"Lyons, Oct. 25. N. 8. 1739.

In my last I gave you the particulars of out 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 dicipline, always as strictly observed as in time of war, makes the little republic appear a match for a much greater 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 separates it from the king of Sardinia's dominjons; on the other side of it lies a country naturally, indeed, fine and fertile; but you meet with nothing in it but meagre, ragged bare-footed peasants, with their children, in extreme misery and nastiness; and even of those 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 beating, 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 dominions of Geneva extend, that is, about two leagues and a half on each side, and landed at ṣeveral of the little houses of pleasure, that the inhabitants have built all about it, who received us with much politeness. The same night we ate a 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 nothing extraordinary, and they assured us

7

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, as we were told. The road we returned through, was not the same we came by, we crossed the Rhone at Seyssel, and passed for three days among the mountains of Bugue, without meeting 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 deserves 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 beaver, fur-boots, and bear skins. When we arrive at Turin, we shall rest after the fatigues of the journey."

Mr. Gray's letters contain a very pleasing account of many parts of their journey; but unfortunately, at Florence, Mr. Horace Walpole and he quarrelled and parted. Mr. Mason, to whom we are chiefly indebted for the materials of our author's life, observes, that he was enjoined by Mr. Walpole to charge himself with the chief blame in their quarrel; candidly confessing, that · more attention and complaisance, more deference to a warm friendship, to superior judgment and prudence, might have prevented a rupture that gave much uneasiness to them both, and a lasting concern to the survivor; though in the year 1744, a reconciliation was effected between them, by a lady who wished well to both parties.

After their separation, Mr. Gray continued his journey, in a manner suitable to his own limited circumstances, with only an oc

VOL. IV.

casional servant. He returned to England in September, 1741, and in about two months after buried his father; who had, by an injudicious waste of money upon a new house, so much lessened his fortune, that Gray thought his circumstances too narrow to enable him in a proper manner to prosecute the study of the law. He therefore retired to Cambridge, where he soon after became bachelor of civil law; and where, as Dr. Johnson expresses it, "without liking the place, or its inhabitants, or pretending to like them, he passed, except a short residence at London, the rest of his life.”

.

In 1742, Gray wrote his "Ode to Spring," his " Prospect of Eton College," and his "Ode to Adversity." He began likewise a Latin poem, "De Principiis Cogitandi." He wrote,/ however, very little, though he applied himself very closely to his studies; but in 1750, he published his celebrated, "Elegy; written in a Country Church Yard;" which first made him known to the public. An invitation which he received soon after from lady Cobham, gave rise to the following singular composition, to which he gave the title of

A LONG STORY.

IN Britain's isle, no matter where,
An ancient pile of building stands :
The Huntingdons and Hattons there
Employ'd the power of fairy hands

To raise the cieling's fretted heighth,
Each pannel in atchievements cloathing,
Rich windows that exclude the light,
And passages that lead to nothing.

Full oft within the spacious walls,

When he had fifty winters o'er him, kas vidus”.
My grave Lord-keeper led the brawls;

The seal and maees danced before him

His bushy beard, and shoe-strings green,
His high-crown'd hat; and sattin doublet,
Mov'd the stout heart of England's queen,
Though Pope and Spaniard could not trouble it.

What in the very first beginning!

Shame of the versifying tribe!

A house there is (and that's enough),
From whence one fatal morning issues
A brace of warriors, not in buff,
But rustling in their silks and tissues.

The first came cap-a-pee from France,
Her conquering destiny fulfilling,
Whom meaner beauties eye askance,
And vainly ape her art of killing.

The other Amazon kind heaven
Had arm'd with spirit, wit and satire :
But Cobham had the polish given,
And tipp'd her arrows with good-nature,
To celebrate her eyes, her air-
Coarse panegyrics would but teaze her.
Melissa is her Nowme de Guerre.

Alas! who would not wish to please her!
With bonnet blue and capuchine,
And aprons long, they hid their armour,
And veil'd their weapons bright and keen,
In pity to the country farmer,

Fame, in the shape of Mr. P-t,
(By this time all the parish knew it)
Had told, that thereabouts there lurk❜d,
A wicked imp they called a Poet:

Who prowl'd the country far and near,
Bewitch'd the children of the peasants,
Dried up the cows, and lam'd the deer,
And suck'd the eggs, and kill'd the pheasants,

My Lady heard their joint petition,

Swore by her coronet and ermine,
She'd issue out her high commission

To rid the manor of such vermin.

The Heroines undertook the task,

Thro' lanes unknown, o'er stiles they ventur'd;
Rapp'd at the door, nor stay'd to ask,
But bounce into the parlour enter'd
The trembling family they daunt ;

They flirt, they sing, they laugh, they tattle,
Rummage his mother, pinch his aunt,

And up stairs in a whirlwind rattle.

Each hole and cupboard they explore,

Each creek and cranny of his chamber,

Run hurry skurry round the floor,
And o'er the bed and tester clamber
Into the draws and china pry,
Papers and books, a huge imbroglio!
Under a tea-cup he might lie,

Or creas'd, like dogs-ears, in a folio.
9 On their first marching of the troops.
The Muses, hopeless of his pardon,
Convey'd him underneath their hoops
To a small closet in the garden.

So Rumour says: (who will, believe,)
But that they left the door a-jar,
Where, safe and laughing in his sleeve,
He heard the distant din of war.

Short was his joy. He little knew
The power of magic was no fable;
Out of the window, whisk, they flew,
But left a spell upon the table.

The words too eager to unriddle,
The poet felt a strange disorder:
Transparent bird-lime form'd the middle,
And chains invisible the border.

So cunning was the Apparatus,
The powerful pot-hooks did so move him.
That, will he, nill he, to the great-house
He went, as if the Devil drove him.

Yet on his way (no sign of grace,
For folks in fear are apt to pray,)
To Phœbus he preferr'd his case;

And begg'd his aid that dreadful day.

The Godhead would have back'd his quarrel;

But with a blush, on recollection,

Own'd, that his quiver and his laurel,

"Gainst four such eyes were no protection.

The court was sat, the culprit there, Forth from their gloomy mansions creeping,

The Lady Janes and Joans repair,

And from the gallery stand peeping:

Such as in silence of the night
Come (sweep) along some winding entry,

(Styack has often seen the sight)

Or at the chapel door stand centry,

In peaked hoods and mantles tarnished,

Sour visages, enough to scare ye,