native language to him years before. In 1768, the Professorship of
Modern History falling again vacant by Mr Brochet's death, the Duke of
Grafton instantly bestowed it on Gray, who, out of gratitude, wrote an
ode on the installation of his patron to the Chancellorship of
Cambridge University. He went from witnessing this ceremony to the
Lakes of Cumberland, and kept an interesting journal of his tour to
that then little known and most enchanting region. In 1770, he visited
Wales; but owing probably to poor health, has left no notes of his
journey. In May the next year, his health became worse, his spirits
more depressed, an incurable cough preyed on his lungs; he resigned
his Professorship, and shortly after removed to London. There he
rallied a little, and returned to Cambridge, where, on the 24th of
July, he was seized with a severe attack of gout in the stomach. Of
this he expired on the 30th, in the 55th year of his age, without any
apparent fear of death. He was buried by the side of his mother, in
the churchyard of Stoke. A monument was erected by Mason to his
memory, in Westminster Abbey.

Gray was a brilliant bookworm. In private he was a quiet, abstracted,
dreaming scholar, although in the company of a few friends he could
become convivial and witty. His heart, however, was always in his
study. His portrait gives you the impression of great fastidiousness,
and almost feminine delicacy of face, as well as of considerable
self-esteem. His face has more of the critic than of the poet. His
learning and accomplishments have been equalled perhaps by no poet
since Milton. He knew the Classics, the Northern Scalds, the Italian
poets and historians, the French novelists, Architecture, Zoology,
Painting, Sculpture, Botany, Music, and Antiquities. But he liked
better, he said, to read than to write. You figure him always lounging
with a volume in his hand, on a sofa, and crying out, "Be mine to read