Terence's, which simply pleases without forcing a smile; another, like Mr. Addison's, which not only pleases, but makes us smile into the bargain. Shakespeare's, Swift's, Congreve's, and Prior's usually goes further, and makes us laugh: I infer not from hence that this latter sort is the best: I only assert, that howsoever it may be mixt with other ingredients, it ought also to be called Humour. The critic, however, who judges by rule, and who will not be pleased unless legitimately, will be apt to condemn this species of mixt humour; and the common reader will not always have either wit or imagination enough to comprehend or taste it. But I have said Mr. Gray not only mixed wit and fancy with his humour, but also his own particular character; and being naturally delicate, and at times even fastidious, his humour generally took the same cast; and would therefore be only relished by such of his friends, as, conscious of his superior excellencies, thought this defect not only pardonable but entertaining, which a character of this sort (being humorous in itself) always is, when it is not carried to any offensive extreme. Yet, as this observation relates only to his conversation and familiar letters, (for to these only it can be applied) I have no occasion to insist on it further; and shall only add, that whatever the generality of readers may think of Mr. Gray's talent in this way, there will always be some, and those

far from the lowest class, to whom it will appear excellent: for humour may be true, when it ceases to be pure or unmixt, if the ingredients which go to its composition be true also. False wit and a wild fancy would debase the best humour in the world, as they frequently do in Rabelais and Sterne (without taking more exceptionable matters into consideration); but when genuine, they serve to heighten and embellish it.

A LONG STORY.

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

To raise the ceiling's fretted height,
Each pannel in achievements cloathing,
Rich windows that exclude the light,

And passages, that lead to nothing.

The mansion-house at Stoke-Pogis, then in the possession of Viscountess Cobham. The style of building, which we now call Queen Elizabeth's, is here admirably described, both with regard to its beauties and defects; and the third and fourth stanzas delineate the fantastic manners of her time with equal truth and huThe house formerly belonged to the Earls of Huntingdon and the family of Hatton.

Full oft within the spacious walls,
When he had fifty winters o'er him,
*My grave Lord-Keeper led the brawls;
The seal and maces danc'd before him.

His bushy beard, and shoe-strings green,
His high-crown'd hat, and satin 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!

Your hist'ry whither are you spinning!
Can you do nothing but describe?

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 conqu❜ring destiny fulfilling,
Whom meaner beauties eye askance,
And vainly ape her art of killing.

Sir Christopher Hatton, promoted by Queen Elizabeth for his graceful person and fine dancing. G.--Brawls were a sort of figure-dance, then in vogue, and probably deemed as elegant as our modern Cotillions, or still more modern Quadrilles.

The reader is already apprized who these Ladies were; the two descriptions are prettily contrasted; and nothing can be more happily turned than the compliment to Lady Cobham in the eighth stanza.

The other Amazon kind heav'n

Had arm'd with spirit, wit, and satire:
But Cobham had the polish giv'n,
And tip'd her arrows with good-nature.
• To celebrate her eyes, her air------
Coarse panegyrics would but teaze her.
Melissa is her Nom 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 know it)
Had told, that thereabouts there lurk'd
A wicked Imp they call 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.

*I have been told that this Gentleman, a neighbour and acquaintance of Mr. Gray's in the country, was much displeased at the liberty here taken with his name; yet, surely, without any great reason.

The Heroines undertook the task,

Thro' lanes unknown, o'er stiles they ventur'd,

Rap'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 drawers and china

pry,

Papers and books, a huge imbroglio!
Under a tea-cup he might lie,

Or creased, like dogs-ears, in a folio.

On the 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 Rumor 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 pow'r of Magic was no fable;