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THE LIFE OF

THOMAS GRAY

[A. D. 1716, to 1771.]

THIS eminent poet was born in Cornhill, London, on the 26th of December, 1716. His grandfather was a considerable merchant ; but his father, Mr. Philip Gray, though he also followed business, is stated to have been of an indolent and reserved temper, so that he rather diminished than increased his paternal fortune. Young Gray received his grammatical education at Eton, under Mr. Antrobus, his mother's brother; and when he left school, entered a pensioner at Peter-house, in Cambridge. While he was at Eton, he contracted a particular intimacy with Mr. Horace Walpole and Mr. Richard West, whose father was lord-chancellor of Ireland. When he had been at Cambridge about five years, where he took no degree, because he intended to profess the common law, Mr. Horace Walpole invited him to travel with him as his companion. He accepted his invitation; and they arrived at Amiens on the 1st of April, 1739; from whence Mr. Gray wrote the following letter to his mother:

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"Amiens, April 1, N. S. 1739.

"As we made but a very short journey to-day, and came to our inn early, I sit down to give you some account of our expedition. On the 29th (according to the style here) we left Dover at twelve at noon, and with a 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 got into the harbour, where we took the boat, and soon landed. Calais is an exceeding old, but very pretty town; and we hardly saw any thing there that was not 30 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 con

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vents of the Capuchins, and the Nuns of St. Dominic; with these fast 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 afternoon, we took a post-chaise (it still snowing very hard) for Boulogne, which was only eighteen miles further. This chaise is a strange sort of conveyance of much greater use than beauty, resembling an illshaped 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 side of which the postillion rides, and drives too; this vechile will, upon occasion, go four-score miles a day; but Mr. Walpole being in no hurry, chooses to make easy journies 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 travelling 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, with more English in it than French. On Tuesday we were to go to Abbeville, seventeen leagues, or fifty-one short English miles; but by the way we dined at Montreuil, much to our hearts' content, on stinking muttoncutlers, addled eggs, and ditch water. Madame the hostess made her appearance in long lappets of bone-lace, and a sack of linseywoolsey. We supped and lodged pretty well at Abbèville, 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 Canterbury 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 beautiful painted windows, and a vast number of chapels dressed out

in all their finery of altar-pieces, embroidery, gilding and mar ble. Over the high altar are preserved, in a very large-wrought shine of massy gold, the relics of St. Fernim, 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 diver sified with villages, fields well-cultivated, and little rivers. every hillock is a wind-mill, a crucifix, or a virgin Mary dressed in flowers and a sarsenet robe; one sees not many people or carrages on the road; now and then indeed you may meet a strolling friar, a countryman with his great muff, or a woman riding a stride on a little ass, with short petticoats, and a great head-dress of blue wool."

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A few days after he wrote the following letter from Paris to his friend Mr. West:

"Paris, April 12, 1739.

Enfin donc me voici à Paris. Mr. Walpole is gone 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 cocks 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 imposible 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 disagreeable 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 de perdrix; passed through the park of Chantilly by the duke. of Bourbon's palace, which we only beheld as we passed; broke down at Lusarche; stopt at St. Dennis, saw all the beautiful mo

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numents 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 indeed do the justice to esteem the glory of their collection, was a vase of an entire onyx, measuring at least five inches over, three deep, and of great thickness. It is at least two thousand years old, the beauty of the stone and sculpture, upon it (representing the mysteries of Bacchus) beyond expression admirable; we have dreamed of it ever since. The jolly old Benedictine, that shewed us the treasures, had in his youth been ten years a soldihe laughed at all the relics, was very full of stories, and migh ty obliging. On Saturday evening we got to Paris, and were driven through the streets a long while before 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 Holdernesse's; there was the Abbé Prevôt author of the Cleveland, and several other pieces much esteemed the rest were English. At night he went to the Pandore; a spectacle 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 salle 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. gi Ovid's Metamorphoses, &c. and with great address converted into a French piece of gallantry. For instance, that which I saw, called the Ballet de la Paix, had its first act built upon the story of Nireus. Homer having said he was the handsom est 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;

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only, to one's great joy, they are every now and then interrupted by a dance, or (to one's great sorrow) by a chorus that borders the stage from one end to the other, and screams past all power of simile to represent. The second act was Baucis and Philemon. Baucis is a beautiful young shepherdess, and Philemon 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 conceive; we had enough to do to express it by screaming an hour louder than the whole. dramatis persona. We have also seen twice the Comedie Francaise; first, the Mahomet, second, a tragedy that has had a great run of late; and the thing itself does not want its beauties, but the actors are byond measure delightful. Mademoiselle Gauffin (M. Voltaire's Zara) has, with a charming (though little) person the most pathetic tone of voice, the finest expression in her face, and most proper action imaginable. There is also a Dufrêne, who did the chief character, a handsome man and a prodigious fine actor. The second we saw was the Philosophe Mariè, 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 Wilkes, 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."

In the October following, Mr. Gray wrote the following let. ter to his father, which was dated from Lyons;

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