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 understands 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 therefore 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 fabulous writer, but because they took them all for true and authentic 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 the Second's master of the ceremonies, and the man who informed Froissard of all he had seen in St. Patrick's purgatory?

The town are reading the King of Prussia's poetry (Le Philosophe 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 freethinkers, tossed up in Ger

man-French rhyme. Tristram Shandy is still, a greater object of admiration, the man as well as the book; one is invited to dinner, where he dines, a fortnight before: 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 tottering on the verge of laughter, and ready to throw his periwig in the face of the audience.

XXXVII. MR. GRAY TO MR. STONHEWER.

London, June 29, 1760.

THOUGH you have had but a melancholy employment, it is worthy of envy, and (I hope) will have all the success it deserves. It was the best and most natural method of cure, and such as could not have been 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

* Our Author was of opinion, that it was the business of the preacher rather to persuade by the power of eloquence to the practice of known duties, than to reason with the art of logic on points of controverted doctrine: hence, therefore, he thought that sometimes imagination might not be out of its place in a sermon. But let him speak for himself in an extract from one of his letters to me in the following year: "Your quotation from Jeremy Taylor is a fine one; I have long thought of reading him; for I am persuaded that chopping logic in the pulpit, as our divines have done ever since the Revolution, is not the thing; but that imagination and warmth of expression, are in their place there, as much as on the stage; moderated, however, and chastised a little by the purity and severity of religion."

+ Mr. Stonhewer was now at Houghton-le-Spring, in the Bishopric of Durham, attending on his sick father, rector of that parish.

Two subsequent volumes of his " Melanges de Literature et Philosophie."

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 specimen inferior in kind (because it is merely description), but yet 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, Ghosts ride on the tempest to-night:

Sweet is their voice between the gusts of wind;
Their songs are of other worlds!

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

*Of the fragments of Erse poetry, many of which Mr. Gray saw in manuscript before they were published. In a letter to Dr. Wharton, written in the following month, he thus expresses himself on the same subject: If you have seen Mr. Stonhewer, he has probably told you of my old Scotch (or rather Irish) poetry; I am gone mad about them; they are said to be translations (literal and in prose) from the Erse tongue, dope by one Macpherson, a young clergyman in the Highlands: he means to publish a collection he has of these specimens of antiquity, if it be antiquity; but what perplexes me is, I cannot come to any certainty on that head. I was so struck with their beauty, that I writ into Scotland to make a thousand inquiries; the letters I have in return, are ill wrote, ill reasoned, unsatisfactory, calculated (one would imagine) to deceive, and yet not cunning enough to do it cleverly. In short, the whole external evidence would make one believe these fragments counterfeit; but the internal is so strong on the other side, that I am resolved to believe them genuine, spite of the devil and the kirk: it is impossible to conceive that they were written by the same man that writes me these letters; on the other hand, it is almost as hard to suppose (if they are original) that he should be able to translate them so admirably. In short, this man is the very dæmon of poetry, or he has lighted on a treasure hid for ages. The Welch poets are also coming to light; I have seen a discourse in manuscript about them, by one Mr. Evans, a clergyman, with specimens of their writing; this is in Latin; and though it does not approach the other, there are fine scraps among it."

the swell of an Æolian 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 another different turn, and of more horror. I cannot repeat the lines: it is in his Winter. There is another very fine picture in one of them. It describes the breaking of the clouds after the storm, before it is settled into a calm, and when the moon is seen by short intervals. The waves are tumbling on the lake,

And lash the rocky sides.

The boat is brim-full in the cove,

The oars on the rocking tide.

Sad sits a maid beneath a cliff,

And eyes the rolling stream:

Her lover promised to come,

She saw his boat (when it was evening) on the lake;

Are these his groans in the gale?

Is this his broken boat on the shore ?*

XXXVIII. MR. GRAY TO DR. CLARKE.T

Pembroke-hall, Aug. 12, 1760.

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, racketting about from morning to night, are occupations, I find, that

The whole of this descriptive piece has been since published in a note to a poem, entitled CROMA, (see Ossian's Poems, vol. I. p. 350, 8vo.) It is somewhat remarkable that the manuscript, in the translator's own hand, which I have in my possession, varies considerably from the printed copy. Some images are omitted, and others added. I will mention one which is not in the manuscript, the spirit of the mountain shrieks. In the tragedy of Douglas, published at least three years before, I always admired this fine line, the angry spirit of the water shriek'd. Quere, Did Mr. Home take this sublime image from Ossian, or has the translator of Ossian since borrowed it from Mr. Home?

+ Physician at Epsom. With this gentleman Mr. Gray commenced an early acquaintance at college.

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 nobody 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. 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 said 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.

XXXIX.

MR. GRAY TO MR. MASON.

I HAVE sent Museus scratched here and there. satire,§ written against no

* Near Henley.

Cambridge, Aug. 20, 1760. back as you desired me, And with it also a bloody less persons than you and I

+ Vide Letter XI. of this Section.

I had desired Mr. Gray to revise my Monody on Mr. Pope's Death, in order that I might correct it for the edition I was then preparing of my Poems.

§ The parodies in question, entitled Odes to Obscurity and Oblivion, were writ