, is the only excuſe I have to make you for my long ſilence, and not (as perhaps you may have figured to yourſelf) any ſecret reluctance I had to tell you my mind concerning the ſpecimen you ſo kindly ſent me of your new Poem^*: On the contrary, if I had ſeen any thing of im⯑portance to diſapprove, I ſhould have haſtened to inform you, and never doubted of being forgiven. The truth is, I greatly like all I have ſeen, and wiſh to ſee more. The deſign is ſimple, and pregnant with poetical ideas of various kinds, yet ſeems ſomehow imperfect at the end. Why may not young Edwin, when neceſſity has driven him to take up the harp, and aſſume the profeſſion of a Minſtrel, do ſome great and ſingular ſervice to his country? (what ſervice I muſt leave to your invention) ſuch as no General, no Stateſman, no Moraliſt could do with⯑out [384] the aid of muſic, inſpiration, and poetry. This will not appear an improbability in thoſe early times, and in a character 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 ſhew their uſe, and make the beſt panegyrick of our favourite and celeſ⯑tial ſcience. And laſtly, (what weighs moſt with me) it will throw more of action, pathos, and intereſt into your deſign, which already abounds in reflection and ſentiment. As to de⯑ſcription, 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 coun⯑try, the only one that can furniſh truly pictureſque ſcenery. Some trifles in the language or verſification you will permit me to remark.^***

I will not enter at preſent into the merits of your Eſſay on Truth, becauſe I have not yet given it all the attention it deſerves, tho' I have read it thro' with pleaſure; beſides, I am partial; for I have always thought David Hume a pernicious writer, and be⯑lieve he has done as much miſchief here as he has in his own country. A turbid and ſhallow ſtream often appears to our apprehenſions very deep. A profeſſed ſceptic 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 ſtudy at all. Is not that naivetè and good humour, which his ad⯑mirers celebrate in him, owing to this, that he has continued [385] all his days an infant, but one that unhappily has been taught to read and write? 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.^†

LETTER VIII.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. HOW.^*

I Ought long ſince to have made you my acknowledgements for the obliging teſtimonies 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 illneſs from doing any of my duties. I have read them more than once, with increaſing ſatisfaction; and ſhould wiſh mankind had eyes to deſcry the genuine ſources of their own pleaſures, and judgment to know the extent that nature has preſcribed to them: If this were the caſe, it would be their intereſt to appoint Count Algarotti their ‘"Arbiter Elegantiarum."’ He is highly civil to our nation; but there is one point in which he does not do us juſtice; I am the more ſolicitous about it, becauſe it relates to the only taſte we can call our own; the only proof of our original talent in matter of pleaſure, I mean our ſkill in gardening, or rather laying out grounds: and this is no ſmall honour to us, ſince neither Italy [387] nor France have ever had the leaſt notion of it, nor yet do at all comprehend it when they ſee it. That the Chineſe have this beautiful art in high perfection, ſeems very probable from the Jeſuits' Letters, and more from Chambers's little diſcourſe, pub⯑liſhed ſome years ago^*; but it is very certain we copied no⯑thing from them, nor had any thing but nature for our model. It is not forty years ſince the art was born among us^†; and it is ſure that there was nothing in Europe like it; and as ſure, we then had no information on this head from China at all.^‡

I ſhall rejoice to ſee you in England, and talk over theſe and many other matters with you at leiſure. Do not deſpair of your health, becauſe you have not found all the effects you had promiſed yourſelf from a finer climate. I have known people who have experienced the ſame thing, and yet, at their return, have loſt all their complaints as by miracle.

P.S. I have anſwered Count Algarotti's letter, and his to Mr. Maſon I conveyed to him; but whether he has received his books, I have not yet heard.

LETTER IX.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. HOW.

I Was willing to go through the eight volumes of Count Al⯑garotti's works, which you lately preſented to the library of this College, before I returned you an anſwer: this muſt be my excuſe to you for my ſilence. Firſt I 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 publiſhers. This is the only rea⯑ſon, I think, that could make an edition in England neceſſary; but, I doubt, you would not find the matter much mended here; our preſſes, as they improve in beauty, declining daily in accuracy; beſides, you would find the expence very conſiderable, and the ſale in no proportion to it, as, in reality, it is but few people in England that read currently and with pleaſure the Italian tongue, and the fine old editions of their capital writers are ſold at London for a lower price than they bear in Italy. An Engliſh tranſlation I can by no means adviſe; the juſtneſs of thought and good ſenſe might remain, but the graces of elocu⯑tion (which make a great part of Algarotti's merit) would be entirely loſt, and that merely from the very different genius and complexion of the two languages.

Doubtleſs there can be no impropriety in your making the ſame preſent to the Univerſity that you have done to your own [390] College. You need not at all to fear for the reputation of your friend, he has merit enough to recommend him in any country. A tincture of various ſorts of knowledge, an acquaintance with all the beautiful arts, an eaſy command, a preciſion, warmth, and richneſs of expreſſion, and a judgment that is rarely miſta⯑ken on any ſubject to which he applies it. I had read the Con⯑greſſo di Citéra before, and was exceſſively pleaſed with it, in ſpite of prejudice; for I am naturally no friend to allegory, nor to poetical proſe. ‘"The Giudicio d'Amore"’ is an addition rather inferior to it. What gives me the leaſt pleaſure of any of his writings is the Newtonianiſm; it is ſo direct an imitation of Fontenelle, a writer not eaſy to imitate, and leaſt of all in the Italian tongue, whoſe character and graces are of a higher ſtyle, and never adapt themſelves eaſily to the elegant badinage and legereté of converſation that ſit ſo well on the French. The eſſays and letters (many of them entirely new to me) on the Arts, are curious and entertaining: Thoſe on other ſubjects, (even where the thoughts are not new, but borrowed from his various reading and converſation) often better put, and better expreſſed than in the originals. I rejoice when I ſee Machiavel defended or illuſtrated, who to me appears one of the wiſeſt men that any nation in any age has produced. Moſt of the other diſcourſes, military or political, are well worth reading, though that on Kouli-Khan was a mere jeu d'eſprit, a ſort of hiſtorical exerciſe. The letters from Ruſſia I had read before with pleaſure, particularly the narrative of Munick and Laſcy's campaigns. The detached thoughts are often new and juſt; but there ſhould have been a reviſal of them, as they are frequently to be found in his letters repeated in the very ſame words. Some too of the familiar letters might have been ſpared. [391] The verſes are not equal to the proſe, but they are above medio⯑crity.

LETTER X.^*

Mr. GRAY to Mr. NICHOLLS.

IT is long ſince that I heard you were gone in haſte into York⯑ſhire on account of your mother's illneſs, and the ſame letter informed 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 never can 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 I never diſcovered this (with full evidence and conviction I mean) till it was too late. It is thirteen years ago, and ſeems but as yeſterday, and every day I live it ſinks deeper into my heart^†. Many a corollary could I draw from this axiom for your uſe, (not for my own) but I will leave you the merit of doing it for yourſelf. Pray tell me how your health is: I conclude it perfect, as I hear [392] you offered yourſelf as a guide to Mr. Palgrave into the Sierra⯑Morena of Yorkſhire. For me, I paſſed the end of May and all June in Kent, not diſagreeably. In the weſt part of it, from every eminence, the eye catches ſome long reach of the Thames or Medway, with all their ſhipping: in the eaſt the ſea breaks in upon you, and mixes its white tranſient ſails and glittering blue expanſe with the deeper and brighter greens of the woods and corn. This ſentence is ſo fine I am quite aſhamed; but no matter! You muſt tranſlate it into proſe. Palgrave, if he heard it, would cover his face with his pudding ſleeve. I do not tell you of the great and ſmall beaſts, and creeping things innume⯑rable, that I met with, becauſe you do not ſuſpect that this world is inhabited by any thing but men, and women, and clergy, and ſuch two-legged cattle. Now I am here again very diſcon⯑ſolate, and all alone, for Mr. Brown is gone, and the cares of this world are coming thick upon me: you, I hope, are better off, riding and walking in the woods of Studley, &c. &c. I muſt not wiſh for you here; beſides I am going to Town at Michaelmas, by no means for amuſement.

LETTER XI.

Mr. GRAY to Mr. NICHOLLS.

I Rejoice you have met with Froiſſart, he is the Herodotus of a barbarous age; had he but had the luck of writing in as good a language, he might have been immortal! His locomo⯑tive diſpoſition (for then there was no other way of learning [393] things); his ſimple curioſity, his religious credulity were much like thoſe of the old Grecian^*. When you have tant chevauché, as to get to the end of him, there is Monſtrelet waits to take you up, and will ſet you down at Philip de Comines; but pre⯑vious to all theſe, you ſhould have read Villehardouin and Join⯑ville. I do not think myſelf bound to defend the character of even the beſt of Kings^†: 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, Areopagitic, 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 another: 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.

I would by all means wiſh you to comply with your friend's requeſt, and write the letter he deſires. I truſt to the cauſe and to the warmth of your own kindneſs for inſpiration. Write eloquently, that is from your heart, in ſuch expreſſions as that [394] will furniſh^*. Men ſometimes catch that feeling from a ſtranger which ſhould have originally ſprung from their own heart.

LETTER XII.

Mr. GRAY to Dr. WHARTON.

MY laſt ſummer's tour was through Worceſterſhire, Glou⯑ceſterſhire, Monmouthſhire, Herefordſhire, and Shrop⯑ſhire, five of the moſt beautiful counties in the kingdom. The very principal light and capital feature of my journey was the river Wye, which I deſcended 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 Persfield, 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 Aber⯑gavenny, [395] Ragland, and Chepſtow caſtles; Ludlow, Malvern⯑hills, Hampton-Court, near Lemſter; the Leaſows, 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 recal and fix the fleeting images of theſe things.

I have had a cough upon me theſe three months, which is incurable. The approaching ſummer I have ſometimes had thoughts of ſpending on the Continent; but I have now drop⯑ped 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 I hardly knew what (mechanical) low ſpirits were, but now I even tremble at an eaſt wind.