lating the studies of private pupils, and laid them before the Duke of Grafton. But these plans, as was usual with Gray, never came to execution, and when he was at Aston in 1770, he told Mason that he had come to the conclusion that it was his duty to resign the professorship, since it was out of his power to do any real service in it. Mason strongly dissuaded him from such a step, and encouraged him to think that even yet he would be able to make a beginning of his lectures. The Exordium of his proposed inauguration speech was all that was found at his death to account for so many efforts and intentions.

In the latter part of May 1771 Gray went up to London, to his lodgings in Jermyn Street, where, as has been already mentioned, he received the farewell visit from Nicholls. He was profoundly wretched; writing to Wharton he said, "Till this year I hardly knew what mechanical low spirits were but now I even tremble at an East wind." His cough was incurable, the neuralgic pains in his head were chronic. William Robinson, in describing his last interview with him, said that Gray talked of his own career as a poet, lamented that he had done so little, and began at last, in a repining tone, to complain that he had lost his health just when he had become easy in his circumstances; but on that he checked himself, saying that it was wrong to rail against Providence. As he grew worse and worse, he placed himself under a physician, Dr. Gisborne, who ordered him to leave Bloomsbury, and try a clearer air at Kensington. Probably the last call he ever paid was on Walpole; for hearing that his old friend was about to set out for Paris, Gray visited him. "He complained of being ill," says Walpole, "and talked of the gout in his stomach, but I expected his death no more than my own." During the month of June he

received the MS. of Gilpin's Tour down the Wye, and enriched this work, which was not published until 1782, with his notes, being reminiscences of his journey of the preceding year.

On the 22nd of July, finding himself alone in London, and overwhelmed with dejection and the shadow of death, he came back to Cambridge. It was his intention to rest there a day or two, and then to proceed to Old Park, where the Whartons were ready to receive him. He put himself under the treatment of his physician, Dr. Robert Glynn, who had been the author of a successful Seatonian poem, and who dabbled in literature. This Dr. Glynn was conspicuous for his gold-headed cane, scarlet coat, three-cornered hat, and resounding pattens for thirty years after Gray's death, and retains a niche in local history as the last functionary of the University who was buried by torchlight. Dr Glynn was not at all anxious about Gray's condition, but on Wednesday the 24th, the poet was so languid, that his friend James Brown wrote for him to Dr. Wharton, to warn him that though Gray did not give over the hopes of taking his journey to Old Park, he was very low and feverish, and could hardly start immediately. That very night, while at dinner in the College Hall at Pembroke, Gray felt a sudden nausea, which obliged him to go hurriedly to his own room. He lay down, but he became so violently and constantly sick, that he sent his servant to fetch in Dr. Glynn, who was puzzled at the symptoms, but believed that there was no cause for alarm. Gray grew worse, however, for the gout had reached the stomach; Dr. Glynn became alarmed, and sent for Russell Plumptre, the Regius Professor of Physic. The old doctor was in bed, and refused to get up, for which he was afterwards severely blamed. No skill, however, could have

saved Gray. He got through the 25th pretty well, and slept tolerably that night, but after taking some asses'milk on the morning of the 26th, the spasms in the stomach returned again. Dr. Brown scarcely left him after the first attack, and wrote to all his principal friends from the side of his bed. On this day, Thursday, the Master could still hope "that we shall see him well again in a short time." On Sunday, the 29th, Gray was taken with a strong convulsive fit, and these recurred until he died. He retained his senses almost to the last. Stonehewer and Dr. Gisborne arrived from London on the 30th and took leave of their dying friend. His language became less and less coherent, and he was not clearly able to explain to Brown, without a great effort, where his will would be found. He seemed perfectly sensible of his condition, but expressed no concern at the thought of leaving the world. Towards the end he did not suffer at all, but lay in a sort of torpor, out of which he woke to call for his niece, Miss Mary Antrobus. She took his hand, and he said to her, in a clear voice, "Molly, I shall die!" He lay quietly after this, without attempting to speak, and ceased to breathe about eleven o'clock, an hour before midnight on the 30th of July, 1771, aged fifty-four years, seven months, and four days.

James Brown found, in the spot which Gray had indicated, his will. It was dated July 2, 1770, and must therefore have been drawn up just before he started on his tour through the Western Counties. Mason and Brown were named his executors. He left his property divided among a great number of relations and friends, reserving the largest portions for his niece Miss Mary Antrobus, and her sister, Mrs. Dorothy Comyns, both of whom were residents at Cambridge, and who had probably looked to his

comfort of late years as he had considered their prospects in earlier life. The faithful Stephen Hempstead was not forgotten, while Mason and Brown were left residuary legatees. On Brown fell the whole burden of attending to the funeral, for Mason could not be found; he had taken a holiday, and knew nothing of the whole matter until his letters reached him, in a cluster, at Bridlington Quay, about the 7th of August.

By this time Gray was buried; Brown took the body, in a coffin of seasoned oak, to London and thence to Stoke, where, on the 6th of August, it was deposited in the vault which contained that of Gray's mother. The mourners were Miss Antrobus, her sister's husband, Mr. Comyns, a shopkeeper at Cambridge, "a young gentleman of Christ's College, with whom Mr. Gray was very intimate," and Brown himself; these persons followed the hearse in a mourning coach. The sum of ten pounds was, at the poet's express wish, distributed among certain "honest and industrious poor persons in the parish" of Stoke Pogis. As soon as Mason heard the news, he crossed the Humber, and reached Cambridge the next day; Brown was a very cautious and punctilious man, and no sooner had he returned to Cambridge than he insisted that Mason should go up to town with him and prove the will. Mason, who throughout showed a characteristic callousness, grumbled but agreed, and on the 12th of August the will was proved in London.

The executors returned immediately to Cambridge, delivered up the plate, jewellery, linen, and furniture to the Antrobuses, and then Mason packed up the books and papers to be removed to his rooms at York. Once settled there, on the 18th, he began to enjoy the luxury of a literary bereavement. "Come,"

he says to Dr. Wharton, come, I beseech you, and condole with me on our mutual, our irreparable loss. The great charge which his dear friendship has laid upon me, I feel myself unable to execute, without the advice and assistance of his best friends; you are among the first of these." It will hardly be believed that the "great charge" so pompously referred to here is contained in these exceedingly simple words of Gray :-"I give to the Reverend William Mason, precentor of York, all my books, manuscripts, coins, music printed or written, and papers of all kinds, to preserve or destroy at his own discretion." There is no shadow of doubt that the ambitious and worldly Mason saw here an opportunity of achieving a great literary success, and that he lost no time in posing as Gray's representative and confidant. A few people resisted his pretensions, such as Robinson and Nicholls, but they were not writers, and Mason revenged himself by ignoring them. Nor did he take the slightest notice of Bonstetten.

James Brown, le petit bon homme with the warm heart, was kinder and less ambitious. He wrote thoughtful letters to every one, and particularly to the three friends in exile, to Horace Walpole, Nicholls, and Bonstetten. Walpole was struck cold in the midst of his frivolities, as if he had suffered in his own person a touch of paralysis; in his letters he seems to whimper and shiver, as much with apprehension as with sorrow. Norton Nicholls gave a cry of grief, and very characteristically wrote instantly to his mother lest she, knowing his love for Gray, should fear that the shock would make him ill. From this exquisite letter we must cite some lines :

I only write now lest you should be apprehensive on my