phy he professed, which made him content to limit his wants to his income, to linger about the scene of his early education, and hold communion with that "ample page, rich with the spoils of time;" gleaning every day some new and valuable information, maintaining his own integrity, respecting the rights of others, and calmly living in amiable and modest scholarship. As a general rule, indeed, this seclusion, this exclusive devotion to personal improvement, however laudable, is not to be desired. We are born to act and suffer with others, to cherish social sympathies, and through them minister to general good. Even as students it were better to act upon the generous sentiment of Sir Thomas Brown: "I study not for myself alone, but for those who cannot study for themselves."

We would have the poet seek his inspiration amid the scenes of perplexity, sorrow and joy that make up human life; we would have him sometimes, like Burns, "put himself upon the regimen of admiring a fine woman ;" like Wordsworth, analyse the influence of scenery in training the simple and true soul; and, like Byron, throw himself in the way of the ancient, the beautiful and the adventurous, and reflect in his page the emotions they excite. But an occasional hermit among the poets is pleasing and picturesque, even though his hermitage is a library instead of a grotto. Gray passed a life of selfimprovement. The most striking trait both of his muse and his character is refinement. He was one of those men who find their chief gratification in serene enjoyments. He loved to have every thing neat around him. How easily can we fancy his small but nicely arranged figure in that orderly, bacheloric room of his at Cambridge. There are his books carefully arranged, his case of medallions and portfolios of engravings collected during his Italian tour, "a pair of large blue and white old

· japan China jars," bequeathed by will to his cousin ;— there are a harpsichord and music fairly copied by his own hand, lying by ;-boxes of mignionette and other plants adorn the window; there is a tortoise-shell cat, a vase of gold fish, and on the table a blood-stone seal and beautiful inkstand. Every thing bespeaks order, quietude, and tranquil fancies.

And here the man, ' tiny and tiresome,' as he calls himself, sat day after day, thoroughly acquiring Greek literature-divining the mysteries of heraldry and genealogy, mastering the principles of architecture, reading botany, history and poetry, or writing letters to his friends Dr. Wharton, Middleton, Mason or Beattie. He goes forth only to seek some desired tome at the library, to dine or pass an hour at the reading-room. Nothing but the rudeness of some fellow-lodgers induces him to change his quarters. He visits London occasionally, and once abides there for the space of three years, for the sake of copying some manuscripts at the British Museum. With all his temperance, he is afflicted with gout. His health

fails; he has times of low spirits. To improve his physical condition and cheer his mind, he has recourse to the never-failing means-a journey-and visits, at different seasons, the English lakes, Scotland and Wales, enjoying their fine scenery and writing pleasant descriptive letters on the subject. And thus glided away the existence of Gray, until the disease under which he suffered attacked a vital part, and in two or three days he calmly departed and was buried beside his mother in the church-yard of Stoke.

The affections which have so large a share in kindling the poetry of most bards, exerted but a limited sway over the intellectual career of Gray. The two beings who seem most deeply to have interested him were his mother and his college-friend, Richard West. To the former he

owed his education and all that was happy in the association of his childhood. He was an attached son and singularly blessed in one of his parents; and after her decease, never alluded to her without a sigh. West for eight years was bound to him not only by youthful attachment but congenial taste. Their correspondence is manly and confiding. When Gray's last letter to his friend was returned to him unopened, with the news of his death, he felt that one of his sweetest ties to life was broken. They had long communicated to each other the progress of their studies, submitting to each other's inspection their first attempts in verse, and seeking and finding mutual encouragement by strewing the pathway of early application with the flowers of friendship.

Gray paid a tribute to his friend in the following

sonnet :

In vain to me the smiling mornings shine,

And redd'ning Phoebus lifts his golden fire:
The birds in vain their amorous descant join,
Or cheerful fields resume their green attire:
These can, alas! for other notes repine,

A different object do these eyes require :
My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine,
And in my breast the imperfect joys expire.
Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer,
And new-born pleasure brings to happier men :
The fields to all their wonted tribute bear;

To warm their little loves the birds complain :
I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear,

And weep the more because I weep in vain.

West was a youth of rare promise. His early death and the subsequent loss of the poct's mother evidently colour the early efforts of Gray's muse. These bereavements narrowed the already small circle of his sympathies. They led him to regard the aims of the multitude with more indifference than ever, and doubtless in

duced the tone of distrust of life's promises which mark his best verses. The most buoyant era of Gray's existence, if we judge by his letters, was the period of his absence on the continent. He was fresh from his college studies when, at the invitation of his fellow-student and friend, Horace Walpole, he accompanied him to France and Italy. Every thing was novel and attractive to the mind of Gray. He mingled enough with society to gratify his curiosity. He was indefatigable in his study of the remains of antiquity and the fine arts. Among his papers were found notes, speculative as well as matter of fact, respecting the old masters and the customs of the ancients, which prove his discrimination and taste. His muse seems to have been first inspired by the rugged precipices, the rocky chasms and dark pines of the mountains where the convent of the Grand Chartense is situated. He dwells upon the romantic impressions he there derived, and wrote a Latin ode on the subject in the album of the monks. After the two friends, like most fellow-travellers who keep together too long, differed and parted, Gray returned speedily to England. The bard's biographers speak of this event more seriously than it deserves, and declare very emphatically that Walpole acknowledged himself in fault when they were afterwards reconciled. From what we know of the two men, the only wonder is that they found it agreeable to remain so long together. Walpole, with his gaiety and love of pleasure, could scarcely have proved a genial companion, for any length of time, to a man who viewed things with the seriousness of Gray and wished to make a study of every thing he saw. They are thought to be the first English travellers who visited the remains of Herculaneum, which were discovered a few days before they reached Naples.

It was the constitutional diffidence of Gray that in

duced him to remark that he could perceive no medium between a public and private life. Upon this idea he habitually acted. He refused the laureateship; and although he accepted a professorship of history, never lectured.

It is quite characteristic that at a ball at Rome, which he describes in one of his letters, he retired to a corner and amused himself with looking on and eating ices, while his companions were absorbed in the dance. He never proposed to himself the honours of a poet. His verses were kept by him, frequently revised and at first only circulated in manuscript, and originally appeared in print without his intervention. Common cares overwhelmed him. His conscientiousness is also manifest throughout his correspondence. He suffered great selfreproach for every seeming neglect of duty, and cheerfully resigned a legacy to a relative poorer than himself.

The poetry of Gray is, like his life and character, correct, scholar-like and reflective. It is singularly free from all trace of impulse and fervour. Its most striking beauties are verbal, and the trait which mainly charms us is that of choice expression or elegance of diction. Art predominates in every line. There is little creative energy, little divine earnestness or exuberant fancy. All is chaste, appropriate and carefully elaborated. The point at which we recognise what is individual and therefore affecting in Gray's poems, is pathos. He did not possess that comprehensive sympathy essential to dramatic writing. The fragment of his tragedy, Agrippina, betrays a familiarity with classic models, and possesses a certain felicity of language, but beyond this promises little and was wisely abandoned. A large portion of his limited writings consist of translations from the Latin, Norse and Welsh poets; and his early taste, led him to confine his poetical efforts to the former language.