"the entire Epic Poem mentioned by Mr. Macpherson "in his preface; and, as he is old, is perhaps the only

person living that knows it all, and has never com"mitted it to writing, we are in the more haste to re" cover a monument, which will certainly be regarded

as a curiosity in the Republic of Letters: we have "therefore set about a subscription of a guinea or two

guineas apiece, in order to enable Mr. Macpherson "to undertake a mission into the Highlands to recover "this poem, and other fragments of antiquity." He adds too, that the names of Fingal, Ossian, Oscar, &c. are still given in the Highlands to large Mastiffs, as we give to ours the names of Cæsar, Pompey, Hector, &c.

LETTER XL.

MR. GRAY TO DR. WHARTON.

London, 1761.

I Rejoice to find that you not only grow reconciled

to your northern scene, but discover beauties round you that once were deformities: I am persuaded the whole matter is to have always something going forward. Happy they that can create a rose-tree, or erect a honey-suckle; that can watch the brood of a hen, or

see a fleet of their own ducklings launch into the water: It is with a sentiment of envy I speak it, who never shall have even a thatched roof of my own, nor gather a strawberry but in Covent-Garden. I will not, however, believe in the vocality of Old-Park till next summer, when perhaps I may trust to my own ears.

The Nouvelle Heloise cruelly disappointed me, but it has its partisans, amongst which are Mason and Mr. Hurd; for me, I admire nothing but Fingal* (I conclude you have seen it, if not, Stonhewer can lend it you); yet I remain still in doubt about the authenticity of these poems, though inclining rather to believe them genuine in spite of the world; whether they are the inventions of antiquity, or of a modern Scotchman, either case is to me alike unaccountable; je m'y perd.

I send you a Swedish and English Calendar f; the

* In a letter to another friend, informing him that he had sent Fingal down to him, he says, " For my part I will stick to my cre"dulity, and if I am cheated, think it is worse for him (the trans"lator) than for me. The Epic Poem is foolishly so called, yet "there is a sort of plan and unity in it very strange for a bar"barous age; yet what I more admire are some of the detached "pieces--the rest I leave to the discussion of antiquarians and "historians; yet my curiosity is much interested in their deci"sion." No man surely ever took more pains with himself to believe any thing than Mr. Gray seems to have done on this occasion.

+ Sce Stillingfleet's Tracts, p. 261,

first column is by Berger, a disciple of Linnæus; the second by Mr. Stillingfleet; the third (very imperfect indeed) by me. You are to observe, as you tend your plantations and take your walks, how the spring advances in the north, and whether Old-Park most resembles Upsal or Stratton. The latter has on one side a barren black heath, on the other a light sandy loam, all the country about it is a dead flat; you see it is necessary you should know the situation (I do not mean any reflection upon any body's place); and this is the description Mr. Stillingfleet gives of his friend Mr. Marsham's seat, to which he retires in the summer and botanizes. I have lately made an acquaintance with this Philosopher, who lives in a garret here in the winter, that he may support some near relations who depend upon him; he is always employed, consequently (according to my old maxim) always happy, always chearful, and seems to me a very worthy honest man : his present scheme is to send some persons properly qualified to reside a year or two in Attica, to make themselves acquainted with the climate, productions, and natural history of the country, that we may understand Aristotle, Theophrastus, &c. who have been Heathen Greek to us for so many ages; and this he has got proposed to Lord Bute, no unlikely person to put it into execution, as he is himself a botanist,

LETTER XLI.

MR. GRAY TO MR. MASON.

London, Jan. 22, 1761.

I Cannot pity you; au contraire, I wish I had been at Aston, when I was foolish enough to go through the six volumes of the Nouvelle Héloïse. All I can say for myself is, that I was confined for three weeks at home by a severe cold, and had nothing better to do: There is no one event in it that might not happen any day of the week (separately taken) in any private family; yet these events are so put together, that the series of them is more absurd and more improbable than Amadis de Gaul. The dramatis personæ (as the author says) are all of them good characters; I am sorry to hear it: for had they been all hanged at the end of the third volume, no body (I believe) would have cared. In short, I went on and on, in hopes of finding some wonderful denouement that would set all right, and bring something like nature and interest out of absurdity and insipidity: no such thing, it grows worse and worse; and (if it be Rousseau's, which is not doubted) is the strongest instance I ever saw, that a very extraordinary man may entirely mistake his own talents. By

the motto and preface, it appears to be his own story, or something similar to it *.

The Opera-House is crowded this year like any ordinary Theatre. Elisi is finer than any thing that has been here in your memory: yet, as I suspect, has been finer than he is: he appears to be near forty, a little pot-bellied and thick shouldered, otherwise no bad figure; his action proper, and not ungraceful. We have heard nothing, since I remember Operas, but eternal passages, divisions, and flights of execution: of these he has absolutely none; whether merely from judgment, or a little from age, I will not affirm; his point is expression, and to that all the graces and ornaments he inserts (which are few and short) are evidently directed: He goes higher (they say) than Farinelli; but then this celestial note you do not hear above once in a whole Opera; and he falls from this altitude at once to the mellowest, softest, strongest tones (about the middle of his compass) that can be heard. The Mattei, I assure you, is much improved by his example, and by

*If it be considered that Mr. Gray always preferred expression and sentiment to the arrangement of a story, it may seem somewhat extraordinary that the many striking beauties of these kinds, with which this singular work abounds, were not excepted from so general a censure: for my own part (to use a phrase of his own) "they strike me blind" to all the defects which he has here enumerated.