says. The figures not ill cut, particularly his in armour, but bareheaded, lie on the tomb. I take them for the parents of the famous Sir Thomas Fairfax.*

LETTER X.

MR. GRAY TO MR. BONSTETTEN.

Cambridge, 1770, April 12th.

NEVER did I feel, my dear Bonstetten+, to what a tedious length the few short moments of our life may be extended by impatience and expectation, till you had left me:

* Here the manuscript of Dr. Wharton terminates; and the writing of Gray again begins. Ed.

+ These three letters are taken from Miss Plumtree's translation of Matthison's Letters, p. 533. Bonstetten, in his youth, resided some time at Cambridge, during which he enjoyed an almost daily intercourse with Gray, who attached himself to him with great ardour, and became soon his warmest and most confidential friend. Charles Von Bonstetten was Baillie of Nion, in the canton of Berne, author of letters on the Pastoral Parts of Switzerland, &c. and some other works. Mr. Mason (it appears) applied to him for leave to publish these letters, which he refused; afterwards permitting them to be printed by his friend Mathison, in the notes to some stanzas on the Leman Lake, in which Gray is introduced;

"Where Agathon, the Muses', Graces' pride,

"The palace's delight, the peasant's stay;

"E'en hence to distant Jura's shaggy side,

"In warmest friendship clasped me as his Gray."-Ed.

nor ever knew before with so strong a conviction how much this frail body sympathizes with the inquietude of the mind. I am grown old in the compass of less than three weeks, like the Sultan in the Turkish tales, that did but plunge his head into a vessel of water, and take it out again, as the standers by affirmed, at the command of a Dervise, and found he had passed many years in captivity and begot a large family of children. The strength and spirits that now enable me to write to you, are only owing to your last letter, a temporary gleam of sunshine. Heaven knows when it may shine again. I did not conceive till now, I own, what it was to lose you, nor felt the solitude and insipidity of my own condition before I possessed the happiness of your friendship. I must cite another Greek writer to you, because it is much to my purpose. He is describing the character of a genius truly inclined to philosophy. "It includes," he 66 says, qualifications rarely united in one single "mind, quickness of apprehension and a retentive memory, vivacity and application, gentleness and magnanimity; to "these he adds an invincible love of truth, and consequently of probity and justice. Such a soul," continues he, "will be "little inclined to sensual pleasures, and consequently temperate, "a stranger to illiberality and avarice; being accustomed to the "most extensive views of things and sublimest contemplations, it will contract an habitual greatness, will look down with a kind of disregard on human life, and on death; consequently, will possess the truest fortitude. Such," says he, is the mind born to govern the rest of mankind." But these very endowments, SO necessary to a soul formed for phi

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* Lady B—— M

is the individual woman she was-she seems to have been gone three years, like the Sultan in the Persian Tales, who popped his head into a tub of water, pulled it up again, and fancied he had been a dozen years in bondage in the interim.-Walpole's Letters, V. 452.

losophy, are often its ruin, especially when joined to the external advantages of wealth, nobility, strength, and beauty; that is, if it light on a bad soil, and want its proper nurture, which nothing but an excellent education can bestow. In this case, he is depraved by the public example, the assemblies of the people, the courts of justice, the theatres, that inspire it with false opinions, terrify it with false infamy, or elevate it with false applause; and remember, that extraordinary vices, and extraordinary virtues, are equally the produce of a vigorous mind; little souls are alike incapable of the one and the other.

If you have ever met with the portrait sketched out by Plato, you will know it again; for my part, to my sorrow I have had that happiness. I see the principal features, and I foresee the dangers with a trembling anxiety. But enough of this, I return to your letter. It proves at least, that in the midst of your new gaieties, I still hold some place in your memory; and, what pleases me above all, it has an air of undissembled sincerity. Go on, my best and amiable friend, to shew me your heart simply, and without the shadow of disguise, and leave me to weep over it, as I now do, no matter whether from joy or sorrow.

LETTER XI.

MR. GRAY TO DR. WHARTON.

18 April, 1770.

MY DEAR SIR,

I HAVE been sincerely anxious for Miss Wharton, whose illness must have been indeed severe. If she is only now recovering, let us hope every thing from the spring; which begins (though slowly) to give new life to all things; and pray give my best respects to her, and thanks for remembering me and my Dictionary, at a time when she well may be excused for thinking of nothing but herself.

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 Whorldale, in the way from Skipton to Ottley, and Kirkstall Abbey, three miles from Leeds. The first is the valley formed by the River Wharf, well cultivated, well inhabited, well wooded. But with high rocky crags at distance, that border the green country on either hand. Through the midst of it, was the river, in long windings, deep, clear, and full to the brink, and of no inconsiderable breadth. How it comes to be so fine and copious a stream here, and at Tadcaster (so much lower) should have nothing but a wide stony channel, with little or no water, I cannot tell you; Kirkstall is a noble ruin in the Semi-Saxon style of building, as old as K. Stephen, toward 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 Are, and preserved with religious reverence by the Duke of Montagu. Adjoining to the church, between that and the river, are variety of chapels, and remnants of the abbey, shattered by the encroachments of the ivy, and surmounted by many a sturdy tree, whose twisted roots break through the fret of the vaulting, and hang streaming from the roofs. The gloom of these ancient cells, the shade and verdure of the landscape, the glittering and murmur of the stream, the lofty towers, and long perspectives of the church, in the midst of a clear bright day, detained me for many hours, and were the truest subjects for my glass I have yet met with any where; as I lay at that smoky, ugly, large town of Leeds, I dropt all farther thoughts of my journal; and after passing two days at Mason's (though he was absent), pursued my way by Nottingham, Leicester, Harborough, Kettering, Thrapston, and Huntingdon, to Cambridge, where I arrived 22 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. Adieu! my dear Sir, and believe me,

Most faithfully yours,

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VOL. II.

T. G.